Schmucky Mojo

So, I had a work conference out of town last week. My mojo was on. It was cold back home, but warm in Conference Town. I brought out my high-heeled, Michael Kors gold knot sandals. They are man-killers. I know this.

I didn't expect the Mojo to hit the minute I walked into the room at the first function, which was a casual evening gathering.

Cute guy, London accent, definitely starts hitting on me. The night progresses. We end up being the only ones at the wings place at midnight. He pulls out the, "So, where are you from, are you seeing anyone and how old you?" line. I interpret to mean... he must be interested, right? That's not just making conversation. Those are targeted questions to gauge a gal's availability and compatibility. It turns out I'm five years older than him. He gets over initial shock (I do look and sound much younger), but is undaunted. He persists.

We text that night and all the next day during class. Flirty texts. I have them as proof.

Things progress. By the next night, we are already making plans to ditch the group and do our own thing. We launch out, away from convention hotel. Find Bohemian part of town. Literally stumble upon a poetry reading (I don't make this shit up). We both instantly look at each other and it's a given we are going in. As we do, he signs up to perform (me, swoon!).

He's amazing. He steals the show. He performs his own work as well as Jaberwocky (remember that?) He's asked to come back the next night to be the feature poet! We leave poetry reading. We find a really cool bar we'd found out about at a coffee shop. On the way there, we meet up with two young kids (one of whom also happens to work at said coffee shop) and we end up hanging out together all night (and the next three nights, actually). I, of course, instantly Facebook friend and Twitter follow one of them (the young, Hispanic gay guy, love him!). My poetry man asks me to dance to the terrible DJ. It doesn't matter the DJ is terrible, we're having a grand time. Poetry man/London accent seems REALLY into me.

On way home, we are laughing, talking. Stop under a wide, clear sky and half moon for a kiss. He comes to my room. We have a little fun (not too much).

At the end of our fun, he informs me that ... he's married.

RECORD SCREECH!!!

Really? You're married? We've been hanging out for 48 hours and now, after a little foolin' around, you tell me you're married? Why tell me at all at this point, schmuck? Why not just keep the game going? Why, after I completely FELL for you ... why, after you seduced me? Why, after we had a really amazing time together?

I can't answer these questions.

I have only one conclusion: It rhymes with FUCK. He's a SCHMUCK.

So, because I'm older and wiser (insert laugh track here) I know my only remedy is: distraction and diversion.

Divert attention: find new crush. Distract self: throw self into work, Facebook updates, whatever other obsession I can find. I actually need to buy a new car. That'll work.

So see? I found my Mojo, but it attracted a bottom feeder. Gee whiz... Hopefully, coming to Cazadora's blog soon, something uplifting... Stay tuned y'all. Until then, beware the Poets with the sexy British accents.