The Brit and I were rushing recently to make a dinner reservation at a swanky restaurant in town. I’d just picked him up from the airport, as he’d been away on business again, and he was still wearing his company’s logo work shirt. I skillfully found a parking spot a block away from the restaurant, which, in San Francisco is about as difficult as finding a fully clothed man at the annual Gay Pride Parade…finding a naked one that doesn’t have a curiously large inguinal hernia is even more challenging. And sometimes parking can even be that difficult.
So now you’ll understand how we came to be standing by the opened trunk of my car in bustling downtown SF with a shirtless Brit digging through a haphazardly thrown together suitcase for a shirt when another driver pulled up alongside us. The driver, unable to tell if we were coming or going, wanted to know if we were about to vacate the parking spot. At which point my boyfriend, with his pasty white flesh all asunder, sprayed his left armpit with aerosolized deodorant, looked over at her mid-spray and said, “No.”
Ahh yes. That’s my man.