Cruisin' for a Bruisin'

Every Spring, without fail, I get frisky. I have the constitution of a bear, hibernating in every way possible during the Winter months, then coming groggily to consciousness sometime around the moment when the grass is green again and the darlin' buds of May have poked their heads through the mulch. It's nuts. I go out shopping for a boyfriend as if that's something I can pick up at overstock.com. I reactivate my personal ad on a site designed for "chubs and chasers" (a subcategory of the gay world which is comprised of about 50,000 obese gay men and about 10 guys who think they're hot). I peruse the tacky personals on craigslist.org, running a search for words like "stocky" or "chunky" or "belly." I start to ogle the guys at the pool, the twenty-something guys who are there with their wives and little kids. In short, I become an embarrassment to myself.

My normally cautious thinking - and whatever dignity I might be able to muster up - is thrown by the wayside as I consider things I'd never think to consider, such as an ad I saw yesterday:

Spankers and Spankees: come to a local coffee shop tonight at 9:30, get some coffee on your own and come outside to the patio. So we will know each other, spankers wear a black shirt; spankees wear a white shirt; if you are interested in both roles, wear a shirt of mixed colors. We'll just say hi to one another and talk. Some guys may want to pair up if they like or make a date for later.

Okay, I'm not even remotely into being a spanker or a spankee. And the last thing I need at 9:30 at night is a cup of coffee. But I thought, "Well, I do have a black shirt, and I suppose I wouldn't mind giving a bubble butt a whuppin' if that's what they want." Pleaser, that's me. I suppose if I had a white shirt I'd briefly consider being a spankee.

I wonder what would happen if an unsuspecting guy wearing a white shirt happened to want coffee last night and sat on the patio to enjoy Albuquerque's warm weather? Would his cappuchino lead to an assachino?

No, I didn't go. There's no way I would. But my Spring fever opens the door to such (ludicrous) possibilities, if only for a brief peek, before the door is slammed shut again.

The door that really opens every Spring is the one labeled "Hope."

I hope. Therefore, I am.