Stalker in the Making Wednesday, Mar 14 2007

 

My late afternoon gym session wraps up with me sitting in my trainer’s office and perusing through the numerous muscle mags his best friend had dropped off earlier.  And somehow the convo that has revolved around Jay Cutler and various other Mr. Olympias casually segues into whining about how hard it is to find a good man to date and intelligently separating them from all the garden variety freaks out there.  Which is hardly surprising that something so simple as dating has turned into a challenging endeavor considering it’s me we’re talking about here.

“Yeah, I used to go out with this bodybuilder when I lived in Miami,” I began.  “He was half Sicilian and English and originally from Boston.  He looked just like Jean Claude Van Damme.  All the girls in my office used to talk about him. ‘Did you see him?’ they’d buzz and giggle.  He looked really great in his suit, too.  You could see all of his bulges.” 

My trainer hones in on this one.  “Bulges?” ”P” asks, smirking.

“No, no, perv.  As in this-”  I squeeze my pec.  “Not talking about that.” 

He was still smirking. “Are you sure?”

“Man, what are you?  Are you sure you’re not some fucking homo?”  I take a sip of stawberry protein shake.  “Anyway, he worked for CID and I worked for SSA and we met on the elevator one day while I was on the way to lunch.  He introduced himself and the next time we bumped into each other he asked me out.”

“Was he short like Van Damme?”

“Oh, Jesus, hell no, or I don’t think I would have given him a second look. 5′10 is my limit, 6′ is the preference.  Anyway, let me tell you, I brought him over one day and my little Puerto Rican roommate couldn’t stand him.  ‘His muscles look too puffy,’ says my roommate. ‘Don’t you think the leaner physiques on the cover of Men’s Health are better?  He looks like the Pillsbury Doughboy.’”

P got defensive.  “Must have been a guy.  Only a guy would say that.” P has puffy muscles and in Kevin’s eyes P would be the Doughboy’s cousin.

“Yes, of course it was a guy,” I reply, matter of factly.  “Kevin had a huge crush on me and he used to criticize everything I did because he couldn’t have me and he wanted to break me down. You know, typical insecure male behavior.  Plus Kevin was jealous of Jean Claude’s build and Kevin also had a problem with the neighborhood kids calling him a fag.  Now, he was’t gay or anything but he would wear these tiny little shorts while walking his dog and he had that flamin’ ants in his pants gait goin’ on.”  I chuckle.  “It didn’t help that the dog was a Bijon Frise.”

P winces.  “Ouch.”

“Exactly. You know, I’m wondering if that’s a Puerto Rican thing.  My best friend from elementary school was Puerto Rican and her dad wore those exact same shorts.  Anyway, Jean Claude and I finally go out on our first date and we’re sitting at Denny’s-”

“Whoa!” P waves his hand in the air.  “Did you say, Denny’s?”

“Yes.  Denny’s.  Can you believe it?  Anyway, we’re done eating and when the waitress brings the check, Jean Claude mulls over the numbers, looks me square in the eye and says, ‘Do you mind if we go Dutch?’”

P and I both erupt into laughter.

“So after that I decide that he’s a real dick.  He also was a mean SOB when he was drinking.  He’s one of these blokes who can’t handle his booze.  I could actually see his face go from David Banner to Hulk mode in two seconds flat.”

P shakes his head.  “Yeah, I knew a guy like that.”

“Well, I didn’t.  Not at the time, he was my first bad drunk.  I ended up ditching him until he unexpectedly calls me one evening and asks if we could work things out.  Kevin had his ear next to the phone because he knew it was him since he picked up the call in the first place, and he’s holding his breath in anticipation before he whispers, ‘Is he gonna go Dutch again?’

“I shoo Kevin away because he’s acting like a pest but wouldn’t you know it, all of a sudden Jean Claude says, ‘Listen, why don’t we get together for dinner and talk things out?  Let’s do Denny’s again.’  And then – like a bad nightmare recurring – ‘Can we go Dutch?  Can we?  Do you mind?’  You should have seen the look on Kevin’s face. I had to push him away to keep him from laughing into the phone.”

“Damn!  Tell that guy to take you somewhere respectable!  So this was the end of him?”

I am thinking.  Was it?  “Um, no, I don’t think so.  Honestly, I’m trying to remember whether or not we went back out for the All American Slam special but I’m not sure.  I think I’m in denial,” I add.

“Come on now,” probes P.  “Something happened.” 

“No, dude. Really.”   There was no way in hell I was going to specify what exactly ended our two month tryst from hell.  And honestly, for a second there, I had really forgotten.  But let’s just say Jean Claude was the most sexually selfish and self serving bastard out there who didn’t believe in giving, only receiving.  And I’d had enough of that. 

I was so furious that I stormed out of his apartment and told him to suck his own dick.

“You know, I wonder what ever happened to that guy,” I tell P as I pack up my gym bag and head out the door.  “I have to look him up.”

Which is exactly what I did once I arrived home.  His name is very unique but I still had to dig hard until – voila!  Not only did I discover that he’s in the Washington area now, but he’s remarried to a Japanese woman and he just bought a four hundred something thousand dollar home in the suburbs of Virginia!  And not only did I have the exact address, as it was listed in the Washington Post Home Sales section, I had a picture of the premises from the inside and out and at various angles, too.

Unbelievable.  Damn.  I’m good.  But when I’m bad I’m better. 

And it didn’t cost a cent.  More pennies to pocket in case I ever have to split the tab again.