Earlier today, Vince wondered if maybe he saw me in the Castro on Sunday. It's funny, because I was nowhere near the Castro that day. I was having a very pleasant married suburban day, attending my husband's Church and seeing some friends in a show miles and miles away from San Francisco.

BUT . . . this is not the first time this has happened. Every so often, someone will swear that they've seen me in the Castro when I was really on the other side of the world. I have no choice but to conclude that there is some guy out there who looks remarkably like me who spends much more time in the Castro than I do. He's like my Gay Mecca Doppelganger.

It's kind of a cool thought that I have a Virtual Twin out there somewhere, and that since we're both in the same city, we may one day run into each other. (Although hopefully such an encounter wouldn't cause too big of a rift in the space-time continuum.)

It can cause problems though. About once a year or so, someone will get pissed at me because they swear they waved at me in the Castro and I acted like I didn't know them. The most extreme and awkward example of this happened about eight years ago, when I was single and I was sleeping with this friend of mine who was in a long-term partnership. Supposedly, he and his main squeeze had an "arrangement" about these things, and supposedly it was all OK and we were all being very civilized and very mid-nineties about the whole thing.

But in reality, their relationship was disintegrating and - completely unbeknownst to me - I was the straw breaking the camel's back. So one day I get together with my buddy and he says, "My partner saw you in the Castro the other day and he says you totally snubbed him."

I swore up and down that it wasn't me. I mean, I didn't really know his partner. We didn't all hang out together or anything. But I'd met him a couple of times, and he seemed like a good guy. And I really felt that I owed him some gratitude, you know, since he was essentially letting me borrow his man every so often for recreational purposes. Had I seen him in the Castro - or anywhere else - I would have hugged him. I would have smiled, and I would have tried to convey to him my appreciation for his generosity.

But even though I presented an airtight alibi which absolved me of the alleged snub, the vibe of it hung in the air. Those few days of (erroneously) thinking of me as a Castro Shade Queen had somehow transformed me in the partner's mind from a harmless diversion into a homewrecker, a rude interloper into their domestic partnership.

And then they broke up. And then I was in the awkward position of reminding my buddy that I had never intended to be his "next boyfriend."

Anyway, despite dramas like this, I'd still like to meet my Castro Alter-Ego someday. As a matter of fact, I offer a reward to anyone who runs into him and manages to find out who he is and how I can get a hold of him.

Because I'd really like to know for sure if I'm the good twin or the evil twin.

The best pickup line anyone's actually used on me?

"That's an awfully big book."

I was twenty-three, sprawled out on the ground at a BART station, waiting for a train. I felt like my life was falling apart . . . no particular reason, I just felt that way. And I had decided that reading challenging literature and philosophy might help me find my way. (It didn't, but oh well.)

I had checked out this big old book from the library. It was like some compilation of fragments of "Great Works." Probably published for use in some college general ed class in the fifties.

And so I sat there reading it, ignoring the world, and this guy just came up next to me, inserted himself into my reality, and said, "That's an awfully big book."

I looked up at him from the floor. He was probably about thirty. Blonde, a little stocky, dressed kind of . . . funky thrift store retro pseudo-stylish. I think he was wearing a vest. And one of those brimmed caps that you expect to see on London chimney sweeps and turn-of-the-century newspaper boys.

I believe he was an academic . . . some kind of grad student. The book somehow connected us. It was like a secret we shared, something the other people on the BART platform couldn't appreciate the way we could.

I stood up and tried to explain what the book was, why I was reading it, and the fact that I was ambivalent about it, I wasn't sure if I liked it or not. Which pretty much summed up my whole life at that point.

And then the BART train came. His, not mine. He climbed aboard, maintaining eye contact with me the whole time. And he stood there, like it was a scene from a movie. The train door was open. I stood on the platform. We looked into each other's eyes.

I felt the invitation. I should have just climbed aboard with him. But I was confused. And I didn't.

And the door shut. And his eyes seemed to become a little sad as the train carried him out of my life.

So what's your best ever pickup-line experience?