One of God's jokes is to have a whole bunch of women after you at precisely the time when yout are out of food, booze, cigaretttes, out of a real place to take somebody, and when you have finally marked yourself down in your own estimation.
I had made a joke in a previous blog to the effect that I was so badly off, I was going to go down the street and troll for gay guys.
I think I did a little bit better. (That's if you prefer women).
So here I was, tromping on empty cigarette packages in a back alley, which opened into a churchyard.
I had found a long one, and paused at a bench in front of the twin-spired edifice to have a thoughtful smoke and a talk with Somebody.
Then out of an afternoon summer haze, she came.
She wore no makeup, had bangs, brown hair, and over jeans, she was weaing one of those almost-puffed sleeved faux-silk blouses that all the girls are wearing today.
In her left hand, she was holding something white . "Can I get a light from you?"
I immeditately reached for my plentiful supply of little Bics; gave her a somewhat grudging light.
I had other things on my mind than European pick-up scenes.
I was wearing a designer spa tee shirt, the lettering of which she was reading.
"You're from across town. Aintcha. But you look familiar."
Told her thirty years ago, I was in the newspaper business.
"I didn't get that. Working?"
"Writing. I had a column. My picture was up on top of it."
"I've seen your around town all the same", she said.
We finished our cigarettes.
Something intimate in this Fifties social act. The smoke. The prow- end of each-other's mystique.
We introduced each other. First names.
I was, suddenly feeling a possibility
She soon dispelled the mystery of what this oeuvre was leading to.
"How would you like a blow job?"
I have to end the story here.
For want of a nail, the empire was lost.
For want of a package of cigarettes, poor old Ivan remains unblown.
I thought I heard somebody laughing upstairs.