Today seemed to go on forever. It began many hours ago with the sound of birds chirping in the trees. One minute led to the next and the next and the next. And only now does it appear to be slowly unraveling.

A young tall server with floppy brown bangs appears, and I order grilled tuna. He is wearing slightly baggy jeans and trendy thick-soled black shoes. He manages to be efficient and friendly without being cloying. I dart stealthy glances at him admiring his slender frame and wonder what he's like naked. And I have this vision of us fucking like Chinese mice on the table among the nachos and cheese sticks.

One of the tv monitors is tuned to a golf channel. But with all the cable options showing current and vintage golf, I don't know if it's recent or ancient, live or canned. Normally, I immediately start reading whatever mag I have, today's choice being the latest "Wired." But I find myself glancing at the screen. And suddenly there is Tiger, an athlete of such stupendous greatness that he mesmerizes. To my right was a group of guys waiting for a table. They were boisterous and animated, but the sec Mr. Woods appeared, they fell silent and watched.

Lunch arrives and I nibble and graze. But eat at most half. I order a dessert in hopes of achieving a sugar high. A small chocolate sponge cake topped with a scoop of chocolate-coated vanilla ice cream. It is cold and hot, bitter and sweet but does little to alleviate my lethargy.

I continue my covert game of examing the server whenever I can. On an intellectual level, I find him as delicious as the sponge cake, but my body does not react. I feel no gonadal tingle; blood does not flow to my unencumbered cock; and my pupils do not dilate.

PAX!