Man Maid

Sometime around early August, I got dragged out of my Scottsdale Kingdom down to the trenches of downtown Phoenix. The primary reason I look unfavorably upon going out in downtown Phoenix is because door bouncers and bar tenders do not know my name. Though, in retrospect, maybe this is a positive.

Anyhow, at this time in my life, I was casually dating a remarkable alcoholic who would basically become catatonic when drinking heavily. And by remarkable I really just mean that i was totally over it.

After jumping on and off Phoenix's light rail, which is more of just a novelty than a viably useful form of transportation, we popped into an irish bar somewhere in the downtown area. I was pretty happy to be off the lightrail as i was tired of sitting next to meth heads with 3 teeth slurping off brand energy drinks. While posted up at the bar I spotted this man. The minute I laid eyes on him, I wanted his name but not necessarily his number. He was 75, fat, and wearing a coogi sweater... well it may have been argyle, but wouldn't it be funny to see a 75 year old man in a coogi sweater?

Jen and I hopped to it and engaged him in some sort of mindless conversation. Moments later, I found myself reviewing the various vowel sounds in the english language. He was Irish and had not learned proper phonics skills. I also made sure to tell him I liked his sweater.

While Jen and i jabbered on with old man O'Leary, Noreen was flitzing around the bar for a drink and had taken up talking to some tallish blonde boy. Then i saw her look over at me and point. Noreen thinks it's a fun game to find boys for me at the bar. And i thank her for this because sometimes she just finds me really huge weirdos that she knows i'll want to 20 question, for example, the weird computer nerd who i spent 20 minutes successfully convincing to hire White Kong to work for his start up. White Kong is 17 (see previous entries "White Kong" and "White Kong in love" for more details on White Kong and how i know him).

Before I knew it, blondie had come my way and was chatting me up. He spent the rest of the night hanging out with us and got my number, called me, and took me out the next week. Now, he was a super nice guy, pursuing a law degree, and clearly from a nice family. When he referred to his mother, he said 'mom', throwing out the possessive pronoun 'my' altogether. This kind of pissed me off. I mean, She was not my mom. He also liked to wear pastel v-necks and knew a little too much about my favorite brand of purses. On many occasions, I thought about calling up my Marv in LA and having him analyze with his supreme gay-dar capacity. I already had a wonderful gay boyfriend and was not looking for another.

At any rate, these flaws aside, he liked to party but was not a remarkable alcoholic. Basically, if i were to describe him to my mother, she would be fairly supportive of this G.

The main problem was, apart from my suspicions, that the whole thing was just off from the start. My crazy friend Mark, who is both a hopeless romantic and a supreme bar star, always says, "never settle for anything less than butterflies." There were no butterflies. I'm not trying to be queer, but when you know you know. However, He was nice enough and i was ok with keeping it casual. However, I just couldn't get that excited about new jeans.

This little ditty carried on for about a month and a half. Day by day, I was losing interest and it was sliding into a slow fade. Toward the end of it, Jen called me one day and directed me to a web page: Man Maid. The page boasted jack of all trade services that included your general scrubbing and dusting, yard work, and fixing odds and ends. Interesting concept, no? Then I realized that the one and only man maid was actually the boy who I had been dating for the last month. Holy shit. He had been prostituting himself out to wash other women's windows and trim other womens' hedges. In my head, I tried to picture him in a french maid's outfit then got really disturbed and almost threw up the Luna bar i was eating. At that point, his masculinity plummeted to rock bottom depths. He could have my purses.

Amidst all of this nauseating analysis, I stopped for a minute and played devil's advocate against myself: maybe it would be a nice to date a guy who would so eagerly clean my humble home? But then I realized that I'd probably have to pay him.