The girls were all prettily boobed, just like they're supposed to be, and very friendly. But whoever picked orange and brown as the theme colors needs to be shot in the head.

On the walk back to the train station, I went past this guy who had a vicious stink going. I mean, a reach out and slap someone kind of stink. My head actually involuntarily snapped back when I walked through his cloud.

That was a stiff whiff.

This was the first Friday of my Summer Hours (where we work an extra half hour Mon-Thur and get off at 12:30 on Fridays), so I got home around 2, took a big-ass masturbation nap, and then got up and mowed the lawn. I had planned to do Jake and Sara's, too, but there was only one partial mower tank of gas left, so I didn't get far into their yard. Only about 10 square feet really.

I may have a little stink of my own going now. I'll walk Angel, then take a shower.

Ones that got away.

Why is it that some old flames who weren't even technically flames stay so vivid in your mind. When I was in college and a brand spanking new lesbian, pretty much out to my peers from the get-go, I had a crush on one of the women in my theatre group. Connie. She was so cool. She was shorter than me. She worked on the tech side of the theatre instead of the acting side. I did both, but mostly tech stuff. It was a great time in my life. She was one or two years older than me, and she listened to the most hip bands there were in the mid '80s, like the Smiths. She had pale skin and dark hair and dark eyes. And she had a glorious, outstanding nose. Man, she was hot.

I sometimes forget about Connie and think that my nose fetish started with Deborah the First, my first wife, but it went back to Connie, perhaps even earlier.

I went to a Southern football college where the Greek culture ruled the student world, so I'm sure I don't need to tell you what a haven the theatre was for me. And there weren't a whole lot of visible lesbians to pick and choose from. But there was Connie. I came out to her like a dog lets you know it wants to be petted, slobbering and wagging my whole body, and hoping and praying for some action.

It was a little too open for her, so I toned it down. And I hung on for what I could get, which was kissing mostly. See, Connie was in love with her straight best friend (and roommate) who had the worst taste in boys of all time. I'm not sure if she even liked me or if she was just tolerating me. Sometimes she would let me sleep with her in her single bed at their apartment, but she would never let me get any farther than holding and kissing. It was frustrating, but also wonderful in a painful sort of way.

I used to work on lights a lot, which meant getting up in high places like catwalks or the top of a high laddar and hook big lights onto pipes with c-clamps. One day Connie and I were at the top of a three-story high scaffold working on lights, and there were lots of people working and milling around below us. I leaned in and kissed her. One of the most amazing kisses I can remember because it was charged with the danger of being caught.

One thing about being queer in a rural, conservative area�it makes every queer thing you do special and precious and exciting.