Film legend, Hollywood royalty…JOAN CRAWFORD, passed away on this date in 1977. Meh. Though I do understand the rigors of maintaining an image. I’m no star in this town; I’m a D list socialite. I can own that. Still, even to fetch a six-pack of Stella I’ll glide a bronzer brush across both cheeks. While I’m not prone to open casket notions, I do worry if I should leave a color palette regarding my face for the funeral home face fixer upper. As one does.
So that magazine I appeared in had the issue release party a week ago. Nice turn out but it rained ass end out of a bull. Which I have no idea what that sentiment implies but I heard it as a kid growing up so there’s that. I, naturally, owned the fucking room in a completely coordinated ensemble that will be relegated to my growing ‘worn once/never to be seen again’ closet. It was seriously big fun; there was a 1-minute window wherein the mag’s editor called us all on stage, announced our names, and presented us as the “2016 dudes with flair” recipients. That’s not what the feature title is but you know how I sweat Google search for my FOR REALS NAME. Ahem.
Standing there; feeling cock of the block. And with so many camera flashes signaling captured moments. It felt wonderful. Truly wonderful. I thought to myself: “this is what Beyonce gets every time she steps out her front door…” and I now hate her for that.
The feature’s 30-something photographer was there. Naturally we struck up a convo; he really captured a beautiful image of fabulous moi. We agreed to meet up and review the rest of shots from the photo shoot. Which we did last Wednesday. And now I am in love. No. Not love. Maybe lust? He’s so friendly, handsome, and charming. His knee braced against my leg as we sat side-by-side previewing shots. There was an ease to our conversation. And, per usual, post-second glass of chardonnay, I talked too much about personal things. But he shared, too. So it felt okay. The right thing; in the moment –that bit of flickering tea light intimacy between two men sharing real tales of the heart in the big city.
“My girlfriend has been a bit of a….”
But I couldn’t tell you what the hell followed because I was bitch slapped back to reality. “GIRLFRIEND”? I thought the dude was gay. So now what? He seems to dig me though. And I’ve had a week to chew on all the nuances of body language, eye contact, and his warm, bear hug embrace on the sidewalk in front of the sick-as-fuck hipster hotel we met at. We’ve since exchanged a few emails. He’s sent me some YOUTUBE music links. We were talking about music and, well, since I’m old as fuck there’s a lot I don’t know anymore. So he sent some tunes. That’s just being friendly, right? I mean, I can totes go all “..I made a mix tape and put it in the mail/did you get it yet…” circa late 80’s teen crush. But I think not. I think I will keep thoughts of our big gay wedding on the back burner. Shamelessly I’ve already doodled our initials; the cursive font ascenders will create stylish flair on our ecru cocktail napkins. The Knot will def want to photograph our simple gay wedding with the imaginative personal flair that captures our personal style points so beautifully. Ahem.
There was moment, actually, two moments the other night where I caught the shadowed rise of his cheek bone and marveled at the silkiness of his complexion. I wanted to grab his face in my two warm hands and smell that space above his ear, followed by a quick dive to a full-on, lip lock kiss. I’ve already wanked to his imagined spent body slut-twisted in my 600 thread count sheets; I would nuzzle that damp space, and tongue the faint strawberry blonde hairs, between his butt hole and cock for round two. Sigh. I need therapy.
It’s all really conjecture at this point. I mean, really — do I think for one minute a man half my age is remotely interested in my moobs and gray hair? I won’t allow myself to give the notion too much serious thought beyond my desire to call Make A Wish Foundation and fake cancer for his undivided attentions. I know one thing: I’m skipping any talk about ‘back in my day’ and ‘when I was your age’ when we meet again. I learned that lesson the hard way last spring with that other 30-something that vanished like summer fog. Dating a man half my age? There’s an attraction; I feel it. Once in awhile the moth becomes the flame. And that feels very Joan Crawford.