This morning I fell in love with the oral care specialist at the dentist’s office. No man has ever spent so much time in my mouth.
It all started at six forty-five this morning when my alarm clock went off. As a rule of thumb, I always schedule my mouth cleanings first thing in the morning for two major reasons:
(1) I am guaranteed to never over-book the time-slot unless of course a man wakes up in my bed. But the chances of that happening are 1 in 730 which equals roughly 0.14 percent.
(2) I always manage to convince myself months prior to the appointment, that by booking so early, I will be forced to go to bed early the night before as to acquire a proper night’s sleep. Of course this never seems to work, because the night before the appointment, I get so anxious about waking up early I always end up drinking ten bottles of wine; the evidence of which is clearly stained across my teeth the next morning.
Well last night you would’ve been proud of me, because being very adult, after four glasses of delicious malbec I decided to come home. On this note, I will back-up my love story about the oral care specialist even farther to yesterday around 4:45 pm.
At that approximate time, you could hear me running in my cowboy boots down West Broadway with my green umbrella overhead. Having missed the number seventeen bus downtown one-block from my apartment, I was left with no other choice (or cab fare) but to haul my skinny-jeaned ass to the Sky Train station another seven blocks away. Running late for a 5:00 reception downtown, I was doing my best to across to Yaletown, without stepping in a puddle and ruining my entire outfit.
What was this downtown reception for you ask? I will tell you in this paragraph which I call "exposition." After interviewing a popular gay figure in the city for my Gastown article, he asked me if I wanted to attend a UBC event celebrating 40 years of pride at the school. Naturally, like a new gay in town desperate for friends, I RSVP’d yes right away.
Preparing clothing options ahead of time, I debated pairing one of my Ben Sherman collars with a Club Monaco cardigan, but decided my pretentiously-stuffy-gay phase was over. So instead I decided on my plaid Urban Outfitters shirt (with the top three buttons undone of course), and matched it with my Aldo brown belt, H&M dark jeans, and my consignment store Jay Brannan Boots.
So, returning to my sprint/prance to the Sky Train station, I managed to avoid all the major puddles and arrived at the chic hotel’s front door a fashionable 12 minutes late. Collecting my complimentary drink ticket (thank heavens) I proceeded directly to the bar and found a nice spot against the wall with a delectable glass of French red.
Withdrawing into myself, I realized that my Jay Brannan boots were no match for the Prada, Gucci and Burberry that were circulating around the room. Introduced to a group of expensively-dressed men, I realized I looked as if I had just stepped off the farm. Watching each of their eyes move from the top of my receding hairline to the bottom of my faded-leather tipped toes, I felt as if I had just turned in a granola bar, and they were going to eat me alive.
I always find it interesting to watch how I react in situations that are outside my comfort level. Standing there in what-I-considered-to-be a nest of gay vipers, I immediately began fighting their big city judgment by projecting upon them every terribly jealous thought I could. The following is an excerpt from the conversation playing-out in my head at the time:
Remember Fox, these are good people, good people, you don’t know anything about them, so who are you to judge? Just breathe and be yourself … good people, good people … oh who the fuck am I kidding these are prada-studded douche-bots and I look fabulous in marked-down plaid … positive thoughts Fox, these are good people, good people. Just be yourself.
Well, the good news is, an hour later I still managed to stay afloat in the intellectual conversations that were taking place, and subsequently learned that I was wrong about 92% of the men in the room. Eventually, however, wearing thin, I removed myself from the suits altogether and introduced myself to lesbian in flannel because we were wearing the same outfit.
Afterwards, in true Yaletown tradition, I retired to a yuppy restaurant for an over-priced glass of wine, and watched as the same group of the men from the reception took a seat outside from where I was sitting. Staring at them awkwardly from a leather seat at the bar, I thought to myself: can you ever take the prairie out of the boy? Thinking about it for another three glasses of wine and a delicious steak dinner (a boy has got to get his meat in somehow) I retired home by a miraculous eleven o’clock, and tucked myself into bed to get a good night’s sleep.
Now back to early this morning and my love affair with the Oral Care Specialist.
Walking to the dentist’s office a refreshing amount of sober, I was more then pleased to see the same gentlemen from six months ago call my name. Not sure if he remembered me – a smile ran across my eight o’clock face when he asked me how work at the restaurant was. Exchanging a delectable amount of small-talk I laid back and opened wide.
I cannot describe to you in words how beautiful this man is. I estimate him to be ½ Asian like Justin Nozuka, which gives him the most remarkably subtle facial features I have ever seen. At times the elongation of his face makes him look similar to an Avatar, but a really good looking one without the blue skin or creepy tail. Relaxing back into his care, my knees became weak when his forearm lingered over my visible line of sight. I must say, I am not really an ass man, but a good set of biceps will make me do things I never thought possible. Hearing the suction thing excite, I realized I was drooling more than usual and had to keep my wits about me.
For the next forty-five minutes I played seductively cool. Using my only resources available to turn him on, I placed my right thumb below the lip of my jeans and casually ran it back and forth, letting a glimpse of skin slip out every time he switched tools. Standing up once all was said and done, I asked for his name and told him mine once again.
“I know,” he said standing with my file folder open, “I have everything hear about you.”
Returning him a glance that said, “you have my phone number now use it bitch” I wished him goodbye and he told me that he would see me again in six months.
Some of the best romances I have had in this life are with working professionals. On that note, I am sad to report that Il Postino has moved on. His route has now been taken over by a butch lesbian, who I’m sure is making some little dyke in the building very happy. Unfortunately for me, whereas I could “bump” into the postman three to five times a week, with Oral Man I have to wait until November. Who knows, maybe I will eat lots of sweets this summer and have to bump up my appointment. You never know.