I love this picture of Val Martin. It's from Drummer, and if I remember correctly, he's getting painted for a cover photoshoot for the magazine for one of it's earliest issues, I think their first four-color issue (if you have it, give it to me). But what I like about this one is that it's probably the only one I've ever seen of him with no "gear" on. Not that he doesn't look great in gear - believe me, I've had him as my monitor's wallpaper more than once - but it's sort of like "Val Martin, unplugged." He's got an amazing face, and of course his slim muscular body always looks great. But here, something about the angle makes him look just a bit smaller, a bit less unapproachable; and yet still mysterious enough to let you go have your fantasies.

Speaking of fantasies, I don't think I ever finished the "trying to talk to BurritoMan" story from last week. There isn't much more to tell, actually. I stumbled through trying to make conversation as I got his bag of food ready, taking his money, giving him change. When I got off the phone and said a proper hello, I mentioned what a crazy night it had been. Our eyes met as he said, in this sweet ernestness, "Awww, I'm sorry, man." It may sound silly, but there was something about this simple moment, this stranger in his calm reassuring voice sounding like he genuinely cared about my day being crazy. I muttered something about how he should come by some night when I get off, maybe go for a beer. Believe it or not, I have NO IDEA WHAT HE SAID after that! I'm fairly sure it wasn't a refusal, but I don't remember a "sure" or "cool, let's do it" or anything! I do remember that he smiled, and he was trying to put his food in his shoulder bag, struggling a bit, actually. I stuttered over trying to make a joke - "well, you have my number" meaning he had my work number. I made some lame comment about liking his bike; the phone rang, I answered it but put the person on hold, looking back up at him as he was getting ready to leave. He reached over the counter with one arm, to shake my hand, and we did. Again, I have NO IDEA WHAT HE SAID! Nothing remarkable about the handshake, except that it was really our first and only physical contact (no, I don't count putting his $1.31 change into his hand once every week or two as physical contact), and he did it somewhat awkwardly, which of course made it better. Not until after he left did I realize that I never told him my name - and he might not ever have read it off the receipt I leave in his bag. Well, here's hoping he's hungry for a burrito again this week.

It's funny how I can't get the "Awww, I'm sorry, man" out of my head. The past few months of just being a big mope, shunning people I know, feeling sorry for myself; the idea of having someone to just hold on to me, a few words might be exchanged, but having the physical contact of being held, and holding, and finally relaxing, maybe even let out a nice long cry. (No, I wouldn't do it on a first date...... well, probably not.) Late last night, snuggling up here in the bed in my white cotton unionsuit (it's been fuckin' cold here, man!), all grumpy and inert about just about everything in my life, that phrase came into my head, I imagined this guy was here, in my arms, and there was this like 10 minutes of reprieve from it all. Just imagining the simpleist things together - making dinner, watching tv, cuddling up...... just the chance to start over with a new person, sorta re-create myself, getting rid of some of the cruddieness, being reminded of some of the cool stuff that's buried somewhere inside of me. And it has to be physical, ya know. I don't mean that in a sexual way, I mean that in a here and now and in my face and arms and in my home kinda way. Discovering each other, rediscovering myself. I'm babbling.