Ain't Misbehavin'

I figure by this point, I had earned the right to take a lover. Right off the bat, though, I had a problem with the name. As Tina sings, "What's love got to do with it?" If women are mistresses, then are men 'misters'? All right, I decided, I shall take a mister.

I didn't want someone too young...why spend what little time you have on instruction? Besides, I probably make a better music teacher. I didn't want someone too old, either. Who wants to call the paramedics to one's house and explain the goings-on? Although I might be cast in a somewhat more appreciative, albeit deviant, light. All right, then, someone around my age it shall be.

But before I could even get around to the logistics of the thing: where to meet him, how to tell if he's stalker material, is his wife on any kind of medication? - I began to realize larger issues were at hand. Burning issues such as: how many razors would I actually have to go through in order to shave my winter insulation? I don't own any boob shirts. I don't own any boobs. Where the hell is my one pair of Not White JCPenney's hipsters?

And then the onslaught: exactly how am I going to rendezvous with a mister when I don't even get to pee or sleep by myself? If I start to relax, people would know automatically, wouldn't they? Where would I locate a non-woodsy fella with all his teeth and a polysyllabic grasp of vocabulary?

Then my eye caught the latest Charlaine Harris book in her Sookie Stackhouse series, 'Dead As A Doornail', that I've been trying to read for the last five months and I thought, 'What the hell. In the end, this will not only be easier, but probably a whole lot more satisfying."

And I was right.