Kamikaze Mosquitoes
Oh dear.
This insect loop brings me back to a bit of history. In fact, 8-year-old history. I'm inflicting it on you now because it resonates with our current fascination with bugs&such. Do bear in mind, though, that I HAVE grown up somewhat since. Well, haven't I?!?
Bailey's drop-zone (1996)
Last night was, well, a wash-out. A major come-down. A forced crash-landing. A complete...and utter...disaster. But then, that's what you get when you go around weaving fantasies out of a few meaningful glances and a bit of innocuous flirting.
The up-side is, for once I had 2 interesting young SINGLE males all to myself, for the better part of 3 hours. The down-side is I was hoping for some dedicated, quality, one-on-one (sic) time with ONE single male. And naturally, entertaining wild thoughts of how he was going to be all over me like a rash.
There is no such thing as too much of a good thing, then. 2 men, no rash.
Ah well...wotevah. As evenings go, it sure beat sitting alone listening to Italian love songs, fishing suicidal mosquitoes out of my Bailey's, which is what I normally do weekdays after dinner. Javanese mosquitoes, I've discovered, have a diabetic fascination for Bailey's. They don't touch single malt, vodka or beer. But they zoom into the Bailey's like kamikaze pilots intent on satorial self-destruction, and steadfastly refuse to be rescued. Unfortunately, they still taste like mosquitoes.
I guess I could take the positive view and feel flattered that Mr X ( I name names here and I'll lose us a client, get the sack, sink into a penurious depression, and the shock of it all will prove too much for my muse who will flee), felt he needed a chaperone. Although to be perfectly honest, I was the add-on, as it seemed he already had an evening planned before he thought to include me. Like a *&^%$#* post-script.
On the other hand, I'm glad it was another man, and not one of these tiny winsome wasp-waisted beauties that are endemic to these parts (oooh, 'ow I hate 'em!) who make me look (and feel) about as fragile as a galumphing pachyderm on the rampage.
But then again, since he's allergic to cats and cigarette smoke, and I have 4 of the former and smoke 35 a day of the latter, I suppose this whole thing was doomed before it even began. Every time he's dropped by so far, he's been transmogrified into sneezy, teary-eyed misery within seconds of the front door. The first time I was all sympathy and commiseration, I mean hay fever can be wretched, I know, I’ve had it for years without the benefit of actually rolling in the hay, or perhaps it’s really an “abstinence & celibacy” allergy…
But then, the unkindest cut of all…he said, "I'm sorry, I'm allergic to (achooo) cats...(achoo) cats...and (achoo) could you please put your cigarette out...".
Oh jolly, now I can't even smoke in my own home.
And anyhow, he's probably gay. Or Nubian, as in eunuch.
And then there's the unfortunate business about his name, which for me has strongly canine connotations, possibly because I knew a St.Bernard who was called the same, well hell, I suppose I'll get over it eventually and anyhow he's too young for me, 33, a whole 6 years younger...why, that's like cradle-snatching and I go for "older men" and besides, he's going off on home-leave where I'm sure he's going to meet up again with this girl he almost married last year, he never did say exactly what went wrong, perhaps she discovered he was gay at the nth hour, the poor girl...
(End of story...!)
This insect loop brings me back to a bit of history. In fact, 8-year-old history. I'm inflicting it on you now because it resonates with our current fascination with bugs&such. Do bear in mind, though, that I HAVE grown up somewhat since. Well, haven't I?!?
Bailey's drop-zone (1996)
Last night was, well, a wash-out. A major come-down. A forced crash-landing. A complete...and utter...disaster. But then, that's what you get when you go around weaving fantasies out of a few meaningful glances and a bit of innocuous flirting.
The up-side is, for once I had 2 interesting young SINGLE males all to myself, for the better part of 3 hours. The down-side is I was hoping for some dedicated, quality, one-on-one (sic) time with ONE single male. And naturally, entertaining wild thoughts of how he was going to be all over me like a rash.
There is no such thing as too much of a good thing, then. 2 men, no rash.
Ah well...wotevah. As evenings go, it sure beat sitting alone listening to Italian love songs, fishing suicidal mosquitoes out of my Bailey's, which is what I normally do weekdays after dinner. Javanese mosquitoes, I've discovered, have a diabetic fascination for Bailey's. They don't touch single malt, vodka or beer. But they zoom into the Bailey's like kamikaze pilots intent on satorial self-destruction, and steadfastly refuse to be rescued. Unfortunately, they still taste like mosquitoes.
I guess I could take the positive view and feel flattered that Mr X ( I name names here and I'll lose us a client, get the sack, sink into a penurious depression, and the shock of it all will prove too much for my muse who will flee), felt he needed a chaperone. Although to be perfectly honest, I was the add-on, as it seemed he already had an evening planned before he thought to include me. Like a *&^%$#* post-script.
On the other hand, I'm glad it was another man, and not one of these tiny winsome wasp-waisted beauties that are endemic to these parts (oooh, 'ow I hate 'em!) who make me look (and feel) about as fragile as a galumphing pachyderm on the rampage.
But then again, since he's allergic to cats and cigarette smoke, and I have 4 of the former and smoke 35 a day of the latter, I suppose this whole thing was doomed before it even began. Every time he's dropped by so far, he's been transmogrified into sneezy, teary-eyed misery within seconds of the front door. The first time I was all sympathy and commiseration, I mean hay fever can be wretched, I know, I’ve had it for years without the benefit of actually rolling in the hay, or perhaps it’s really an “abstinence & celibacy” allergy…
But then, the unkindest cut of all…he said, "I'm sorry, I'm allergic to (achooo) cats...(achoo) cats...and (achoo) could you please put your cigarette out...".
Oh jolly, now I can't even smoke in my own home.
And anyhow, he's probably gay. Or Nubian, as in eunuch.
And then there's the unfortunate business about his name, which for me has strongly canine connotations, possibly because I knew a St.Bernard who was called the same, well hell, I suppose I'll get over it eventually and anyhow he's too young for me, 33, a whole 6 years younger...why, that's like cradle-snatching and I go for "older men" and besides, he's going off on home-leave where I'm sure he's going to meet up again with this girl he almost married last year, he never did say exactly what went wrong, perhaps she discovered he was gay at the nth hour, the poor girl...
(End of story...!)
posted by Priya Tuli at
2:06 AM
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