After six months of outrageous flirting and innuendo, a certain someone finally asked me out on a real date. I suspect this is because I sent him an email that said "Be a man and ask me out already!"
So he invited me to dinner tonight. If things go well, I might invite him back to my place . . . to watch Laguna Beach. (What did you think I was going to say? Invite him back to my place and rip his clothes off? Hello? I have a fractured shoulder. Anything beyond hand-holding is going to be uncomfortable and awkward.)
Tonight, I will try my best to overlook the fact that:
a) He is five years younger than me.
b) He listens to Milli Vanilli unironically.
c) He is a rabid hockey fan. We’re talking face paint, clown wig, dancing in the aisles. I’ve seen the photographs and they’re horrifying.
And yet I find myself strangely attracted to him. Maybe my brain got rattled when I crashed my bike. Maybe it's the painkillers. Or maybe it’s just because I have fun with him. He makes me laugh. My straight friends like him. My gay friends really like him. He’s one of the nicest, sweetest people I have ever met.
This could go somewhere. Or it could go nowhere. We’ll see.