Ah, you’ve got to love the single life and you’ve got to love it all the more when you travel with a friend who has men clamoring at his feet. I should think it would get tiresome carrying around all that dead weight attached at the ankles but perhaps it’s like a leg extension exercise and it helps build muscle. Oh sure, I’ve been told on occasion that I resemble a pop singer (who hangs out in public restrooms) by slightly older men and a few wearing thick lens glasses, but my friend Michael has men dropping on their knees faster than a church on a Sunday morning.
I’d been coming out of my shell, no longer feeling I was simply a shadow. Life was on the upswing and I was getting noticed; that is until Michael came with me on vacation to Fort Lauderdale. It boggles the mind how quickly a person can run down the stairs they have strived to climb and fall flat on their face.
We were spending a lot of time together and it was grand. There is a bond between us that somehow grew over the years and it feels good. Mike is easy to be with even if time eludes us. As we shopped we found ourselves in a trendy boutique on Las Olas Boulevard. The walls were cluttered with fashionable accessories such as crystal and turquoise studded belts, Ed hardy ball caps and the latest and greatest jeans and shirts. Shirts, my addiction, upholstered the walls like Scalamandre fabric. I adore trends. Trend and I go together like Old and Spice, pimps and prostitutes, hot fudge and vanilla ice cream. It’s a match made in heaven; you can’t have one without the other.
Anyway, we were on a spending spree when before me was the essence of the man I’d been searching for. He was handsome, like Greg Louganis, wonderful facial structure and a backside that simply would not quit, perfectly round buttocks that were orchestrated when he walked like a symphonic melody. It made no difference what he wanted to sell me I would take it. I had turned into a salesman’s dream, rack up the items and tally the bill. I have an American Express card, money is no object. Fine wine, the perfect piece of fish, luscious chocolate. They are all the same; they satiate the appetite and make you feel whole. There are moments when you see a piece of jewelry and say, “I’ve got to have it” or “That’s exactly what I’m looking for”. My salesman, Ricky, was that perfect piece of jewelry.
As Michael was trying on his jeans I was trying on Ricky. Putting my best foot forward I hoped I didn’t trip. If I could walk in 4 inch heels I certainly could walk in unison with this man. After perusing numerous boldly printed Robert Graham shirts, Ben Sherman blazers, and 575 jeans, my salesman was beginning to make conversation unrelated to clothing.
“Are you guys a couple?” I sensed there was some interest.
“No, we’re not.” I was clinging to his next question. I clung to hope.
“Good,” he softly whispered, “He’s really hot. Where are you guys going to be tonight?”
I recoiled and with a straight face mentioned a bar known for beefy strippers and the “daddy” type. You know, those big burly men with a bit of weight piled on either by the gym or beer. Screw it.
“Oh, he likes that kind of guy?” Ricky’s disappointment was palpable. Knowing full well Michael is into more athletic types I slowly shook my head up and down.
“Yes, too bad for you.” No one was the wiser.
After much fun it was time for my beloved friend to leave and return back to winter in Connecticut. We said our goodbyes at the airport and I left him with bag in hand making his way into the terminal. I was saddened to know my counterpart was leaving but determined, with his encouragement, to meet people on my own. Michael has always been extremely supportive of me. Leaving the airport I made my way down to the beach at Sebastian Street where the gay crowd clusters together, dates are made, friendships forged and we bask in the warmth of the sun’s glorious rays.
The landscape was strewn with colorful towels and colorful characters. Lying to my left were two young (and I mean young) Cuban boys. To my right were three “daddies” tipping the scale with their beer bellies and obviously unashamed by virtue of the bikini bathing suits they were wearing. I touched my own stomach with my hand after seeing theirs hanging over the skimpy lime green spandex suits.
I laid out my multicolored striped beach towel and stripped off my tank top revealing the upper portion of my body. As I undid my zipper and slowly lowered my pants the more handsome of the two young Cubans loudly exclaimed, “Caliente!”
I turned and scanned the beach. With no idea he was speaking of me I pointed toward myself with my index finger and with a look of bewilderment questioned the young man.
“Who? Me? Have you seen the people on this beach? If you’d said that to me with ten really hot guys around me I’d be impressed.” Alas, I was “caliente” by default.
Tipping his head he looked puzzled. Then, with his heavy Spanish accent said, “Choo’re crazy.” What the hell, I decided to take the compliment.
The next day, Christmas Eve, proved to be far more interesting. There were multitudes of men and women, vibrant towels and more vibrant bathing suits lined up upon the soft sand taking in the sun. Where the waters of the Atlantic meet the shores of Florida, against the backdrop of the ocean, muscular gay men, tattooed, tossed balls back and forth as I read a book on writing. It was a picture perfect setting for a very different Christmas Eve in the south.
Many were handsome, some far too aware of their beauty. I glanced and took a sip of Poland Spring bottled water. One more perusing of the crowd was needed before I went back to my reading. To the left before me was what I hoped Santa would wrap and place under my tree. I involuntarily and deeply inhaled.
He must have been slightly older than I, perhaps 50, with the most well disciplined body I’d seen in years on someone his age. The Gucci sunglasses fit his aristocratic face with chiseled features and a light unshaven scruffiness. My ears perked up as he spoke to a couple who passed by. It was obvious he was well educated; his confidence was incredibly appealing.
My “present” stood and walked the beach with charisma. His stature afforded him an air of elegance which when juxtaposed against his manhood defined who he was. I wanted to summon up my courage and make conversation but could not seem to stir. I was in awe of the celestial being and unsure if my soul was indeed “caliente” enough to approach him. I sat, fixated on his every move.
Where was all my newly acquired learning and why was this challenge for me so difficult? Why, when the “pickings” are slim, I rise to the occasion, but when there is fierce competition I retreat? Where is the hunter in me? It’s in there somewhere I know it is. He looked at no one as he closed his eyes and reveled in the days’ glory, his muscles bronzing as he lay in the sand on that small strip of land. As I looked around at the multitudes of men lying on their colorful towels I could only think that the beach was indeed a game of Bingo. All the pretty little numbers had been called out and were positioned ever so carefully, but when one number, the one I needed to win had arrived my card was almost complete.
I was involved in a game usually reserved for socials on a Saturday evening. Today it was being played out on a very public beach in a very non-traditional setting. As I stood he glanced over and nodding in an approving way said, "Hello there, “I’m Dante DiPuccio.” The remainder of the afternoon shall remain in the library of my mind as a huge leap of faith, but be assured, I shouted from every fiber of my being, “Bingo”.
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