My neighbor always has great parties. It's an opportunity to get to know a different side of the other tenants and meet a few new people. But I'm a bit of a wallflower though. But after a couple of drinks and a couple of tokes, I pluck myself off the wall and succumb to the laid back vibe feeling being sponged away all the built up self effacing goop It's a Saturday night in north park and I've just come home from such a party. It's still early and I'm feeling restless, wondering how I'm going to spend the rest of this warm summer evening. The party may be over, but my evening is not and I look out at the busy street below for inspiration. Remember turning on the night emanates from my speakers. That genre is like an audible guess that gets me in a mood and I feel like I'm hosting the neighborhood party for all the clusters of chatty conspiring groups passing below, and in their wake wafts through my window the essence of true romance, as though they've all bathed in fine Acapulco gold. I identify as happily single and I made that choice after realizing I'm not good in relationships. Plus I'm a lousy picker. I was devastated after two strong candidates unexpectedly died within months of our first date. So there's that curse. One other one tried to move me way up to a town called Snobsville. I always questioned my trust in that first initial warm feeling and then lost it completely. Exactly 10 years ago after the police dragged the last one out of my house. I'll accept some blame. There was some selfishness involved, maybe because I was a spoiled only child. I was also lonely and easily intimidated with parents who fought all the time except for on Christmas and anniversaries when they exchanged their love through Cadillacs and golf club sets. Christmas and birthday cards telling me what a good son I was after a year of making me feel otherwise left me jaded about relationships, love, Christmas and the ability to accept compliments. So since I'm accepted that, I'm wired to be single, I'm entitled to be a whore as much as I like. But then I've noticed that my advertised age goes up, the number of interested men checking out my profiles decline like a speeding roller coaster. And those are supposed to be fun. So excuse the cliche, I may as well enjoy the drop before I hit bottom. At my age, it doesn't help to be overly picky. But don't get me wrong, I mean there are many more things that have priority over my finding Fortification. I step away from the window now primed to inject myself into the steady flow. Heading towards the pumping heart that is downtown North Park. I grabbed the bongos a homeless friend had gifted me and jet down to the main intersection where I hope to join my street musician friends and their modest musical scene. There's no telling what will happen every time I head out the door, whether it's to my car, to a club or just walking to an ATM within 300ft of me. On either side of me there's karaoke and pizza and Thai food and sports bars and coffee shops. I even have the luxury of a 24 hour adult supply store just feet away for me to dash into for any hastily arrange late night tryst. Playing my bongos is probably as close as I'll get to my dream of being a drummer. Living where I do has given me many opportunities to help me check things off my bucket list that I didn't even know were on there. And that includes my dream of doing comedy. After a neighbor at a party encouraged me to take improv classes, it turns out I wasn't quite a natural that sometimes you win, sometimes you lose. Call me Deacon Blues after about hour of bongoing with my friends, I call it a night and head home intending to be on time to watch Saturday Night Live. Still feeling properly buzzed and maybe a little randy, I crawl like a viper through the crowds on the urban street, keeping open the unlikely possibility of ending the night making love languid and bittersweet. I expect I'll probably end up falling asleep in front of the TV like always. As I pass the colorful neon signs and halo lit lights, I wave good night to the familiar faces of all the ramblers and wild gamblers, shop proprietors and bouncers. I love my street with all its opportunities and surprises. I pass by the Mexican restaurant where I always exchange waves with a very attractive Hispanic man who works behind the Outside Grill. I don't know him, we've just always acknowledged each other. Whenever I walk by I see a familiar black ball cap and a black T shirt sitting on a brick wall next to the grill and I give my usual wave, but this time I don't get a wave back. I just keep on walking, thinking maybe he didn't see me. A minute later I arrive home where I proceed to change to my sleep attire. It's still warm out so I leave my door open and as I'm passing between my bathroom and bedroom I can see out through the screen door a dark figure standing in my courtyard. And I think it's still someone lingering from my neighbor's party. After a minute I look out again and the person hasn't moved and they're looking in my apartment. Maybe it's a friend. So I walk up to the door and peer through the screen to see standing out on the courtyard a guy with a black cap and and a black T shirt. I opened my screen door to get a better look and it wasn't the cook from the restaurant. It was a look alike that I had waved to, who interpreted that as a signal to come on over. So puzzled I