Bucky's Head on a Pike

Oh man.

Who's the Sadist here?

The other night at Starbucks, just one friggin' day after Bucky and I had the conversation 'About A Girl,' Bucky greets me warmly, asks what I was doing that night, is all about playing eye-hockey, and when I left, runs around the counter to give me a warm and lingering... handshake.

All these mixed signals from that boy. I wonder if he's related to Schlitz, Mr. fuck me-no dice-fuck me-no dice-fuck me-no dice-fuck me-no dice himself.

Hmmm. Perhaps Bucky just sensed that I was zeroing in, and needed to give himself some more comfort room. Perhaps The Girl was his last ditch attempt to salvage his personal dream of heterosexual normality.

Or perhaps he's just a nutjob.

Anyway.

Back to square one.

Although the first order of business will be letting Bucky know clearly and unambiguously that I'm a homo. That might scare the bejeezus out of him. Or maybe it won't.


And tonight, I may-or-may-not have a date with Hort. When we talked on Sunday, he proposed that we talk on Tuesday night and firm up plans. I called and left a message with him, proposing that we meet at 5:30 at the Starbucks in New Hope and go from there. I gave him my land line to call last night to confirm ("I'll get it, Dad!"), and my cell phone to confirm today. I didn't hear from him last night, so I hope I hear from him today.

Five thirty must strike some readers as a positively perverse hour at which to get together for dinner, but Hort and I both get up at 5 am for work, and if there's gonna be any hot sweaty mansex, we better get to it early.

C'mon, Hort. Cowboy up, Boss. We got a date. Prove to me that all those mean things I said about Bucks County boys were sour grapes.

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