Date Monster

Yesterday, as in Saturday, was a great day. Headed up to NYC for the bike show at the Javitz Center with a man we'll call Washington Crossing. We had a really good time together. The bikes were hot, and many of the men looking at the bikes were hot. Also ran into Reddiwhip, whom I last saw at a service center on I-95 coming back from MAL. So Paris Hilton lives.

Bike-wise, I may (may!) be rethinking my position on owning a bike. I had decided that the danger element and all gave me pause. Learning how to feed myself again would suck. And the brain injured have a really hard time getting dates. So I had decided that since I had made it for 40 years without owning a motorcycle, I'd wait another 40 and revisit the issue.

But now I'm thinking that if it was a take it out on weekends kind of thing, safe gas by taking it to work, then that might be a reasonable level of risk.

And, Erik Buell is a genius. He worked for Harley-Davidson, broke off to design his own bikes, and then came back to Harley. And there is, apparently, this odd shotgun marriage relationship they have. Buell motorcycles are just so beautiful. Amazing design ideas went into them. They're such... ...machines! Incredible machines. Not overthought like BMWs (Wash Cross rides a BMW. They tend to be favored by engineer types. Staffing the booth of the BMW Riders Association where Wash Cross and I stopped off were six guys, all with wire framed glasses, all with trim little mustaches, all wearing pleated pants. No lie.) A departure from traditional ideas about chrome and headlights, but a beautiful, confident, and powerful reinterpretation.

So. Who is this Wash Cross guy?

Well, I've had several dates with him. And with a few other local guys. (That's right! Local!) So far, 2006 has been all about dating. As in, we flag each other down on Manhunt.com, and pick a Starbucks convenient to both of us. And meet up. If the initial meeting goes well, then we get together for another date. Like a movie and dinner. Or, in one unique and wonderful situation, a play date for our dogs at a local bark park. And then we have sex.

I love dating! I had forgotten how much I love dating. It just works so well. The beauty of it is, it's just a date. Just getting together, talking, eating, seeing a movie, hooking up. And that's all. Complete unto itself. My brow is unfurrowed by questions of 'what would it be like to spend the rest of my life with this guy?', because that's besides the point. It's just a date.

Although, at the same time, it's akin to the reality show on MTV that the Baron is wild about but I haven't managed to catch yet called "Next." It involves one dater and five potential dates. The five potential dates wait in a van, watching the proceedings live, while the dater takes them on, one by one. And if the dater decides he's not interested, he announces 'Next!' and the datee is ushered out and the next on the roster comes in for a go. Of course, the brilliant thing is that all the datees are bonding in the van, and forming their own opinions of the dater. And of course, since it's on MTV and MTV is cool, they do queers and not just straights.

And that's also what a date is. It's putting yourself out there. And he puts himself out there. You don't know what his deal-breakers are, and you're listening for him to bring up one of yours. So there is risk involved, because at any minute, you could be fired. Or you could have cause to fire him. But, what the hell? It's just a date. And I can make conversation with anybody for a night. And do a pretty good job at it, too.

And, of course, perfect for concupiscent me, there are seven nights in a week, and therefore the potential for seven dates with seven different men.

Perfect.

Also in the news, three jobs that I'm sending in resumes for. So the hunt continues on that front, too.

Huh. Come to think of it, another form of dating.

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