Hot Latte

So after work, before the gym, I headed to Starbucks. And not only did I find a parking space, but there was a comfy chair open in front of the fireplace. (Our Starbucks has a fireplace. Two of'em in fact.) Sitting in the chair opposite was this guy reading the newspaper. I plunged into my book. Not too far into it, the guy struck up a conversation. He was what the writers of Seinfeld termed a 'low-talker.' So I couldn't quite hear him. So I smiled politely and nodded when I though appropriate.

But then I heard, or thought I heard a phrase that sort of stuck out: "you flagging red right."

'Scuse me?

I mean, I was. But not that way. Y'see, when I'm doing overhead work at my job, rather than inhaling whatever, I keep a bandana handy. In my back right pocket, since my back left pocket has my wallet. And the one I pulled off the pile today was a red one.

So I pulled my chair closer and started to pay more attention.

He just moved here from San Francisco. To take care of his mother. Living in Buckingham, which remarkably is not an hour and a half away from me but only ten minutes. (It seems that everything--Philadelphia, New York, the western suburbs of Philadelphia where the majority of guys I've hooked up with seem to live. It's like living in LA. Only the weather isn't as good.) And he's kinky. He's got a sling.

A good development.

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