Paul kept sitting so he could watch himself in my rearview mirror. I supposed that his looks had gotten him things he wanted in the past. “I used to be a dancer,” he told me. And he was proud of scoring many attractive guys off the dance floor so it was hard for him to believe I wasn’t interested in his offer.

Paul looked like someone you’d see in the summer catalog advertising Docker shorts so I understood why sexually confused and bisexual males found him attractive. Not me. But the word “No” meant little to Paul.

Next I tried to convey my sexuality by asking if the temperature in the van was okay. Did he want me to turn up the air conditioning?

“No. Temperature’s fine, thank you,” he said with his now familiar, faggy smile.

“What’s that?” I put my finger behind my ear, (his side, screw the Q-tip) making sure he knew it was listening time. “You were wondering how I felt about the temperature?” I asked. “I’m straight, too.” I answered my own question. “I have no problem leaving the temperature right where it is because I’m straight. I’m neither too warm nor too cold, because I’m straight!”

We pulled into Paul’s driveway and still he wouldn’t let up. “Why won’t you just pull it out and show me? Are you not comfortable enough about pulling it out in front of another man? I’ll cut you a check for a hundred right now.”

With the dome light on even drunken, gay men have moments of clarity. “Please. Never mind,” Paul begged. “I take back everything I said. I’m really sorry. I’m not like this at all. That was so stupid. I’m just too drunk right now. I feel bad about all this and want to make up for your trouble.”