Bachelor #8 is exactly like the cowardly lion in The Wizard of Oz–after he got his courage–in affect and manner. He’s very effusive with his gesticulations, and beams happy contentment in all directions. He’s balding, with those really dark eyebrows that drive me crazy, a salt-and-pepper beard, and a round furry belly. His knuckles and toes are furry, too, like a hobbit’s. I took the BART train out to his east bay outpost Saturday night, and he picked me up and then away to see the new Jennifer Anniston movie, Friends With Money, which we both really enjoyed, and then sushi afterwards. And then a hottub. Now, for those of you who don’t understand what it is that attracts me to furry fireplugs, just accept for the moment that he was the perfection of my type, so it was a little like how I would imagine a straight man with my level of anxiety on a date with Marilyn Monroe. I was nervous, despite my 12.5 mg insurance policy. The evening looked to be a repeat of Armistead’s date with Rock Hudson until I laid my anxiety on the table, the tub that is, and floating on his belly just blurted out how nervous I was. And then all moved along as nature and modern pharmaceuticals intended.
He snores, sleep-apnia snoring, that really loud whizzy sounds-like-last-breath breathing. It wasn’t as loud as BC’s before he lost the 100 pounds, which used to comfort me, like sleeping on the train, and #8’s noises were just as comforting.
I really like this guy. He’s happy and centered and all right there on the surface. Easy. Physically, he’s like Ed Asner spliced with Captain Picard plus glasses and Toni Tenille’s smile.
I can’t imagine him telling me that love will keep us together, though.
Philip came over for dinner Sunday night, looking great, despite being in pain due to pinched and spurred this and thats. Philip and Bachelor #8 could be brothers, I thought to myself as I drifted away momentarily to imagine the two of them and me in bed with our c-paps counting sheep-shaped leaping cream puffs in the porn version of my life.