Seattle When it Sizzles

So it was hot this weekend. Around here, this is an event on the level of a Pope visit. The nightly news leads off with Record Heat and ends with chuckled about kids and labs in wading pools, sprinkled with the sort of banal advice ("Get out of the sun if you're feeling faint") that must be truly revolutionary to anyone that hasn't exited the bomb shelter in the last thirty years. I went to Golden Gardens with R, who is still making half-hearted seduction attempts involving bottles of very good rose and lines I haven't heard since my last visit to a San Francisco fern bar. On the other hand, it's fun to tool around on Vespie, his Vespa. This is Golden Gardens. You can mentally add hundreds of people: R. is a character, with dozens of stories of women that throw themselves at him weekly. How does this happen exactly? Is there some sort of Desperation Flu out there on the order of that Will Smith zombie movie? I mean, he's a guy in his 40's who is a little pudgy with a nipple ring. (Yes, I know what you're thinking. Simmer down. He took off his shirt.) I'd say that R. meant well, but if any of you have been reading my previous posts, I know you'll agree when I say, no, not so much. He told me this evening that he was waiting for a weak moment when I would agree to have sex for him. Quite frankly, Dear Readers, I can't imagine that weak moment. It would have to come after a nuclear attack, the end of the planet as we know it, and the last shred of hope to repopulate the Earth and...nope. Not even then.