Wednesday, Apr. 23, 2003 - 9:19 p.m.

The 107th Boston Marathon

Part One

Thursday � April 17th

6:54 p.m. As I was walking to my apartment I pasted by M-man my uber hunky boy-next-door neighbor. Since starting construction on his kitchen he�s been staying in unit 1-G on the first floor of our two-story courtyard building. Having not seen M-man in a while I had hoped to conceal my excitement but was betrayal by my immediate presentation of nervous tics and beads of sweat just may have given me away. To shift focus from my shaking extremities I diplomatically asked him, "So what�s it like to live on the first floor?" With equal diplomacy he said, "The same." I read between the line spoken with constrained pain and understood him to mean that the first floor, as I had suspected, was an inferior, substandard and common place to dwell. As we walked together up the stairs to our rightful second floor ilk M-man told me that he would be moving back into his own apartment for the next five days while the owners of 1-G were back in town. Five days living in a shambles with heaps of furniture covered in plastic, plastic covered in fine drywall powder and no kitchen to make ones self a comforting cup of Twinings Earl Grey Decaffeinated Herbal Tea? No, I couldn�t picture it, wouldn�t hear of it and instantly felt compelled to happily and eagerly insisted that he stay in my home while I�m out of town running the Boston Marathon (a little fact I happily dropped about eight times before worrying if it was becoming obvious).

7:14 p.m. What was I thinking? I don�t like people being in my home when I�m not there. In fact I don�t like people being in my home when I am there. Cleaning maven Senora Lupe is the only other person with a key and or allowed inside when I�m not home. Now I�ve offered some guy named M-man full access to how I live, what I size I wear and all my most personal possessions edible and non. I don�t know anything about this M-man. Am I mad? I don�t know his last name, where he banks, favorite episode of "Will and Grace", or where he stands on the Christina Aguilera skank or not-a-skank issue.

Am I crazy? Am I just a little unwell? I am so easily swayed by the superficialities of a square-jawed buffed-bodied ripped-stomached rock-hard-legged man with shaggy hair framing the sweetest kindest most beautiful face this side of heaven? As I dusted off and handed over my spare set of keys I acknowledged to myself the answer is yes. Yes, I am a sucker to superficial beauty but in my defense I truly believe this stranger, M-man, in addition to superior looks also possesses a heart of gold other than mine.

7:42 p.m. As the keys were give over our fingertips brushed sending a potent charge of electricity straight to my groin. While searching his eyes for any recognition that he experienced same he uttered, "I owe you one." Yeah! He�s got that right. He does owe me and don�t think for a second I�m not going to collect but for now just the thought of M-man sitting on my couch watching my television sleeping in my bed and taking a shower slowly and methodically lathering up that body with my bar of soap and using one of my towels to dry himself is only secondary to wishing I had time to get my nanny-cam back up and running.

Friday � April 18th

4:30 a.m. Wanting everything to be perfect I do one last check of the apartment before heading out to pick-up marathon pal Kitty Bukkake on my way to LAX. Garbage thrown away? Check. Bed made? Check. Porn hidden? Check. Cookies, candy and all other junk-like foods hidden? Check. Past marathon medals meticulously displayed with the flair of haphazardness careful not to draw attention yet beckoning for closer examination? Check.

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