  One. The Bod and I had our first "real" date last night. (After a couple ... um ... informal dates and two weeks' worth of steamy emails, we decided to venture out in the real world together and see what kind of sparks we could produce in the harsh light of day.
) So I race home from work, pound out a quick five-mile run, scrub and shave stuff in the shower, and give the condo a quick tidying. Then I put on a muscle shirt, some cargo shorts that hang low on my hips and my sexy new flip-flops and sit down with the paper, waiting for him to show up. And when he does, he's dressed for a date date -- in funky shoes, jeans and a sexy knit shirt that clings in all the right places.
Oops. So I quickly change into something more gay-dressy and we head out to dinner. And then things start to feel awkward. He spends a lot of the evening with his arms crossed in front of him, the conversation never really takes off and he doesn't try very hard to help it along by asking me questions -- except why I'm so quiet. (But I remind myself I'm lousy at evaluating dates -- when I have one I think goes pretty urlLink well I never hear from the guy again. So I tell myself maybe I'm judging the situation too harshly. ) And then he drops the R-bomb. ACK! It seems I'm having regular dates now with urlLink two Republicans . (He promises, though, that he doesn't vote a straight party ticket -- which I can't respect on either side of the aisle. ) So we survive dinner and head back to my place for dessert. As usual, we're very good at dessert. Evening saved. But later, as we're drifting off to sleep, I realize just how weird it is to snuggle up with a relative stranger.
And how much I don't like it. Sure, it fills a loneliness void -- but in a profoundly unfulfilling way. I so need a boyfriend. Two. I'm choreographing part of next weekend's urlLink chorus show, and we had a dance rehearsal this afternoon in Boystown. Because there was an afternoon Cubs game a few blocks away, I took the El down and the bus back, stopping at my friendly neighborhood Jewel on my way home.
And right there, in front of the salad dressing, I run into urlLink Chris , my dance-floor romance from Sound-bar over IML weekend. And DAMN, if he still doesn't look blond and tan and handsome and built like a brick shithouse. We make small talk. We make more small talk. We giggle nervously. We keep having these long, happily awkward stare-into-each-other's-eyes things. The salad-dressing-needy shoppers get irritated that our sexual sparks are coming between them and the mouth-watering flavor of bacon bleu cheese. And then ... Well, let's just say that my behavior in a less-than-24-hour-period is EXACTLY what Pat Robertson is talking about, bless his cold, dark, judgmental little Republican heart. (And let's also say that Chris has no tan lines -- a fact that will keep me awake well into the night. ) Three. Chris and I wrap up our bidness in time for him to drop me off at a nice little last-minute holiday dinner party in Andersonville with a bunch of friends. And it's just great. James cooks a KILLER dinner, including tender salmon, a robust meat-and-tomato sauce over perfectly cooked penne, and bowls of fresh fruit over real whipped cream.
We talk. We laugh. We watch urlLink Scary Movie , which I haven't seen. We laugh some more. The dog gets excited and pees a little on the floor. Everyone's happy. And it's all good. And instead of going to a bar looking for more trouble when the party breaks up, I head home to do a little blog, make a little something to eat and get down in front of the Tivo tonight. 
