“As I sit and watch the snow, Fallin’ down, I don’t miss you at all, I hear children playin’ laughin’ so loud, I don’t think of your smile, So if you never come to me, You’ll stay a distant memory”—Norah Jones
I’m playing with fire: isoparrafin oils coating my hands, I’m tossing the torch with both ends lit, hand to hand combat as heat grazes my skin. But… but…but… it’s only the first level, the epidermis, being scorched, right?
I’m going to diner with A. You know A, C’s fraternal twin brother, A. Yep, A. It’s not like anything is going to happen… we will meet, share a meal, have some drinks, a few laughs, maybe he’ll pay but with my luck we’ll split the bill, Wellsfargo will weep, quick embrace church-style, an awkward goodbye. Life ambles on. My trouble always arises when I try to predict the unpredictable—i.e. the actions of others.
I don’t know why I said yes. It’s that undeniable curiosity, the potential for a great story. Kinda like why I have a one-night-stand on my bucket list because I wanna see how I will react. I’m forever interested in the aftermath vs. the actual occurrence. But then again I’m stopped by this notion that everyone has an STI. So there’s that.
I just don’t know how I feel about seeing a version of the face I slept with every night. Yea, I said it. Fight me.
I’ve come to the place where I’m indifferent to C. Though I’m drawn back to the nostalgia of the possibility that he represented, by the grace of God I realize I want better. Again, it boils down to curiosity. Why do you want to have dinner with me? Why do you want to reconnect with me? Why is that even appealing?
If there’s one thing about me, it’s that I satisfy my curiosity.
I also wonder if there will be some surprise gorilla attack where they will both show up and I’ll have to pretend there’s no elephant in the room (like that last weepy, vulnerable email that I wrote where for the first time in my life I put it all out there, laid all my shit bare, down to the white meat). *shudders*. And if that happens what the hell am I supposed to say? You know I always think I’m going to act like the leading lady in those situations but inevitably I shrink to a background extra. Speachless.
All these new developments are needed distractions to keep me from thinking about Baltimore, and how I asked him out for a second date. And how he said… no. And now I have this egg-splatter on my face, dried overnight in the elements, hard to scrape off. I’ve officially chased him.
Oh, youth! The mistakes we make, the hyperbole we tell in hindsight.
I don’t know when, I do know where. *sigh* I’ll keep you posted.
“And I ain’t no connoisseur but I’m kinda sure you will admire my taste, But before the sun graze ya, I’m tryin’ to see how deep you are, And believe me shorty I ain’t talking about no intimate conversation, I wanna see if I can make you reach things unobtainable, When I peek into your nature”—Wale(verse)
I don’t know where to start… After-hours work functions are always interesting. I’ve been with my company five years. One thing about D.C., we’re a transient city. In my tenure I’ve moved building four times, I’ve changed departments twice, I’ve lost co-workers, I’ve gained co-workers. Through it all I’m contactly surprised at what people reveal when they get a few drinks in them.
Granted at after-hours functions there’s a level of acceptable inappropriateness. There’s a thin line between he just looked at my ass to he just mentioned oral sex loudly, and publicly.
So we’re at the Nats game and a new member to the team, and the company, remarks to me and my girl D about the player’s hype song as they come up to bat. Players like Harper and Desmond walk on the field to some pretty hood music—considering the venue. This is understandable considering they’re young, rich, and famous. They’re whole aura revolves around making a statement.
Toward the bottom of the 7th inning, Newbie proceeds to ask us what our theme songs would be—making suggestions such as Spent It or Cashin’ Out. I’m quick to answer with the song, I Like by Young Swift. While D is still thinking, Newbie blurts out—I’d walk in to Diced Pineapples.
THE LOOK ON MY FACE!
Lemme tell sumthin’ to you… when I say I wasn’t ready, that’s an understatement. D continues to look puzzled because she hasn’t heard the song. So I’m sitter there with the “you eat ass” face looking like a major ho and he looks like the “Here’s Johnny” pervert. His wedding ring shinning as he gestured emphatically. I turn my face around muttering to myself aloud: you aint ready, I aint ready, diced pineapples *rapid head shakes*.
Not wanting to be out of the loop, D begins to look up the lyrics on her phone. Soft puff of “oh, Oh, OH!” as the words get more—specific.
He on the other hand is trying to convince us of the poetry in Wale’s verse. “Yo, yo, but Wale he said I wanna do foreplay so long you call it five”. Oh yes folks, WA-LE, the modern day Marlowe. “There were some great lines in that song—the whole first verse for example”.
Lines maybe, appropriateness definitely not.
Adamant of his accuracy, he pulls up the song on his phone, from his iMusic favorites probably, and shoves his iPhone right into D’s face—thrusting motions like a sparring dildo. “Listen you gotta hear it to know what I’m talking about, the lyrics alone don’t do the song justice”.
Justice was served Newbie, served on a flaming platter of “you’re a freak”. These are one of those times when you should just quit while you’re ahead. By the time he finished assaulting us with fresh produce it was the bottom of the 8th inning and we had, had enough. Quick exit stage left followed by a thorough recap of the previous innings antics. No baseball discussed on that walk of shame back to the metro, the game long forgotten as we swapped notes of the uncomfortable, awkwardness of too close proximity with a known stranger.
Just for future reference, know your limits at company events, lest you want to be crowned with an unfortunate nickname.
Diced pineapples indeed and I didn’t even get dinner first. The nerve! Humph!
