Particularly, as we all know, when it comes to hooking up.
Like the time Billy, my handsome, handsome slammin’ meth head buddy, was walking up the driveway at our local leather bar, the Ramrod, just as I was leaving, spotted me and said, very matter of factly, “Wanna save me five bucks on a beer?”
I followed him back to his place for another wild fucken night in High Heaven.
Had he arrived a minute later, I would have been long gone.
Or the time I ran into Craig, lean, mean, bearded and bald, with just the right amount of body hair, at the skewing-to-fem bar, Alibi. He claimed he had been wanting to get in my jockstrap every since he saw me sprawled on a mattress in my room at one of our local bath houses, Clubhouse II, years before, wearing nothing but my boots and a hard-on. But that night at the Alibi I was ready to leave for my annual pilgrimage to my country home in Pennsylvania’s Poconos where George, my partner, was already preparing his list of things we could argue about for the summer; and Crag , a clinical researcher working for the pharms, was about ready to leave on a week-long business trip to D.C.
“Maybe when you get back after Labor Day,” he said, parting ways to rejoin his friends.
About a half hour later, I was ready to leave when I saw him still kibitzing with his buddies. I leaned over and whispered in his ear just two words, “Last Call.”
Two minutes later he had bid his friends farewell and was in my car on the way to my place for a night of sensual sex. He could have been standing somewhere else, I could have exited from the other door.
And just today, it happened again. That right place, right time thing. I had just returned from my local cosmetic surgeon where I had undergone my bi-annual botox shots when I saw the pink card in my mail box. My new super generic Viagra, guaranteed to keep you hard even if you’re with Woody Allen’s older brother, had finally arrived, but I had missed the postman. Figuring I’d have to wait until the following day when my package was back in the post office to pick up, I instinctively, impulsively – hey, it was Friday and wanted to try the new stuff out for the weekend – got into my car and aimed it for the P.O., a few blocks away. I was about ready to make the turn onto the main drag when I spotted a Postal Service mini-truck pulling out of the driveway of a condo development across the street. Sure enough it was Harry, my postman. He waved at me, and I waved back and turned into the parking lot of the McDonald’s on the corner where I retrieved my love pills. Two seconds either way we would have missed one another and I would have had to wait a whole another day to test them out.
I know, poor baby.
Yep, timing sure the fuck is everything in life.
Hope my trick tonight appreciates how much fate contributed to his good time.