For the life of me, I can’t explain it.

If there had been a category for it in high school, I would have easily been voted, “Most likely to be accosted by a complete stranger who insists on sharing his life story.”

But wait, it gets better.  Or worse, depending on my your point of view.

After gay males (whom I adore – I’m kind of like the Cher of south Florida, without the Sonny or the long hair, illustrious career or the plastic surgery), I have recently realized (much to my chagrin) that I also have a tendency to attract another  type of man.

If there is a navy blue Brooks Brothers blazer, khaki trousers, cashmere v-neck sweater, sockless loafer (never Topsiders) sporting man anywhere within AT&T calling, oxygen-sharing range to be found, he has my unlisted number and is prepared to give me unlimited minutes of his time.  Why?  I couldn’t tell you.  That he proceeds to fill it with Obama hating invective, Rush Limbaugh and Glenn Beck admiration or Sarah Palin praise, makes me wonder what he was drinking other than some really scary Kool-Aid before he asked me out for dinner laid eyes on me. 

“Give me a martini, straight up with a liberal Democrat chaser.  And send whatever the lady with the long legs and artistic wardrobe interesting haircut is having on me.”

Somebody pelt me with deviled eggs and a ham and mayo sandwich on white bread.  Please.  And while you’re at it, send me another salt and pepper-haired guy with the brooding eyes, screwed-up childhood and unavailable tattoo on his forehead quick wit so I can prove once more there is no hope for him either and change in my future.

According to my pukeasaurus (or, for those of the Jewish faith, my “pukeatsuris”), there is no real word that can define this phenomenon of Republican men wanting to dip their paintbrushes into my oils.  As such, there is also no cure for what ails me.

For as far back as I can remember, I have unerringly managed to attract and captivate bloviating, season ticket holding, charming CEOs who made so much money, they ejaculated hundred dollar bills.  I could throw my own Macy’s Day parade of them.  (The bloviating men, not the aforementioned hundred dollar bills.) (That would just be wrong.  And sticky.)   To say they are not my type is not a typo.  It’s a blatantly cruel misspelling that was cast on my romantic life before I was even born.

 My curse is that I’m a rich Republican magnet.

Toy sailboat nothing.  These men have yachts and their bathtub is the ocean.  Model airplanes are life-size Lear jets in their own hangars.  They assemble conglomerates on Christmas day for their children.  They order custom made shirts by the case.  They have Swiss bank accounts for their shoes.  Even their egos collect interest. 

And for some reason, they all want to screw or convert me.

If only one of them would decide to marry me and get me elected to public office, the very first thing I would do, is redistribute the wealth. Beginning with myself.

Right after a nice little vacation in the Mediterranean.  On a yacht he names after me.

O’Really? has a very nice ring to it don’t you think?  A 15-carat diamond one at least.

God help me.