The best laid plans to NOT get laid

So, I had a date with the Chocolate Polisher last night.

I'd been dreading it for days. It was time to let him know in no uncertain terms that his chances of ever polishing my chocolate, so to speak, were slim and getting slimmer.

He's a really nice guy, so I didn't want to be brutal. I'd discussed strategies with C. She suggested I tell him he reminds me too much of my brother and therefore, I could never do him. I filed that away as Plan C.

Maybe, I said, I'd try to scare him away. I've done that plenty of times unintentionally, it should be easy enough to do it on purpose. I could bring up my views on marriage as an outdated patriarchal institution that everyone should nonetheless try once. I mean, that didn't work on Bob Sanders, but he's a freak. It should work on a normal man.

C mentioned the Chocolate Polisher gets really riled up about politics. Ding ding ding! If there's any subject about which I have more opinions, I don't know what it would be, except maybe how other people should live their lives. My hope brightened.

At 7 p.m. sharp, the fucker showed up at my door with flowers and a bag of goodies. Not goodies from the chocolate polishing factory, goodies. Maps, for god's sake. If there's one thing I like as much as flowers, it's maps. Eventually I hope to know how to get anywhere from everywhere, sort of like a human GPS system.

He'd picked up a bunch of shit about Alabama--maps, travel guides, etc.--from the Boat, Sport & Travel show last week, because I'd told him that I'm driving to Alabama for a wedding in May. He also brought me a copy of a CD of the bluegrass band we went to see a few weeks ago. And a pair of gloves, free from the travel show, because "a spare pair of gloves is always handy."

What the fuck? Does he have some kind of sixth sense about getting dumped, or was he just thinking that he might get lucky if he showed up bearing gifts? And what the hell is wrong with me? A guy like this shows up and I'm just going to kick him to the fucking curb? My conscience (I think that's what it was, anyway) rose from its slumber and starting gnawing at the inside of my skull.

Nevertheless, he still had to go. The fact is, I have no desire to see the man naked, and eventually he was going to try to disrobe in front of me and I'd just end up yelling "Ew!" and running out of the room. Best to end it before that happened. I mean, shit, I do have a (bad) reputation to protect, after all.

I can't remember who brought up politics first, but I jumped on the opportunity. Turns out, we fucking agree on everything. Gay marriage? Yep. The presidential race? Check. Indiana State Rep. Pat Bauer's toupee? You betcha.

I was completely unprepared. The trouble with politics is that I have such strong opinions that I can't lie about them. How fucking likely is it that someone agrees with me?? Jesus!

Sigh. I soldiered on. After dinner and drinks I invited him into my house for a beer. We sat on the couch and talked.

"Chocolate Polisher," I said, "I just have to say that while I like hanging out with you, I can't promise that we'll ever be more than friends. I don't want to hurt somebody who doesn't deserve it, blah blah blah, don't want to lead you on, yada yada yada, don't really know each other, etc. etc."

"Yeah," he said. "That makes sense."

And then I fell asleep on the sofa with my head on his shoulder while he stroked my hair. Fuck. Where did this all go so horribly wrong? Why couldn't something familiar and easy to deal with happen, like, I dunno, a cute 28-year-old boy who works in politics being all into me? Instead I get a 46-year-old guy who's been polishing chocolate for 27 years bringing me flowers and maps.

The Chocolate Polisher left me a message earlier today to just say hi and see how I was doing. C suggested I start using racial slurs. If I thought I could, I might just try it. If I squint a little, he could resemble my brother...