asked can I help you? And he stands there with his hands in his pockets and a look of that hot Latino drunk passion in his eyes and my blood flow redirects to my southern region. All he says is sup. And without another word he simply walks up my porch steps and I just step back and let him in the apartment. And the next hour and a half was hot, crazy, sweaty fun, like one of those scenes right out of Queers, Folk or Sex in the City. It was not only spontaneous, it was wild and undomesticated, like two dogs freely romping around in the park, uninhibited by socially imposed barriers. After we catch our breath, he says his name is Tony. We make a tentative agreement to meet again, but next time having drinks first at a public place. After a couple of weeks of sexting, I learn he's into the nephew seduces uncle scene. And it just so happens that I love to role play. So the roles we text build together is that I'm a deadbeat uncle who doesn't give a shit about my nephew. But I'm half forced to watch him when my divorced sister decides to drop him off to go on one of her binges. A nephew will do anything to show his love for a father figure. So we set a date, place and a time. I arrive at the club and I scan across the crowd and then I spot the back of a head that's familiar. I squeeze through the crowd towards him and he turns around and says, oh, there you are. For the next five minutes, I continue our little uncle nephew role play, but he's not as responsive to my prompts as he was in his texts. I chalk it up to social awkwardness, or maybe he's a better texter than actor, and I suggest that we walk to my place and we leave before I even buy a drink. About 30 seconds before reaching my home, as a formality, I ask him, oh, you see, Your name is Tony. No, it's Jim. Oh, I'm sorry, I thought it was Tony. I replied, a little embarrassed because I'm not good with names. No, it's Jim. No, but Tony's a friend of mine. He left the bar about 30 minutes ago and was supposed to come back. I picked up the wrong guy, and I usually don't bring guys home from bars, but I feel a little embarrassed, and we stand at my gate, wondering what to do. It had been two weeks since I'd seen quick glimpses of Tony's face, and even then it was in the dark. So that was the cause for my second accident with mistaken identity. It was a coincidence that this Jim just happened to be a friend of Tony's. And then, not having seen him in two weeks, the mistake was understandable. As Jim and I are both putting our clothes back on, I get a text from Tony, who's back at the bar wondering where I was. And even though Jim and Tony are just friends, he begs me not to reveal our clandestine coupling to him, and I say, I won't. I'm a man of my word. Jim leaves, and I tell Tony, I was there. You weren't. I'm home now. Come on over. So I have a little extra time. So inspired now I take advantage of this time by giving my apartment the deadbeat uncle treatment. I throw piles of clothes everywhere, on the table, on the floor, our beer cans and bottles tipped over, and a pizza box. I love the creativity that hatches when I'm stoned and horny and when the other person can't commit to their own fantasy. I'm sitting in my chair, eyes closed, waiting for the sound of the gate to click closed. In the meantime, I'm mentally checking off all the boxes just to make sure that I have everything ready. But there's always one small detail that I think of at the last second that will complete the scenario. But it's too late to cut an onion and rub it into my armpits. Sometimes I tend to go overboard. So finally I hear the click of the gate, the swish of the door as it sweeps across the wood floor and the clunk of his first footstep. He finds me slumped back on a comfy chair, slovenly dress, unbuttoned plaid shirt over a white, old white tank top, backwards ball cap, my mouth agape and snoring. My knees are wide apart with my running shorts draped around my Timberland work boots on one hand. One hand is inside the elastic waistband of my jockstrap and the other is barely holding on to the TV remote control while American Booty plays on the television. I can hear him in heavy panting whispers, oh my God, why are you always drunk, Uncle Pendo? Ever so stealthily, he slips his hand into my cup and I can feel his hot breath on my inner thigh when I suddenly feel that warm wet sensation, I wake up. What the fuck? And I push him away. After my nephew disappears into the bedroom where he assumes the position, I storm around the apartment in a drunken rage, tormenting myself with a devil and an angel on each shoulder, telling me not to listen to the other one. He mumbles with his face in the pillow, whimpering, asking me if what we're doing is wrong, and I curse in his ear and tell him not to talk about this to anyone. That one night helped me come up with the best answer for whenever I'm asked, so what are you into? I respond, helping the other person bring out the creativity of their fantasy. I love my North park street and its gritty charm. There's always something to write about and this venue is actually on that street for the last 24 years. It's a cure all for me and I'm blessed to live in the heart of it. I may be single, happily single, but that doesn't mean I don't have a relationship. And that relationship is the vibe that energizes me every time I head out the door for whatever adventure awaits.