Dates

I've told this story on other blogs, but I thought, well, since it's my story, why not put it here.

Shortly before I met Carlos I met this other guy; nice funny cute, educated, all the things I like. We began dating and almost from the outset I knew this wasn't the right guy, and I wasn't looking for Mr. Right or even Mr. Right Now. I was single and I kinda liked it like that. I had a good circle of friends, a job I liked, a nice place to live; all was good for me.

So, this guy....and I'm not not saying his name to protect his identity, I just for the life of me cannot remember it, and you'll soon know why....calls me up for our first official date, you know, not just coffee or a trip to a bookstore. A real date. He suggests we drive into San Francisco for the day; go into Golden Gate Park and maybe the Museum of Modern Art, and then dinner at Trattoria Contadina--corner of Union and Mason, reservations required.

Sounds like a lovely day.

We leave early and get to the park just as the fog is burning off, so it's gorgeous. Blue skies, cool breezes, tall trees and peaceful strolling through the Japanese Tea Garden. We have a quick lunch at the Chestnut Street Bar and Grill and then head off to the museum. All is going well on the date, although I'm already seeing this guy as a friend, really, and nothing more. And there isn't anything wrong with that. Friends are good.

After lunch we drive across the city to the Museum of Art. That's a favorite space of mine and I always make it a point to check out the latest exhibition when I'm in San Francisco.

Anyway, we're wandering through the galleries, and I'm stopping to check out several things that catch my eye. My....what is his name....date has disappeared down another hallway, so I am alone and really enjoying myself. It hits me again, that although he's cute and funny and nice and smart, he really would be a better friend than anything else, and I resolve to tell him this when he comes back.

And come back he does.

He waltzes up behind me. I don't see him. He gets real close to me and slips his hands inside my pants. I pause, thinking Who is this? I jest. I know who it is; and I say:

What are you trying to do?

I'm trying to get into your pants.

You'd have better luck getting into Harvard.

And that's what I remember him as: Harvard.