I decided to continue my domestic course and planned to leave with Leopoldo when he left for work, walk him to the bus stop, and then go to the farmers' market. As we prepared to leave, he gave me The Look. "You are wearing that? he asked, and then, "You are not wearing that." I had brown loafers, maroon and gray, baggy shorts, and a gray sweatshirt on. "It's only the farmers' market," I pleaded. "I DON'T CARE. What if Carl was there and took your photo. You never leave the house like that, not living with me." Funny, I had just about anticipated it; I had a Polo shirt hanging nearby in case that happened, which means I knew it would happen, and I was sort of hoping to be reprimanded--now that I think back on it. But nothing, nothing beat the night we were leaving for a very posh event and I appeared--early in our relationship--out of the bedroom wearing the most wrong combination of patterns, colors, and clothing. Leopoldo's face blanched, his mouth opened, and he could only mumble a few, unintelligible words. "Uh...uh...are you going to get dressed?" he sputtered. "I am dressed," I calmly replied. He started to visible shake (and not from the tight jeans) when I laughed, "Only kidding; I thought I'd scare you." It took him hours to recover.

Oh, it was hot at Score last night: Red Hot. Nothing brings out the creatures of the night like an anniversary party, and a tenth one at that. We arrived relatively early to meet Riley and already the place was packed, upstairs and down; a line was forming early, too, I noted. While talking with Riley and saying hello to those friends who passed, my eye never wandered far from that doorway as the people streamed in; at 10 dollars a pop my mind's calculator was posting some fine numbers. And stream they did; oodles of fag boys flitted with scallywags and muscle builders. A veritable herd of Lesbians stampeded around, towing their dyke-boys behind, and straight boys warily eyed the feeding frenzy forming around them. Photographers of the press politely pushed their ways around and you couldn't turn anywhere without seeing someone you knew (or wish you didn't). Cheek kissing was reaching a certain point where my CDC alarm went off and I started to aim for the lobe of the ear; if we had stayed any later I would have had to resort to patting on the head. And, everyone just seemed to be having a grand time with the Score employees gleaming in their gym shorts and hooded jackets. Good old fashion fun.

Tonight Mr. Astor is being shot by famous, local photographer Dale Stine in a Wire piece on South Beach's most fashionable men. I promise not to embarrass him.