Kiss Me, Straight

Chapter 5-1

Chapter 5

The rest of my days off before heading to Paris had been uneventful, and besides a trip to the Laundromat across the street and a couple of bike rides, I spent much of the time at home. When I wasn’t catching up on my rest or reading on the deck, I was downstairs at the Button Hole, as usual, with my feet up on the table, watching Katie work. Chris stopped in a few times on his break, just to check in and say hi to his new neighbors and throw out a flirty remark or two, and I found myself thinking about him every so often on my layover and smiling. Most of my friends are women and most of my crushes are on straight men, and I was glad at the prospect of a new gay pal in my life. He is probably too heavy for me to be interested in him in “that way,” but he’ll definitely make a nice chubby chaser an excellent husband, and in the meantime it’s always fun to have someone around to girlfriend it with who’s up for a night of cocktails and cruising in the Castro.

The trip itself was much more low-key than the trip before had been. Bobby Dutta had met someone on our last trip, so he had a hot date, which freed me up to sleep in, linger over café au lait and croissants, and stroll through the city. The second day of our layover was sunny and warm, so I spent much of the afternoon lingering in the sculpture garden at the Rodin museum. I discovered a small wine shop down the street from our hotel, and found myself buying a couple bottles of Val de Loire to offer to Chris, whom I envisioned spending the weekend settling in upstairs from me, as a house-warming gesture.

As is my very definite preference, I worked in First Class, and Bobby, also per usual, worked in Coach. I waited for him before getting off the airplane in San Francisco so we could walk to Customs and Immigration together, and he could catch me up on his layover activities. Apparently the hot date had indeed started out hot, but when they ended the evening at our favorite bar in the Marais, an even hotter prospect had entered the scene. I was only half-listening to Bobby describe how he had managed the delicate trade-off and gone home with the new guy; however, as we fell in behind another Globe Runner crew in the crew line for passport control. I knew I’d hear Bobby tell this story fifty more times before our next trip, and I was quite distracted by the flight attendant at the front of the line.

He couldn’t have been a better example of “my type” if I had built him myself from a kit. Strikingly tall and rail-thin, I couldn’t tear my eyes off him as he strode up to the window, flourishing his passport. He made a crack at the no-neck passport control officer that actually got a laugh (a first in the history of the Border Patrol, as far as I can tell), bellowed goodbye to his crew, then stalked off into the baggage claim area and out of my life. I actually felt kind of wronged watching him walk away. In fifteen seconds, I had so thoroughly fantasized what it would be like to see him across the breakfast table after waking up next to him every morning that I couldn’t believe he would walk out on the good thing we had going.

“You’re not even listening to me,” Bobby whined.

“Yes, I am,” I assured him, not turning around.

“What did I just say?”

“Um…something about France?”

“Get a hold of yourself,” he scolded. “He wasn’t that hot.”

Busted, I affected a sheepish expression. Unfazed, Bobby simply turned around to the girl in line behind him and continued his story.

I did not know her well, but I recognized the flight attendant in front of me from around the base. “Hey, Petra, where did you guys just come in from?” I asked her. I had never clapped eyes on that amazing hunk, and San Francisco was not a very large base.

“London.”

That might explain it. “Was that tall guy London-based?”

At this she turned to face me and gave a mock-lascivious leer. “Not bad, was he? He used to be based there, but he just transferred here.”

I was thunderstruck by my good fortune, but strained mightily to act casual. “Oh. Cool.”

So I’d start seeing him around. In fact, I rather vowed to make it my business to see him around. He hadn’t walked out on me—at least, not for good. Katie has always complained that I’m way too picky about men. Wait until she finds out I was right all along. He is out there.

The fact that the memory of his striking profile and easy jocularity very nearly gave me a repetitive stress injury that night as I lay in bed thinking about seeing him again was none of Katie’s business.