"you're on your way," said jeff fox*.
Saturday, August 28, 2010
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
Michael was a mod. If I was writing in the ‘60s, this would mean something different. That’s not to say he wasn’t that kind of mod. He was. He just stuck out a bit as such in 2010.
If you’re like me, the very mention that a man is a mod sends brief tingles to your nether regions. If you’re not like me, I’ll try to explain myself.
Lewis and I named him Michael; we don’t know his real name. We barely knew him at all, to be truthful. His musical preferences seemed to betray his appearance. Our first friendly interaction surrounded his complimenting my ‘90s-math-rock T-shirt. Behind those horn rimmed glasses, beneath the perfectly straight bangs, buried below the well-groomed moustache, his face smiled at me. His voice was soft and cherubic (well, the way I’d imagine a cherub might speak). His sexuality was ambiguous. So perfect.
Lewis met him a few weeks later and felt the electricity. I told Lewis of my fantasy. That’s when we named him Michael. He despised being called Mike.
My fantasy is him in his dark, labyrinthine apartment. Mahogany all over the place. Dim lights. Candles. Incense. Books. Records. He sips cognac from a snifter and has a respectable, though constrained, collection of single malts. He smokes (a pipe or a cigarette, I haven’t quite decided) and wears a short silk paisley-printed robe, chest hair the same strawberry blonde as his perfect bob haircut. If the wind catches him in a moment of urgency, you might get a peek at his you-know-what.
Lewis fantasized him painting my nails. I said toenails and jumped on board.
Do you get it? The man wore bangs and a smart corduroy jacket in Chicago’s August heat. He was kind to the pourer of his coffee and looked like he was better suited for 1964. Despite this, he dug Polvo. Dude was groovy as all get-out.