I do the dishes—this is our deal. When one person cooks, the other does the dishes. Consequently, I do a lot of dishes around the house. I am more than happy to do that in payment for the fabulous meals that Paris cooks for me. After the kitchen is clean, I start making the cakes. I usually make two of whatever I’m baking because I know Paris will want one. He has a tremendous sweet-tooth which he has yet to tame. It’s another reason he works out religiously. He always says if he’s going to play, he has to pay, and for him, it’s a worthwhile trade-off. Me, I eat my chocolate whether I work out or not because I’m not as obsessed with my body. That’s another reason Paris and I couldn’t date. He has too many body issues that would drive me nuts. That’s why he tends to date models because they understand his issues and actively support him in them. I don’t think that’s the best mentality for his well-being, but who am I to judge?
My thoughts wander to Inspector Robinson. I wonder what her first name is and if she dates men or women or both. She looks straight, but I only have a spot-on gaydar for men. For some reason, I can’t tell when a woman is queer. I think it’s because women are more fluid than men are. I know more gay and bisexual men who have known since they were very young that they liked boys than I do women who knew at an early age that they were interested in girls. Women have closer friendships to begin with which can easily cross over into the physical. I would never presume that a woman is interested until she tells me she is, unlike men. I can always tell when a man wants to get to know me better and not just in a friendship way. Then again, I think most guys would jump my bones if I give them the indication that I am so inclined. It’s endearing in a way—so touchingly simple and straightforward. Not like the manipulative minds of woman.
Inspector Robinson is a mystery, however. There are moments when I felt a frisson of tension between us, but I can easily convince myself that I am making it up because it’s what I want to happen. She is not my usual type—I don’t like blonds—but I’m willing to make an exception for her. I like the way she sits so still, it’s as if she isn’t even there. I wonder if she’s taken any martial arts or studied Buddhism. That would explain the alert look despite her relaxed body. She is quite intelligent, too, which is one of my requirements in a bedmate, unlike my not-so-picky roommate. I realize that I’m talking myself into a huge crush on the good inspector, so I force myself to stop idolizing her. The last time I fell for someone before really knowing her, I ended up having to get a restraining order against her. She did not take rejection well at all. Finally, from what I heard, she started dating someone else and is currently happily stalking her. Not to be mean, but better her than me. It’s every gal for herself.
“I’m out!” Paris calls from the hallway. “Make sure you save me some cake!” That boy is a slave to the cacao bean. Hm, maybe I can use it to lure him into my bed. Just because we wouldn’t make good lifetime partners doesn’t mean we can’t have some fun. We have always been dynamic together in bed. The cakes are coming along nicely, so I sit down to wait. I don’t want to watch them as I know from experience that I can ruin things faster than a flash if I watch. I tend to want to dabble instead of just patiently waiting for it to do its thing. Come to think of it, that’s a good analogy for the way I deal with most things in my life. When the cakes are done, I change into a black silk shirt and low-riding blue jeans. Just as I’m about to leave, my cell phone rings. I don’t want to answer it, but it’s probably important. Very few people have access to my cell phone, and those who do know better than to call unless it’s important.