So An Eskimo Walks Into A Bar...

This evening I enjoyed four shots of whisky in rapid succession with an Inuit who sells pricy "shamanistic" pieces to art galleries downtown. He can hardly keep up with the demand. "I turn them out like Fords and Chevies," he admits, although I suspect he takes more pride in his work than that dismissive remark implies.

I like him. He's zesty and gabby, and seems to have lived a colorful life: Vietnam vet, native rights activist, newspaper reporter, loan officer, some stuff maybe not entirely legal. I'm certain he's embellishing a bit, but hey, never let facts get in the way of a good story! However, although he's only 12 years my senior, that makes him older than my father was when he died, which for some reason makes him seem too old. Plus the fact that he has 14 grandchildren.

On the other hand, he's terribly keen on me. He likes fat women, and admires my short, thick legs, which he wants to caress at the first opportunity afforded; my inner thighs will bloom with tender love bites. He wants to grill me salmon. He wants to take me to the blues festival. He wants to buy me a bottle of Jack. He wants to walk hand in hand through little outdoor markets. He wants to kiss my wrist, tickle my neck, and make me feel totally and completely myself (whoever that is). And then he wants to sculpt me in whale bone.

The positive reception is heady, but mercy! What an old horn dog he is. I get weary fending off the endless stream of ribald suggestions and extravagent compliments while I try to sort out whether, under any circumstances, I might want to pursue a relationship.

If that isn't enough, his grown son shows up with girlfriend in tow. I'm really taken aback that he has arranged for me to meet family members on the first "date." They don't stay long, although junior seems nonplussed to see his old man nibbling the fingers of a strange female.

Then an extraordinarily gregarious but otherwise completely ordinary-looking housewife named Carolyn joins us. I'm not sure where she fits in... turns out to be a total stranger who just wants company. When she asks my companion if he was born in an igloo, I step outside for a smoke. My companion slips away as Carolyn takes a cell phone call from her irate hubby, who is stuck home "baby-sitting" their kids.

After a couple of hours, I'm really hungry, but having exceeded my caloric allowance for the day (for about the 14th consecutive day), I resist the tempting aroma of fried appetizers. We wind up the evening with a warm embrace in the parking lot, and then I speed away into the cool June night.

Now that I am home I am sexually charged from the attention, tension, and booze. This is when a body needs a booty call. You'd think with all the "casual encounters" guys I've met in the past year, I would have been able to maintain one or two for just such occasions: someone vetted, tried and trustworthy, whom I could call in my hour of need (slightly after midnight).

Mood: slightly inebriated, moderately vexed, hungry for everything.