CRUISED BY POPEYE: THE SAGA CONTINUES

Gay Russian Popeye was at it again today, getting a tasty eyeful of your favorite caramel-hued geeky reprobate over four solid hours of staring. Now that I'm on to him, I took my post-treatment time to slowly pack my treatment bag, thus giving him a good look at more than me just trapped and immobile in a chair. As I strode to the post-dialysis weigh-in, I was in my socks, so I had a but of glide in my stride, and I affected the bearing of a warrior. Out of the corner of my eye, I noted Popeye's avid attention and smile, so on the way back to pick up my stuff, I feigned dropping something, so I could bend over and let him ogle the cakes.

That apparently made Popeye's day, and as I left I saw he had a huge, open-mouthed and toothless grin on his face. Unexpectedly, he bade me "Hev a goot veekend!!!" I wished him likewise and left.

Hey, I may not swing his way, but if the occasional voguing of my aging and not very Tom of Finland-esque physique and face give a lavender coffin-dodger something to make him happy, then who am I to deny him?

And it's sweet to occasionally be appreciated and ogled like a piece of meat in a safe way. In other words, I don't think Michele would mind. In fact, I think she might consider it an act of altruism.