Now, before the Gay and Lesbian Medical Association sends out its public relations dogs, let me say that I don’t have anything against gay doctors as a group, just this one in particular. I wish I’d had several syringes of local anesthesia before stepping into his presence.

I met this man in an upscale thrift shop. In the dressing room, actually. But before you reach for the lube, let me assure you that it was innocuous, if not completely innocent. I was trying on a pair of funky cowboy chaps and he knelt to help me zip the legs. A promising power dynamic from the getgo, I thought, being the princess that I am.

“They match your eyes,” he said.

“Thanks and good day,” I should have said.

“You have a great smile,” he said, clearly leering at my butt.

“No solicitors, please,” I should have said.

I left the store with his business card but without the chaps.

We played the requisite game of phone tag, during which he seemed overly eager to meet. Navigating our way through his schedule, however, was about as relaxing as having the Secret Service case your home for a Presidential visit.

He spent the first 20 minutes of dinner obsessing about the menu being fatty and high in carbs. This was followed by a diatribe about his new trainer, his new workout regimen and a recent shift in his choice of muscle building energy bars.

This is what I get for being so easily flattered in retail stores, I thought. This will be a good lesson. Flirt first, then interview, then hire. The next man I date will write an essay before we go for a cup of non-threatening coffee.

Just to irritate his health Nazi ideals, I ordered a duck entree with a demonically rich sauce. He visibly cringed and in a measured, demanding tone, he ordered a large spinach and tofu salad, with no dressing.

As an afterthought, I ordered a Rolling Rock. “Before dinner, please.”

“What do you do?” he asked, setting his cellular phone on the table. If that phone rings, I thought, I swear to God I will learn black magic and cast a fat and flabby spell on this man.

“I’m a writer,” I replied.

“What do you do for money?” he continued. This is perhaps the rudest question in the world to ask someone whose love job isn’t quite footing each and every bill.

“I work at A Different Light bookstore,” I said, fully realizing that he now considered me a cashier. Maybe dating menial laborers was exotic for him.

“That’s in my neighborhood, but I’m a real sucker for Amazon.com. And Borders. I love Borders.”

“Oh? And why would that be?” I said, choking back a growl. At this point I was holding the side of the table with both hands.

“The discounts are great. And Amazon is so convenient. They bring it right to your door.”

“But you live in the Castro. Wouldn’t it be more convenient to go get the books in person? Why does someone like you need the discount, anyway?”

“I just like doing it online,” he said with a big grin across his lips. I think he expected me to giggle at his lame double entendre. “Isn’t it good that I buy books?”

“Yes, it is,” I reassured him. “Congratulations. But the chains are wiping out the small stores left and right. They demolish independent stores as a business strategy. They don’t care about queers.”

“Gosh, you’re really upset about this,” he said, observantly. I’m glad he’s in general practice and not psychotherapy. This is a man who was born to depress tongues with oversized popsicle sticks.

“Think of those discounts as a tiny rent at small bookstores. They’re community centers. Can’t you see that?” I asked.

His phone vibrated and moved three inches across the table. Blood vessels in my eyes were bursting at this point. He held up his index finger to shush me and took the call. After a few minutes of jovial chatter, he closed his flip phone.

“That was Aaron, this cute kid I work out with. He’s a model,” he said proudly.

I stared at him in the controlled manner that I learned from my cat. I calmly assessed the situation. I’m having din-din with a politically clueless, overstarched body fascist who takes calls during first dates and proceeds to make reference to a “kid” he works out with. Call me dramatic, but I was thinking walk-out. I kept staring. This was all adding up to a nasty dating malpractice suit.

As the waiter arrived with my duck and his naked spinach, his phone vibrated again. He again held up an index finger. My mouth dropped open and I stood up.

“This is so not working,” I announced.

The waiter, puzzled, motioned to my plate.

“He’ll eat it,” I said, and disappeared in a puff of pink smoke.

A bad date is inevitable every now and again, I reckon. The difference between that doctor and me is that as an all-powerful gay press columnist, I am able to process the experience in print. This will either mean that no thinking man will ever want to date me, or he’ll at least think twice about crossing me. After all, it’s awful foolish to cross a Southern fag with a laptop, cuz hell hath no fury...