I was sitting in a bar the other evening, sipping a Zinfindel. Out of the corner of my eye I saw a profile of a guy that made me flash back on a guy I lusted after in college, a guy I haven't thought about in ages: Rob Lincoln. I guess he slipped my mind because he has the distinction of not being pictured in any photo albums, nor is his name typed on my list of men I've dated. Rob is one of my dating failures. Rob was a senior when I was a freshman. In high school this makes a difference, but in college that three-year age difference was negligible.
He was totally cool. He lived off campus, so he had a little mystique. I never saw him — like so many of my co-ed dorm residents — staggering to the bathroom in raggedy boxers or passed out in drool in the courtyard. His presence was fleeting, and therefore all the more desirable. He was a great student, a born leader, and hit way too many times with the pretty stick. His face was so chiseled and perfect he deserved to be president, just so someday his profile might end up on a coin.
Does Rob even know I existed? His bare hand might recognize my left boob. My tongue might jingle a memory bell. But my name or my face? Forget it. We made out a couple of times at parties, but I can honestly say that we never had a date or did anything that would even rate a sentence in a tabloid, no matter how famous he would become.
I have no idea where Rob is now. I never see him mentioned in the alumni newsletter. I do know that his entire college career was so calculated and meticulous that, if he did become the political success that both students and professors expected, the scandal mongers would be hard pressed to find anything on him.
I actually hope that good things have come to Rob. He didn't do anything bad to me. He simply ignored exception when timing and hormones dictated that I deserved a few minutes of his attention. He would even say hi if he passed me in the cafeteria. He's not the first nor the last man to blow me off ... just the best looking. No harm, no foul. Geez, if I got every man I ever wanted, I'd really be a stuck-up bitch instead of relatively modest diva.
The point of this whole story is there isn't one. I was thinking about a gorgeous guy who felt me up a few times, and I wanted to share that. The downside is that I kept staring at this guy at the bar. I'm wearing the diva lipstick, the spandex top that spells out "diva" in rhinestones.
This guy has got to think I'm flirting with him. I swear I wasn't. It's like a painting or a sleeping baby or well-cut diamond; I appreciate things of beauty, and I stare at them. And my man was in the restroom and about to take me out for a nice dinner. Would I actually pick this moment to flirt with a total stranger? Rhetorical question: Don't answer that.
I suppose most of us have our own Rob Lincolns. The pretty face and popular personality who couldn't even get away because you never had a chance to have him or her. Keep the Lincolns in your memory bank to remind you that you can't always get what you want. You Stones fans can finish the quote for me.
