Malibu Boo-Boo

I'd been dating Semi-Homeless for four months, and it was starting to occur to me that if I hitched my wagon to his star, I'd soon be dragging the ground and eating dust while my head bounced off the concrete. For the first time since I gave up my virginity, I had no desire for sex at all. Zero libido. Zero.

Could it possibly be that my soulmate wasn't really my soulmate?

Two incidents answered that question once and for all.

The first was the arrival of my uncle, whom I'd only met once or twice in my life. He straggled into town on a Greyhound bus and came to see Great Aunt. I didn't know very much about him, and what I did know wasn't encouraging: He was a lifelong drug addict, and he and my dad didn't get along.

Needless to say, I was not looking forward to our reunion. I was afraid he'd steal my computer and rob Great Aunt blind.

My uncle was so tall and so bony, he looked like a skeleton. I'd never seen anyone so gaunt. But while I never felt comfortable around him, I quickly realized that Uncle Gaunt wasn't the crackhead ogre I made him out to be. Like the rest of the family, he was very intelligent (and hard to take).

I was driving Uncle Gaunt somewhere, and made a pit-stop at a strip mall where Semi-Homeless was painting a sign. Semi-Homeless made a point of introducing himself as my fiance, and Uncle Gaunt gave me a piercing look that plainly asked, "Have you lost your mind?"

I figured that if my down-and-out crackhead uncle thought I was nuts, maybe I truly was.

A few weeks later, on the four-year anniversary of my Yale graduation, came proof positive.

I drove Semi-Homeless to a beach in Malibu, for what was supposed to be an afternoon of relaxation. He had sprung for the food with his own money: fried chicken, supermarket sushi, cookies, Reese's, potato chips and soda. We had our little picnic, which consisted of him getting food all over his mouth and singing trite little love songs like an off-key 12-year-old. Turnoff, turnoff, turnoff.

Then he talked me into a massage. I half fell asleep as he rubbed my back, when suddenly he stopped. After a bit, I sat up and looked around to see where he was.

He was sandwiched between two sheriff's deputies, a big blond lady officer and a male officer. They were pat-searching him. I called out his name, and they all turned and looked at me. He held out his hands as if to command me to stop, and the three up them disappeared up a cliff and out of sight.

Clearly, the relaxing part of the afternoon was over. I gathered up what was left of our picnic and headed toward the car, wondering if Semi-Homeless had gotten arrested and wondering what for.

Indecent exposure? It was quite possible he might have whipped out his favorite plaything while giving me a massage.

Thankfully, he wasn't arrested. He was sitting on my car, scowling, pouting and looking really ugly.

As we drove back to L.A., he told me his sad tale of woe. He said he could feel the cops watching us for about 15 or 20 minutes, so he got up and walked toward them so they wouldn't bother me. He asked them where the restroom was, and instead of pointing him to the in-plain-sight porta potties, they told him he looked "suspicious" and ordered him to open up his jacket.

Semi-Homeless replied that he had his hands in his pocket, holding his genitals, because if he let go he would pee on himself. The lady cop ordered him to let go anyway and laughed as he did just that.

The story ended with, "If anyone asks, this spot on my pants is Coke."

(Semi-Homeless Diaries Part 10 of 12: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 | Lessons Learned 1-2: 1 2)

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