The Application

A Google search of "gentlemen host" took me to the web site of a company in Fort Lauderdale that supplies this service to several cruise lines. In a rush of enthusiasm, I called them, spoke (in what I thought was my sexiest voice) to their representative long enough for her to decide I was a qualified candidate, and asked her to send me the appropriate application. When this arrived, I realized the gig was more than a notion. Although the basics were simple enough - a host travels free in exchange for specific efforts to help women traveling alone have a good time - the devil is always in the details. The application process required sending a recent photograph of me in a tuxedo, a copy of the first page of my passport, an essay of 500 words explaining why I thought I was a good candidate, the names of at least two dance references, six letters of recommendation, a dance audition, a personal interview and a background check. It was almost like trying for a security clearance! But I was game. Among the personal questions posed was one on marital status that included a box for "never married," which I checked, wondering just what that might signify. Given my age, a "never married" would probably telegraph that I'm gay. But might that not be an advantage? Entertaining women most emphatically did not include visiting them in their staterooms. Both they, and I, were safe there. I searched through my photographs to find one I thought complimentary and found one of my friend Rhea and me, both dressed formally for Christmas Eve on a Silver Sea cruise from Australia to New Zealand. It was a few years ago but what the heck? Rhea was wearing black, with a fuchsia silk shawl and I was spruced up in my tux with a big white handkerchief in my pocket. Tanned and elegant, we looked great! And I didn't think it would hurt to have a beautiful woman on my arm in my application picture. The passport page was easy to scan and include, and I was able to convince several friends to act as dance references and write letters of recommendation. I salted the dull facts of my background with bits of "playing Bridge," "teaching dancing," "widely traveled," "photographer" and so on. And still thinking of the gig as a lark - if I got it, fine; if I didn't, it wouldn't change my life - I ended the 500 words by saying, "And I never spill soup on my tie." The night after sending the application back, I had dinner at The Prime Rib and promptly spilled glop all over my tie. Karmic justice. It served me right for being so flippant!