I'm creaming my pants.

I had a teeth-cleaning appointment today, and, being new to the area, it was my first time going to this dentist's office. How did I choose a new dentist, you ask? Oh, simple. I just flipped through the local free gay magazine and picked the ad that had the cutest dentist.

I showed up to my appointment SUPER late because I got lost, and then I couldn't find parking, and then I got lost again. So I stumble into the dentist's office Goldie Hawn-style and run to the counter, apologizing profusely for being so late and asking if they can still fit me in. There are a few people behind the counter, but I'm only looking at the receptionist sitting at the desk. She starts rummaging through her computer to see if I will still fit, when suddenly this deep, hunky voice sings into my ear, "Yes. Oh yes. I can fit you in."

Standing behind the counter is the most GORGEOUS DENTIST YOU HAVE EVER SEEN IN YOUR ENTIRE LIFE. Tall. Nordic. Great lips. Perfect teeth. Well-dressed. Nice hair. Blue eyes. EVERYTHING. And he is looking at me out of the corner of his eye and smiling.

After I pick my jaw up off the floor, I sort of giggle, or something. I don't know exactly what the noise was, but it was some sort of mundane tittering that you only hear when breathless adolescent girls talk about Rick Springfield or Justin Timberlake.

Turns out that on your first appointment at this new office, the dentist performs the cleaning himself, not some frosted-tip hygenist. So I got to spend a good hour at least with this god of a man. We joked. We laughed. We talked about Europe. He told me I needed to floss more regularly. I stared into his eyes. He stared into my mouth. I think we were in love.

So just when my ego is really rising, just when I think about saying something like, "So... is there a Mrs. Dentist?" or "I REALLY liked your ad in the gay magazine. REALLY, REALLY liked it," he breaks the news to me. I need two fillings.

FILLINGS! Those things that you get in elementary school! I haven't had a filling for well over ten years, and I am mortified that my Fabio, who took the time out of his busy dentist schedule to clean my little old teeth, was the one to discover this terrible news. I brush SO regularly, and I make sure to tell him this. He makes up some lie about how "even good brushers aren't perfect." I force him to reassure me that everything will be okay, and that I do, indeed, have good hygiene. He concedes the point.

But our love affair has already sputtered to a halt. I mean, what could be a bigger turn-off for a dentist than a cavity-ridden patient? That's like a psychiatrist dating a schizophrenic. Or a judge dating a serial killer. The two just don't go together.

I am going back tomorrow to get my fillings, but I go with my tail tucked between my legs.

I think he's over me. Not that he was ever really on me in any way that I would have desired. Our love clearly was just not meant to be.