Tales of the City 07 - Michael Tolliver Lives

were looking for Sex, Friendship, or Long Term Relationships. There were lots of geezers there—by which I mean anyone my age or older—regular Joes from Lodi or Tulsa, smiling bravely by their vintage vehicles, or dressed for some formal event. Most of them offered separate close-ups of their erections, artfully shot from below, so that doubtful browsers could find their way past the snow on the roof to the still-raging fire in the furnace.
    What surprised me, though, was the number of young guys on the site. Guys in their twenties or thirties specifically looking for partners over forty-five. The one who caught my attention, and held it—CLEANCUTLAD4U—was a sandy blond with a brush cut and shining brown eyes. His actual name was not provided, but his profile identified him as thirty-three and Versatile, a resident of the Bay Area. He was lying against a headboard, smiling sleepily, a white sheet pulled down to the first suggestion of pubic hair. For reasons I still can’t name, he came across like someone from another century, a stalwart captured on daguerreotype, casually masculine and tender of heart.

    So how did this work? Did I have to submit a profile or could I just email him directly? He’d want to see a photo, wouldn’t he? Would I have to get naked? The young can keep a little mystery, it seems to me, but the old have to show you their stuff. Which, of course, is easier said than done. Sure, the right dick can distract from a falling ass, and some people actually get off on a nice round stomach, but who has any use for that no-man’s-land between them, that troublesome lower stomach of sloppy skin?
    Maybe I could pose in my dirty work clothes with just my dick hanging out? (I could call myself NICENDIRTY4U.) But who would take the picture? Barney was the logical choice, but I had a sudden gruesome flash of him directing my debut and thought better of it. Who was I kidding, anyway? CleanCutLad probably got hundreds of offers a week. It was wiser to stick to my monthly night at the Steamworks, where the goods were always on the table, and rejection, when it came, was instant and clean.
    And that’s the way I left it, aside from printing out the guy’s Web page and posting it above my potting shed. It stayed there for ages, curling at the edges, a pinup boy for a war that would never be waged. I might not have met him at all if my friend Anna Madrigal hadn’t called to invite me for dinner at the Caffe Sport.

    The Caffe Sport is on Green Street, way across town in North Beach, a gaudy Sicilian cavern that dishes up huge creamy mounds of seafood and pasta. Anna had been going there for over thirty years and often used its peasanty charms as a way of luring me out of my complacent nest in the Castro. At eighty-five, she was convinced I was growing too set in my ways. I needed some excitement, she said, and she was the gal to provide it.
    So there we sat, awash in colors and aromas, when the impossible happened. Anna was adjusting her turban at the time, consulting the mirror behind my back as she fussed with wisps of snowy hair. Yet somehow she still caught the look on my face.
    “What is it, dear?”
    “I’m not sure,” I said.
    “Well, you must have an idea.”
    A cluster of departing diners had moved toward the door, obscuring my view. “I think I saw someone.”
    “Someone you know?”
    “No…not exactly.”
    “Mmm…someone you want to know.” She shooed me with a large gloved hand. “Go on, then. Catch up with him.”
    “I don’t know…”
    “Yes you do. Get the hell out of here. I’ll be here with my wine.”
    So I sprang to my feet and shimmied through the tightly packed crowd. By the time I reached the door he was nowhere in sight. I looked to the right, toward the fog-cushioned neon of Columbus, then left, toward Grant Avenue. He was almost at the end of the block and picking up speed. I had no choice but to make myself ridiculous.
    “Excuse me,” I yelled, hurrying after him.
    No response at all. He didn’t even stop walking.
    “Excuse me! In the blue jacket!”
    He stopped, then turned. “Yeah?”
    “Sorry, but…I was in the restaurant and—”
    “Oh, shit.” He reached reflexively for his back pocket. “Did I leave my wallet?”
    “No,” I replied. “Just me .”
    I had hoped that this would prove to be an icebreaker, but it landed with a dull thud, missing the ice completely. The guy just blinked at me in confusion.
    “I think I saw you on a