(for those of you who are just joining the program, part the first can be found here)

NOTE: T is making noise about posting his own version of how we met and seeing as he is the creator of the super secret bluepoppy admin powers--- he can pretty much do what he wants with this site. I can't say whether or not I think he will make good on his threat. He can be a man of mystery sometimes . . . but I'm just letting you know in case you see some studly, golden-haired hottie with a cute butt stumbling around in here telling you some OTHER version of the truth.

So. Where was I? Oh yes, Genevieve and I were flying up I93-- I have absolutely no idea what kind of car we were in so if those are the details that interest you, you'll probably want to head straight back to Click and Clack. I should probably put on the B-52s "Love Shack" as I write to try and help me travel back in time, but I'll just have to slog along as best I can.

We arrived in the little town that was soon to be my home for the next fifteen years and I do remember my first impression-- god, what a dump. I believe another thought that crossed my mind as we sat at the ONE traffic light waiting for it to turn green, Who in their right mind would ever choose to live here? *shakes head* Oh, how the mighty fall.

The directions were simple enough seeing as there were only like THREE ROADS in the entire town and we soon found ourselves on a road where mailboxes were few and far between and every house was obscured from view by massive pine trees. Hedging our bets, we turned down one driveway that seemed to be correct and parked.

It was very, very quiet-- especially for two city chicks and although there were some other cars in the driveway, we heard no human activity. We went up to the house. Knocked. Waited. I had to pee like a racehorse so I tried the door handle and it was open! So we went in. No sounds. No people. I beelined for the bathroom. When I came out, Genevieve was in the kitchen paging through a photo album that was on the counter.

"Do any of these people look familiar to you?" she asked.

I scanned a couple of photos of TOTAL STRANGERS, gave her a panicked look and shook my head no--- oh shit. Whose house were we in?

We ran back to the car and spit gravel six ways to Sunday as we peeled out of the driveway and headed back to the town center.

I'm thinking a little background here might be helpful.

The friend who invited me up for the weekend was a woman I went to college with who had recently landed in Cambridge. (I'll call her Georgia cause I'm not putting real names of people in here unless they are no longer in my life). Georgia and I had crossed paths in Harvard Square about a month earlier and she told me about this guy that she was now dating (I'll call him Mr. Right) she had just met at some insane party up in Maine. It turns out that the wild party she had gone to. . . Oh my god. I am never going to be able to tell this story because that wild party in Maine? That is a whole NOTHER enormous piece of this story that I can't possibly begin or I will be here forever. Suffice to say, Georgia went to the wild party with T's younger brother and that's how she met Mr. Right. And it was Mr. Right who was having the party at his parents' house on the lake in the ugly little town where I sure as hell would never live. HAHAHAHAHAHhhahahahha But aside from Georgia, I knew absolutely no one else at this party we were trying to find.

Okay, enough with the backstory.

I guess what I wanted to convey is, here we were in some strange town trying to find some house with no description down a freaking dirt road to find a party of strangers. You might think this was causing us some kind of anxiety or concern. You would be wrong. Seeking out parties was my raison d'etre during my twenties. This was par for the course.

We ended up finding the house, finding the party and it was good. There were about 15 guys and three women. Odds I like. The partying was rather intense so I vaguely remember that there might have been some pizza making going on-- but mostly it was drinking, stoning and hanging out on the deck looking at the lake. Once it got dark, we hung out inside around the fireplace and that's when I saw him. I will never forget the first time I ever saw T. He walked into the room. Stretched (like he was oh-so-relaxed but really so I could see his washboard abs). Took in the scene in the living room and then walked on past (to the bathroom, presumably). And here is what I remember most. The guy had the most perfect ass known to man. How perfect? Go look at Michalangelo's David. Michelangelo modeled David on T's ass. I am so not kidding.

So, having sat around for many hours at this point and thoroughly reviewed the offerings and founding them wanting, I now had my target and the party had officially begun. T eventually joined the group in the living room, sitting off to one far end of the couch. Mr. Right kept asking T to play the guitar and eventually he did and that's when I noticed he had a cast on one arm. Still, he managed to play a Bob Dylan tune that added major points to his scorecard. Of course, at this late stage of the party, many people had crashed and we were now a small group and still T and I had not spoken directly to each other or been introduced. Eventually, the party wound down to T, Genevieve, and me. I finally had my chance to make conversation with him and so I asked, "what'd you do to your arm?"

And he said, "I'm so sick of people asking me that."

And with that, I stood up and said good night and headed upstairs. The total prick. Like I really cared how he fucking broke his fucking arm? The asshole probably sprained it wanking off. I was simply trying to open up a channel for conversation, the dick.

I went into the room Genevieve and I were sharing and started getting ready for bed. The next thing I know she is in the room with me.

"What the hell?" I said. "I thought you guys were gonna get it on."

"He just left," she said. So we went over to the window and watched his truck as it pulled away. And can I just say? His truck was a piece of shit-- rusted, dinged, old and held together with bungee cords. Genevieve turned to me and said, "He was cute. Do you think your friend could set me up with him?"

"Sure," I said, but really thinking damn. She just called dibs.

Oh my god . . . there's gonna be a part three??? I never knew this story was so freaking long . . . *sigh* to be continued demain.

got 2 cents?