Sexual State of the Union

[I've only been in one auto accident in which I was the driver. The car was the light blue 1982 Nissan Sentra my parents bought me in 1990 for my 21st birthday. (It was made that year when Datsun was transitioning to Nissan, and both names were spelled out in metal/plastic letters on the trunk.) The unlikely site was that part of Pacific Coast Highway, that serves as Laguna Beach's main street. ("Unlikely" because I've only been to Laguna twice, and never cared for a caftan.) The year was 1993.]

[Pete and I decided to leave Santa Barbara to go to Christopher Street West in West Hollywood. (I have to laugh that New York's leather street fair is called "Folsom Street East." These things go both ways, don't they?) We went down the day before and decided to check out this Laguna place we'd heard about. Dinner was at an overpriced seafood joint, and after five minutes at the Little Shrimp (can't find it online; still open, Mulhersinha?), we found the Boom Boom Room, danced our asses off, and I drank a little, early enough and in small enough quantities not to interfere with the planned-on drive up to WeHo later that night.]

[We'd Boom-Boomed enough, wandered out to the Datsun-Nissan, and took off. Now, I've never claimed to be immune to the charms of the stereotypical SoCal pretty boy, and back then, inspired by East Beach volleyball players and UCSB's frat dudes, my devotion was much purer than it is today. And this was Orange County, where the look was perfected.]

[I SWEAR I only took my eyes of the road for a second. There was a lot of traffic on PCH that night, so I knew I couldn't ogle more than that. Ogle I did, however, and...WHOMP. I rear-ended the nice late-model Honda in front of me. We pulled over, and I inspected the Honda for what damage I could see from the driver's seat. It was driven by a harried young Vietnamese-American woman who hopped out with fire in her eyes. She had a few sharp words for me, but when she saw that her bumper had one little scuff mark, and that my whole front end was visibly mashed, she shrugged her shoulders in a cute, South Coast Plaza kind of way, and sped off into the night.]

[My car was never the same, but somehow we limped thru the weekend, and even drove it for some months afterward. The hood eventually had to be held to the body with a series of artfully arranged bungee cords, and in due course I "allowed" it to be towed at the county's expense. Ah, college.]

[This episode occurs to me today because the ogling, far from fading with age, has increased until I think maybe I'm becoming a dirty old man. It's been over eighty degrees in San Francisco for a couple of days, and people aren't wearing ANYTHING! Now, I've been driving Boss Man's vehicle all over town, and there haven't been any close calls with the driving and the ogling. But the ogling continues. And the eye contact, and the bashful half-smiles. And the comments to friends about him and him and him and him...]

[The pro forma phrase during these spasms is "God, I need to get laid!" But y'know what...not so much. Maybe it's because it's over eighty degrees in San Francisco, which for us locals qualifies as Too Hot To Fuck weather. Maybe it's that my recent and upcoming social schedule has been and is heavy on the Past Lays Who Are Now Good Friends. Or maybe it's that, while I recently broke the post-breakup seal and did get some, it didn't feel like an Event. It was OK, but not a milestone. And it didn't make me want to go out and get lots more.]

[If someone likely (or more than one) puts himself in my path, it's not like I'm going to hold my hand up and say, "Nay, Toothsome Varlot! I am Sir Huntington The Chaste! Remove your fragrant manly body from the Presence!" or anything, but...we're not actively looking at the moment.]

[Policy subject to change without notice. But given my swivel neck, I think I'm gonna cut down on the driving for now.]

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