Getting Hit on by a 60-Year-Old Man

I gotta quit smoking. Cigarettes will be the death of me. Or the gay of me. *Shrugs* Guess that's why Euros call smokin a cig "blowing a fag." No, seriously.

Anyway, standing on the corner alone smokin a jack invites the zaniest, most beautifully awkward people into your life. Here's one more.

So this guy Michael, I meet him the night before, a regular bum tryna bum a cig or two. (Of course, take em, give me my 7 minutes of life back!) He's an English guy, like the major, not from London, and he's working on a novel - go figure. I ask what he's writing about, where I can find his work, questions he deftly deflects with quirky old-guy jokes and one-liners. I'm enjoying it at this point - a few beers deep and ready to witness some funny shit. So I listen for a bit, then roll back into the bar. Story over. Orrrr not.

Flash forward to Starbuck's, 20 hours later. I'm out sparking up a death stick when some guy comes bumbling up to me smelling like vodka and Ben-Gay. "Can I get 61 cents man?" An odd number for sure, but I'm change-less anyway, so I let him know. I look up, and lo and behold, it's Mikey, stuck somewhere between drunk, happy, cold, and "oops I almost pooped myself."

"Michael, right? I met you last night." A quick look at me, a friendly smile, and Mikey's off again, telling me wonderfully uninvited, awfully personally stories about his life. About his son who's "the next closest thing to incarcerated" - cooped up in a mental institute. Hmm, come to think of it, he may have been giving me a warning.

About his wife - "She's got my 38 year-old son living with her - treats him like he's six. You treat a grown man like he's a damn six-year-old, and he'll act like a damn six-year-old!"

"Not a fan of Mom, huh?"
"Hell no, haven't talked to her in eight years, the bitch!" I thinly veil my chuckle at this remark, and he's off again. "I used to have a beautiful apartment, up on Pacific. My son lived with me, and we both went about our business. See, me, I like the men," (Hmm... uh-oh?) "and my son and me, I never worried when he'd bring back the women and," -he interjected some oddball sex noise- "HUNGH, hungh. And he never worried about me, with the guys and the," - same sound- "HUNGH, hungh." Like I said, uh-oh.

He goes on, informing me that he's basically waiting on his mother to pass so he can inherit her $82 million fortune. "Sooo maybe she can hook you up with a few mil in the meantime. And you definitely owe me that dollar back now." Ha, sometimes I crack myself up.

At this point, I'm still wondering where this is going, getting colder and more confused by the moment. So, as I say goodbye and head back into the coffee shop, Mike gives me a cutesy little handshake, and, keeping hold with both of his weiner-beaters, he gives me a kiss on the hand - an old school, classy move (I guess...?), but a bit too soggy and Catholic-priest-ish for my liking.

I try to take it in stride, raising an eyebrow to the trio seated by the door - did they see that? Did they think that was as..... gay as I did? Only in Frisco.

I gave a little jeans-wipe, took a seat, and gave a half-grin to myself.

Cuz a straight male getting hit on by a guy is kinda like the least-appealing girl in the party showing too much love: flattering, perhaps, but style-cramping and cock-blocking for sure.

Either way, I think the wry smile on Mike's face as he walked away - was it the booze or the hand-rape? - meant that he enjoyed delivering the smooch more than I felt awkward receiving it.

So, the next time the feeling starts creeping up - "This dude is totally gay and totally hitting on me!" - don't think it's cuz you 'look gay' or 'seem a little fruity.' Don't get all pissed and try to act macho. Just laugh it off, wipe it off, whatever you gotta do. Just think of Mikey and me and our soggy, gay, little moment.

Much (Comepletely Heterosexual and/or Platonic) Love,

Shad