“I’m not here for your entertainment; you don’t really want to mess with me tonight. Just stop and take a second. I was fine before you walked into my life. ‘Cause you know it’s over before it began. Keep your drink, just give me the money. It’s just you and your hand tonight.” Pink
Oh the joys of another bad date! I know they say you have to kiss a lot of frogs before you find your prince but I feel like I meet the slugs upon which the frogs feast. At this point a frog would be an upgrade. I think my radar was off for this particular slug to slip through.
We met casually at Busboys during one of their open mic nights, exchanged business cards, but I didn’t bank on hearing from him (nor did I care either way). About three days after our initial encounter he texts me. We exchange short, sporadic texts until he eventually states that we should meet that upcoming Tuesday at Mister Days. Though I may not be overtly interested, when a man makes decisive plans without my input it pique’s my interest.
On Tuesday, I received a text saying: “Are you ready for the best date of your life? I was born ready [so] Bring it ON! J”. Now the mute anticipation I had towards our date has transformed into dread. Every date (first or otherwise) where a guy has uttered similar words has ended in huge disappointments because I’ve spent the night warding off thirsty advances.
Not sure what it is about being a plus-size girl, but it’s like the guys who hit on me think I should fawn over them in gratitude for “picking” me. Even worse they think I’m some deprived self-deprecating loser that will reward their choice with bouts of bedroom activities. You’ve got to be kidding me!?! Paula Patton I am not, but I still think I’m beautiful and even more of value.
But I digress… it’s safe to say that I lost all initial excitement for the date.
I get to the restaurant before our scheduled time. It’s nice to have enough time to primp in the bathroom and scope out exit routes before the dude arrives. But when a guy’s late without a polite warning text that’s just rude.
We sit outside, chat, peruse the menu, chat some more, order, repeat. When the conversation lags, he glances expectantly in my direction as if I’m supposed to fill the gaps. When I feel like I’m talking too much, I get quiet or start asking questions. When I receive monosyllabic answers, I just get quiet. “I feel like women just naturally talk more. Especially crazy women they talk the most. But then all women are crazy, so…” Really Jesus?
Another lag and he pulls out some Myers Brigg type game having me describe a cube, a ladder, a horse, some flowers, and a storm. From there, he uses my responses to psychoanalyze me … or in his words “get to know me better”. Men around the world should be so proud that I didn’t fall for that trap. Though he made reaching statements like “from your answers it seems like your past had a lot of conflict”, not sure how he got that from a small purple cube, a yellow daffodil lined latter, a green horse, and a gray storm, but again how would I know. At any rate, I kept my business to myself.
When he breaks for the bathroom, I realize it’s time for me to gracefully make my exit (i.e. come up with a solid, yet polite, excuse). Here’s my fundamental problem, I’m genuinely a nice person and I don’t like to disrespect others. I also believe in karma so I try to make sure my interactions are as neutral to positive as possible. When he comes back, I decide I better break for the bathroom myself. I come back to the table and he’s scooted over, arm over the seat, eyes beckoning me close: “come sit over here the view is great”. I must have lost my gift of imagination because I see a construction site and a crosswalk… but whatever.
The arm around my back starts caressing my shoulder while he asks “did you clean your house?”. Of course I didn’t clean my house; it’s the middle of the week. I feel a tug at my hair, slight so I thought maybe his hand slipped. Then I feel an actual yank with my head snapped back. “What the hell are you doing?”, “Oh that’s punishment for not cleaning your house like I asked you”, “Have you lost your bloody mind?” “You don’t like that?”, “No it’s real and it’s attached, don’t touch me.”
Then his hand is there again and he pulls me in for a kiss while trying to grope my boob. You can’t even imagine my shock. Its outside, in public, first date, and I don’t even like you. I abruptly stop everything and tell him I have to go. “You don’t have to go”, “yes, yes I do. I have to get up for work tomorrow.”, “I mean you don’t have to go home, you can come back to my place”, “Umm no I can’t and I won’t. I’m going home”, “but I paid for dinner”. Listen jerk, my salad was less than $7 and I ordered water because I thought we were meeting for drinks, not dinner. Do you want $10? Make sure the waitress gets her 30% tip.
I leave and realize that he’s taking the same metro as I am home. As we stand on the platform he’s making small talk and somehow we got on the topic of butts. He asks if my butt is like Kim Kardashians’. I flippantly reply that I would have to get surgery to have a butt like hers. “Let me see how big your butt is” as he reaches his hand behind the hand rail to pinch my butt. I shove him and say, don’t touch me. He says, “You don’t need surgery. You need to love yourself. You do need to lose this (pointing at my stomach), but you are kinda cute”. Judge me all you want, but I’ve never been good at responding to these types of situations. In my mind I’ve gone all Waka Flocka and told ol’dude to suck my drinkin’ balls, B*tch. In reality, I just stand there flabbergasted.
I’m not deliberately mean, so while this man is picking apart my supposed flaws I could have said you’re two inches shorter than me when I’m barefoot and six inches shorter than me with heels on. You can’t comfortably reach the top rails of the metro. While my hands are large enough to cup a basketball, your hands looks like they can barely cup a golf ball. You have touched me with said hands, and I could have sworn a feather graced my skin they are so freakishly soft. I wanted to scream grow some calluses and some height so that you can be a real boy Pinocchio. Instead I count back from 10 and then recite the 12 names of Jesus I can remember.
Finally the train comes and he says let’s sit down. I don’t want to sit next to you because you have serial rapist intentions with toddler-tipped hands. I’m going to stand thanks. Finally he gets off before me and tries one last time to get me to go home with him. I’ve never been so happy to hear the ding of metro doors closing in my life! Yep this is me living that single, single LIFE!
Readers: Do me a favor? Grace my comment box with some first date horror stories so I don’t feel so bad sharing my story lol.
