Many moons ago, I decided to do a charity walk for AIDS in NYC. I couldn’t get a friend to join me, so I made the trek alone. I wasn’t alone for very long. Almost immediately, a suave gentleman had pulled up beside me. He asked many questions and proved to be a great listener. We walked the whole of Manhattan together, and I thought perhaps I would see him again. However, as soon as we crossed the finish, he seemed rushed…
“Hurry, gimme your number! I’ll call you.”
He didn’t have a phone and scurried to find a paper and pen. His hair was ruffling from his staccato movements.
“Sorry! I gotta run. They’re waiting for me.”
He pointed to an open van nearby. It was a prison van.
A prison van.
The charity walk had been part of his community service. He called several times from a jail pay phone. I didn’t answer.
This was what they call in the movies foreshadowing. Since Jail Man, I have had sore luck with the ability to tell whether a prospective mate is really a catch or just a charming con man.
This trip has thankfully put dating on my back burner. Who’s got time to worry about men or mascara when there’s a Laos jungle to explore or a Malaysian turtle to chase? I had taken a vow of celibacy before leaving anyway, sure that travel adventures would take precedence.
But now that I find myself in the West, the wool over my man-hunting eyes has been lifted.
Enter Massimo, a true Italian Stallion. Lounging on the pokey rocks of Nice, he wriggled his towel close to mine and asked my name. I am sure a flush returned to my cheeks after nine months flirt free (except for that one time in Laos but that’s a secret and that other time in India but that doesn’t count). We spoke in a funny language: 1/3 English, 1/3 Spanish, and 1/3 Italian. Our googly eyes withstood the fumbling for words. He added me to his Facebook right there on the beach. Facebook on the beach should have been a clue, but again… I don’t see those. He asked me out that evening, and I knew that I still had it. Oh yeah.
Cata and I strolled along the Nice boardwalk to our tiny hotel. She got in the shower, and I couldn’t resist the urge to plug into technology. (My old ways are streaming back so quickly.) I immediately clicked on Massimo’s profile and found 120 shirtless images of the man. One hundred twenty. All shirtless. Sigh. I think I’d rather date a prisoner. As long as he’s in there for tax fraud or impersonation of an officer.
I stole some photos to share with you. I’m positive Massimo doesn’t mind.
