My Future Husband

He’s everything I want: extremely intelligent, comedic, handsome, professional, sensitive, hard-working, independent. And gay. Not gay as in happy. Gay as in lives in the Castro, has an autographed picture of Martha Stewart, and likes cock.

Marc’s one of my best friends. We were in the same English class freshman year. On the first day, he raised his hand confidently, answered correctly. Our teacher was impressed. I was smitten. I’m a sucker for geeks. Intelligence first, looks second. But this shouldn’t overshadow Marc’s good looks. He dated the prettiest, most popular high school girls. That ruled me out. He had his choice of dates. I went to the prom alone. Nevertheless, we complemented each other. Geek vs. Nerd. Ambition vs. Hard Work. We co-existed as a team, although we were each aware that in the end, we were battling to be better than the other. We respected each other. I respected his brilliance. He respected my work ethic.

After we graduated from Cal, I brought him into my startup. The startup failed. He moved on to work for one of our customers. I went to grad school. I returned to the same friend I had admired—someone who had gone on to become a director at his company. Every time he threatened to leave, they gave him more money and promoted him. “I’ve been at the same company for six years,” he’d sigh, underwhelmed with his accomplishments. “Look at you, you got your MBA and bought a house.”

Our conversations center around how proud we are of having done exactly what we wanted to do. Go to prestigious schools, make money, have promising careers. We did it all. We can do anything we want. Anything. We didn’t factor relationships or love into the goals we had. We figured that would just fall into place, but it hasn’t.

The heartache has become routine. “Cathy, my boyfriend dumped me.”
“Again?”

“Marc, I just broke up with my boyfriend!”
“Is this the second or the third time around?”

I’ll get him liquored up—a night on the town.
He’ll cook me dinner and we’ll get trashed drinking wine in his apartment.

At his place, suffering from Dave breakup, I sniffled, “Hey Marc, if we’re both single when we’re 40, how ‘bout we get married?”

“Oh, Cathy,” he beamed. “That’s a great idea! It would be perfect. You can clean. I can cook. And we’d make a shitload of money. OmiGod, think of what we can do with our purchasing power. Yes, yes! Let’s do it. Shake.”

Firm handshake to seal the deal.

When I returned from Minneapolis, I wanted to go out. I didn’t care that I had an early morning call the next morning. I called Marc. He reiterated his one drink policy for the night. He was feeling out of it, maybe coming down with something.

Fine, I was ok with a drink or two. I needed to get out. I felt like I’d missed out on the Indian Summer action while in winter cold Minneapolis.

We strolled around the Castro. It was perfect T-shirt and shorts weather in late October at night in San Francisco. I couldn’t believe it. I get cold easily, but I didn’t even have a sweater on.

I drank mojito after mojito after mojito. Five drinks total. Marc’s one drink turned into one too many. We went from bar to bar to club to club, dancing, laughing. I was having a great time. I could do this. I could marry a gay guy! Aren’t you supposed to marry your best friend? Marc’s my best friend. The fact that he’s gay…umm, that’s minor, right?

It was 1:30am on a Thursday night. I had fantasies of my bed. “Marc, I’m done. I’m going home.” I hung on his arm, scanned the dance floor, and pointed. “Look, that guy there. He’s hot. Go get him, tiger. I’ll be home in bed.”

“Ok, Catchee. Love you, mean it. Bye!”

I exited with a grin on my face. Marc loves me. He’d take care of me. He’s my best friend. He just might make the perfect husband.