"And if I were single...."("You're totally busted", part deux)

And now for the thrilling conclusion to our story. At this point, our hero has just been cruised by the hot man in the red t-shirt.

"You're totally busted," I said.

"How so?" he asked teasingly.

Looking intently into his eyes and putting on my seductive come-fuck-me smirk: "I caught you admiring my ass. And it's not like you haven't been checkin' me out since I first walked in here. You're busted, buddy."

"Guilty." He held my gaze. "And if I were single...." He paused, grinned, and looked me deeeep in the eyes, "I'd be busting to get into those pants of yours."

Perhaps not the best segue in seduction history, but I wasn't about to complain. Jeepers, at this point I was thinkin' I was Brad Pitt in any movie where he takes his shirt off in good stead, so I'm not about to complain about a cliched attempt at telling me he thinks I'm his love god hot. So I challenged him: "I have a feeling that being attached hasn't stopped you from getting into other men's pants in the past. What would make things different this time?"

He smiled just so and flashed those pearly whites. "Perhaps this time isn't any different at all. After all, you're by far the most handsome guy in this entire bar." (insert author's blush here)

And so was my erection-inducing introduction to a lovely man named David. Turns out he's English (how, then, could he have such perfect teeth?!), is cuter than hell, and seemed to think I was the cat's pyjamas. Now I'm not one to write about my chiseled good looks brag, but if I had a US dollar for every time he told me I was way handsome, I'd be able to afford that Ronan Keating Greatest Hits CD can of Diet Coke that I so desperately crave.

Now, before my readers get too excited (especially Jake, cuz I fear the effect that such excitement could have on his recovery process), nothing happened at all with David and his boyfriend -- well, not involving them and me, at least. But I did have the chance speak with David further and look at my reflection in the perfect pools of liquid that doubled as his eyes, and he and the BF are heading to Vancouver in July. Naturally, I gave them my e-mail address with a promise to squire them around the fair West Coast city. I made David promise to buy me a drink, though. After all, I'm not cheap or easy. My motto: "Will tour guide for drinks!"

I left the bar that night with David's compliments repeating over and over in my mind, still fidgeting with my ill-fitting clothes and wondering how someone could see me in such a flattering light. But I remembered something that I suppose I'd forgotten over the past 12 months: no matter how inadequate or insecure you might feel when you walk out into the gay world, there's usually someone drunk and desperate enough who thinks you're just what the doctor ordered. And once in a very rare while, the someone who thinks that just happens to be someone who strikes your own fancy.

Poof! As if by magic, lost self-confidence is miraculously restored, you feel good freakin' great about yourself, and you suddenly remember tour guiding for visitors in July has always been a favourite hobby of yours.