I've Got Nobody To Call My Own
I find myself in an odd headspace today. Perhaps it's just a psychic fatigue after the events of the past week. Coming down, so to speak.
The hot tub guy is up at his cabin in the gay campground upstate (no, not that one, the other one). He's spending the weekend with none other than Zapper, who introduced us way back when on July 1st in the hot tub. Zapper told hot tub guy he wanted them to spend a weekend, just the two of them.
As in, not me.
So I'm feeling... Hmmm... What would it be? What would be a good word to describe it?
That's it. Lonely.
Later this evening, I'll probably head down to the good old Bike Stop. Hang for a bit. Maybe there will be somebody I know there. I think it's the Mr. and Ms. World Leather Contest (or whatever they call it. Does the winner go on to compete in the Mr. and Ms. Intergallactic Leather Contest? Or perhaps the winners are cryogenically frozen so that at the end of time they can all compete to find out who will be declared Mr. and Ms. Universal Leather For All Time?). But it might bring some new meat into town. Or some meat known to me that I wouldn't mind connecting with.
"Only connect," advises Mr. Forester.
Just why is that so difficult, I wonder.
Lately I've been wondering if I'm an anomaly. Am I the only leatherman on the planet that wants to fall in love? Am I missing something, or do jobs and a week in Amsterdam and the cigar tent at MAL and the Mr. and Ms. Cosmos Leather Contest and Delta and Thunder In The Mountains and getting a new outfit from David Samuel Menkes and a closet full of Mr. S gear offer compensation for having only an extra pillow to wish goodnight?
That hot tub guy, hurt and distrustful after previous bad experiences, has promised himself that he wouldn't get involved with someone unless they become friends first. And that's valid. And "I am Fido" and all that stuff.
But as it stands now, I'm tired.