And I’m proud of myself!
This was on Fire Island, where I was hanging with a friend and became joined by two shrieking fans, who were campy and hilarious.
Just then, a handsome, mixed-race, sort of 30-year-old version of the Rock sauntered out–looking hot–and said he wanted to join us because we seemed more festive than the club he’d been at.
He didn’t say much else–he just smiled a lot while keeping his cleavage carefully exposed.
And when it came time for him to go back to the club, he gave me his number.
“We could hang out,” Mr. Man suggested in a very silky voice. “It’s hard to find people with personalities like you. I’m a producer.”
I dutifully recorded the number into my cell phone, feeling intrigued and titillated.
And the second he walked away, I just as resolutely erased it.
I mean, what good could come out of this?
He’d want me to take him to fabulous things and promote his producing gigs.
And then I’d get hooked on him, wondering why he hasn’t texted in five minutes.
And then it’d turn out he has some dark secret that makes any kind of friendship impossible.
And then either he’d kill me or I would kill myself.
Or maybe he’d just be nice.
But still, I’m not taking the chance!
Bravo for me.