Karl Spark

Just to be clear.  The ‘Karl Spark’ as I shall call it is something that I expect.

But, I worry that it won’t happen again.  It happened recently, true, but I’m not so sure it happens so often.  I worry that it will never happen again.  I wonder if I should just take what I can get because, after all, my age is against me.

But I want the Karl Spark.  To me, it’s almost like breathing.  Without that, there seems no point in it all.  Maybe, not everyone gets that?  Maybe, it’s just me that can almost sense the crackle and lightening spark the moment that you touch or are touched by the person.  It send shivers down my spine and sends my brain to mush but it’s a great feeling and for me, in my mind, it bodes well (in general) as it can lead to 20 years worth of fun, laughter and good times.

So, what to do.  Accept what I can get or wait for the Karl Spark again?  Decisions, always bloody decisions.

The other thing is the age thing.  M was older than me.  V, 8 years younger.  I’m afraid, that with very few exceptions, I don’t find older men attractive.  I think I should modify my criteria so that they’re all under 48 (and even that’s pushing it a bit).  The problem is that I also want friends and for that I have no problem with them being a bit older; in fact, I would welcome it.

So, what I need, right now, is someone that is probably around 40 (give or take 5 years), has a great body and personality, is not too fat or too muscular and has the Karl Spark

Perhaps, just perhaps, I’m asking too much?

About Last Night – The Feature-Length Version

Tall.  Dark.  Slim.  Handsome.  In fact, more handsome than the photos.  He was all those things.  Plus witty, funny, stylish.

There you go then!  Search over!


I admit to being nervous about the meeting.  He had phoned a little earlier.  He said I had a nice voice.  ‘That’ll be the smoking for 40 years’, I wanted to say but didn’t.  Nor did I say ‘you have a nice voice too’, because I couldn’t.  His voice sounded a little camp.  Dunno, just something about it.

I put on my favourite pair of jeans, and had to choose between my favourite purple shirt or white T-shirt – it was going to be under the ‘unfinished’ suit jacket – so it was the T-shirt – it looks cooler as an ensemble.  A little gel in my remaining hair; my best aftershave, hardly worn these days, so plenty left; my best pair of shoes, brown, D&G, I think.

I was a couple of minutes later than I had wanted to be but, then again, one wouldn’t want to appear too eager, would one?

He telephoned when I was about a minute away.  ‘Where are you?’, he asked.  ‘I’m just crossing the road and I’ll be there in about 2 minutes’, I reply, a little annoyed that I didn’t get ready just a little earlier.  I take off my glasses – my eyes being my best feature, which my glasses hide (note to self – OK, time for contacts (again!) and new glasses – ones which mean you can see my eyes – I know the type I want).

Blindly, I walk down the street towards the ice-cream shop we had agreed to meet at.  Even without my glasses, I see him and know, instinctively, that it’s him.  Tall (about 6′), dressed, whilst not in a suit, in a smart pair of trousers and jacket.

We discuss where to go.  He needs somewhere where there is coffee or tea as he doesn’t drink.  Hmm.  We go to a café that we both know serves good coffee – the one that Best Mate & I went to several times when she was here last.

The plan was, then, to take a walk in the park.  Except, as we approached the ice-cream shop, on our way, it started to rain again.  He doesn’t like the rain.  As you might know, nor do I, but it wasn’t hard and wouldn’t have stopped me.  Still, as it turned out it was right because a few moments later the heavens opened (and are still open as I write this nearly 24 hours later).

Instead we went to a bar (attached to a hotel) nearby.  I had an Americano, he a fresh pineapple juice.

We talked.  He was nice, friendly, funny, good conversation, sort of.  He was a little more camp than V and had a similar past to V in some ways.  In fact, it was like being with a grown-up version of V, someone who is even more sure of himself (and I really didn’t know that was possible).

I say to him that I think that I may not really be his type.  He assures me that I am.  I wonder: am I saying that because, really, he’s not quite my type?  I mean, he’s nice, handsome, tall and all that.  He’s not, really, what I had in mind though.  It’s the campness that I find difficult to deal with.  Not excessive but enough.

I ask him what is his best feature as it wasn’t given on the site (but I know already what the answer is).  He replies that he couldn’t say as it would make him seem like a whore.  I had guessed right, then.

I have another Americano.  The conversation is not really flowing, at least not enough for me.  We ask each other questions, we give each other answers.  He loves food!  This is good.  The bad side is that it is almost exclusively Italian and, worse, from the area of Italy he is from.  I mean that’s OK but I don’t fancy going through the ‘education’ thing all over again, like I had to with V.  That more or less finished 10 years ago and I can’t bring myself to do it again.

There are moments of silence.  Unfilled silence just empty, devoid of anything.

He tells me he is very determined to get what he wants.  Through the conversation, I get what he wants, I think.  Sure, I am that person except……

Well, except that I think it would become too claustrophobic for me.  He would, probably, be devoted to me, but it would be devotion too far.

More importantly than anything else, I feel no real ‘spark’.  There was a spark, recently, with a guy called Karl.  Unrequited, as it turned out.  The last time before that was with V, requited and 20 years later, I still expect the ‘Karl Spark’ – or maybe I’m fooling myself and I should just take the next best thing?

Then, as we stand chatting at the top of the steps to the Metro (he uses that to get home, I am walking), the quite cute guy from the supermarket walks past, turns round to look at me and says Ciao.  Now, he’s seen me outside many times before but says nothing; doesn’t even look at me but this time, says Hi.  Hmm.  Is that because of who I was with??  And what will happen next time I go to the supermarket, the usual nothing or something else?

The next day, he texts me; I text him. He calls me to hear my voice (I suppose).  Could be the Foot Fetish guy all over again?  Not really but, you know…..

Still, we are to go out again next week, for a pizza.  I certainly need a second ‘look’ before I try.  Let’s see what happens…..