Giancarlo has dark sad eyes, a permanent 5 o’clock shadow, and an ever-shifting facial hair configuration. He’s attentive and sparkly, talks a mile a minute, and is a super snazzy dresser. We ate at Criolla, a really wonderful new Southern restaurant where the Bagdad Cafe used to be. I call him Giancarlo because he reminds me of Giancarlo Giannini, only cuter, if you could possibly imagine such a thing. After dinner we hiked up to Kite Hill and sat on the bench overlooking downtown and the east bay, watching the reflections of the setting sun in the windows across the water. We didn’t kiss or embrace, or even hold hands, but the comfort I felt from his presence produced an enveloping sense of contentment.
He’s lost a lot of weight recently. And on purpose. The chubby chaser in me can’t bear to look at the before pictures, as they’re so arousing. I bite my tongue, saying “good for you, losing all that weight!” instead of the “oh my god, you were so hot!” that I want to blurt out. It’s not that I eroticize excess body weight—or is it?—and I do want to be supportive of a healthier him, I just think a little belly is so adorable, a sign of a lack of restraint. Enjoy the creampuff already, a tornado could suck us all away tomorrow.
Tonight I had dinner with my Foreign Correspondent and his mom, also at Criolla. She was curious about the food of the American south. She’s here seeking a bride for her son, the man who, until a few months ago, was to have spent the rest of his life with me, Wife #1. I’ve told him that if she asks about the wife and two children of mine that he told her about, I’m going to have be straight with her—I mean, gay. I don’t think it’s my right to interfere with his version of himself, but I’m not participating in a fiction about me. She’s very concerned about her son’s very apparent buttcrack, which he can’t seem to keep from being exposed due to his tight shirts and low-hanging pants. When they came to the Castro last week, the naked guys happened to be hanging out on the street, and the worries about her son’s exposure were put in a different kind of perspective. She’s from a part of the world where women can’t even show their head hair, so seeing pubic shrubbery on the streets is something like teleporting to Sodom and Gomorrah. She’s a dear woman, softspoken, a wonderful cook and very devoted to her son. I would love to have called her mom.