Last night, at a gay party at the Park, a young gentleman approached me, wrongly thinking my spazzing hand had beckoned him over.
Since he’d so gamely sashayed forth, I generously struck up a conversation with the guy.
“You sort of look like Anne Frank” I observantly chirped, right off the bat.
“Huh?” he replied in disbelief.
“Anne Frank,” I repeated as he looked a little sick. “The girl in the attic. You’re a dead ringer for her.”
“Oh, no!” he shrieked, in utter pain by now.
“She was cute,” I swore. “But I meant in the movie version. She was gorgeous. Practically a supermodel. Very Audrey Hepburn-like!”
I paused to see if this “save” worked, but the guy simply rolled his eyes and spat out, “Change the subject, please.”
We talked for 10 more minutes but I never felt I got his trust back.