Because I’m shy and all virtuous, I can’t ask a guy out unless I have overwhemlingly convincing evidence – like a brick in the face – he’s interested, so I make sly hints of things to do together, like,  “Tom, I need a pedicure. Will you go with me?”

Tom is a 25-year-old brainaic who is taller than me and can make his pecs dance, and I have a crush on him because of the former and not the latter. I know he’s too young and never been married, but I assure you we have a lot in common… like… we’re both big fans of Tété and … err… we’re tall.

“Are you serious?” he writes back. “I’m metro, but not that metro. But… if Jay goes, I’ll go too.”

Jay’s a bit of a natureboy; his kayak is permanently attached to his SUV and yeah, the vehicle interior always smells like a tackle box. His wife is as pathetically wonderful as Jay, and the two of them are poster children for finding happiness on eHarmony.

But Jay will try anything once.

And that’s how I became the meat in the pedicure threesome.

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