"You're my GF!"

I'm going to come clean with all of you...I've been a bad blogger lately and a lot of that is due to the fact that I've been censoring a portion of my personal life for a plethora of reasons, but mainly because I've been afraid to put it out there only to have it taken away--yes, I am paranoid.

About two weeks ago, I met a gorgeous man at the Dream Hotel from where we went for drinks at the Hudson Hotel. He loves champagne so he got a bottle. I love French Martinis so I had a few of those. And that's how our story began...

He only drinks Crown and Coke--no garnish. He's a picky eater--the bowl has to be chilled BEFORE they put the salad in it. He travels for work; by this I mean that he lives in a hotel in Times Square where the bar is his living room and his room is always in a corner on a high floor facing East. He has a Southern accent and his hair is more salt than pepper. He has big blue eyes and more often than not wears a sheepish grin.

His life is about the finer things but he's curious about the less than fine; he'll try something new but he's afraid of not liking it. He's the most vanilla individual I've ever met in real life, but his credo is one of tolerance--though if you're on his property unnannounced late at night he's a firm believer in having the right to shoot you with his licensced weapon. He's tall and thin and uses an electric razor. His clown costume--as he calls his perfectly pressed pants, Polo shirt, and grown-up jacket--gets shed the minute work lets out for a pair of acid washed jeans with a button missing and his leather jacket. He drives a Corvette but dreams of a beat-up pick-up to haul hay for his non-existent horse. He grew up with cats and thought he won't admit it, I'm not convinced he liked dogs.

He snores when he sleeps and he's an extremely selfish cuddler. He's in the office at 8am even though he doesn't have to be. His co-workers drive him crazy but he will only describe them as "the nicest people in the world." He will talk to me in his Appu voice but the minute I say something the slightest bit un-PC he'll give me a serious speech about people having the right to live the way they want to live as long as it doesn't impose on other people--specifically him. He was an altar boy and a water moccassin assassin. He's simultaneously a hero in a Western and James Bond--his cosmopolitan sensibilities belie his rural roots--he's proud of both and comfortable with the fact that those are the exact dualities that make him, uniquely HIM.

Like me he remains a contradiction through and through and like I am his, he is mine--as of 9pm yesterday evening.