Who's Your Daddy?

Not me.

Somewhere along the line, I slowly transformed from the happy-go-lucky college boy into some guy who's technically middle-aged. I shudder a little as I type this. And it's not palsy. Katharine Hepburn always said -- her tremors were hereditary and that a little alcohol always helped them stop. I just think she wanted a reason to drink.

But I digress.

I was in the elevator yesterday, checking out this cute guy. Subtly, of course, because we live in the same building and it would be awkward if I made an ass of myself and then had to see him someday, over the fabric softener. The doors opened and he leaned over toward me. Yes! Then I realized he was holding them open for me.

"Have a good day, sir," he said.

Sir. He actually called me "sir." Christ.

"I'm not a 'sir,' I wanted to shout, "don't you know I'm only twenty-five? Inside! Deep, deep, deep inside..."

I remember going to the bars after college and surmising that there were three distinct age groups.

1. Young

2. Forty-ish.

3. What are you even doing up this late, Grandpa?

Number three was out of the question, of course, but I also would never even consider going out with someone forty. Blechhh.

Well, ain't karma a bitch?

Picture this: I'm sitting on a barstool, holding a cigarette (which I never light, because I don't really smoke). "I don't like to suck on it, I just like to hold it," was always my droll reply. Holding an unlit cigarette is a great way to start a conversation, actually, because guys will come up to give you a light. But then, when you tell them you don't smoke, they recoil, shaking their heads. (I told you it was a great way to start a conversation; I never told you it would progress from there.)

So, this young guy comes up and starts to chat.

"Good night, tonight," he says, looking around.

"Yeah...sure is." I quickly drop the cigarette on the floor. We chatted for about fifteen minutes and I thought things were going well. What I particularly liked were his thoughts on monogamy, making a home with another guy, holding hands in public - all that romantic stuff. Over the thumping of some deafening rap song, he leaned into my ear. Yes.

"Could you slide over a little? My boyfriend can't get in."

I backed my chair out and in popped the S.O.B. ("Significant Other Bastard) who, not surprisingly, looked exactly like the guy I'd been chatting up. As I see so often in young couples, these guys looked like mirror images. Brothers. Twins. Hot as that may be at the right moment - this was not it.

"This is Kenny, my partner," my barmate said.

"Wow. Huh. You boys look too young to have -- 'partners.' When did you meet, kindergarten?"

"Oh God, we've been together for five years," Kenny said. "Right, Charlie? It's our anniversary next week."

"Yeah, if I don't kill her first," Charlie chimed in.

"Oh stop it! We're actually very happy," Kenny said, and they both giggled.

"We just tease -- and then we please! You know how it is."

"Uh huh."

"Well, come on, 'lovah,' we have to get home and walk Geronimo. We just got a little house in Society Hill. You know, the mortgage payments are less than my rent was! And then, when you have two people splitting it - God!"

"Nice talking with you," Charlie said, and then, true to his word, he walked off, hand-in-hand, with his monogamous boyfriend, to their happy home. And to Geronimo, who I hoped had taken a big dump on their new, white carpet.