Pertinent stats: I found this guy on Coffee Meets Bagel AND BOY IS HE CREEPY. The second text he sent me included the essential background check he’d run on me– my last name, my alma mater, my work history, my recent Goodreads recommendations (he looked at my Goodreads! My GOODREADS! Where I go. To play. With my books!). The weirdest part was, he was just stating all of these facts at me, not asking me about them or anything. All of this information that I hadn’t told him at all. Just listing it at me. If you think this is acceptable behavior, I fear for whatever deep down crazy you’re concealing from me. When I gently tweak him about stalker-y tendencies, his response is, “It’s not the legal definition of stalking.” Um. Ok. Jesus.
But the other pertinent information, aka, why this date is actually happening: he’s 6’3” and very good looking. To the point where I tell friends the story of the texts, they tell me to block his number, I show his profile picture and the response invariably is: “…yeah, ok.” That good looking. (Note: I think I finally understand what men see in really crazy hot chicks!)
Umm, so, this date happened last night and I honestly couldn’t even tell you what was happening with his beard. Did I look at him? I did, right? I’m pretty sure I did. Two beards?
First impression: Two parts to this. This is going to be a long entry. 1. He calls me as he’s parking.
Him: “So I’m parked at this lot. It says no parking here. Can I park here?”
Me: “…Well. Probably no one will give you a ticket at 9pm on a Friday night.”
Him: “Are you sure?”
Me: “Do what you think is right.”
What good is logic, anyway?
2. He really is very handsome. And tall. And awkward, so very awkward for such a handsome man, which I find a little endearing. Probably has something to do with the fact that he’s 23.
Date itinerary: We’re meeting up at my old stand-by, the Kona Club, because he prefers to drink “either rum or hard cider” (huh? Are you a woman? Specifically, are you me?) and he doesn’t know “the North Bay all that well” (again, huh?). But it’s cool, any excuse to get my tiki bar on.
Recap and highlights
The Kona Club is bumping “Back to Black” when I get there, which is part of the reason I love the Kona Club so much– kinda divey, definitely kitschy, totally incongruous music all the time and this is my jam. Another reason the Kona Club is my favorite? The burly bearded guy working the door who reminds me of Stan from “Mad Men,” and I should probably not eye-fuck other guys on dates.
Handsome Stalker attempts to order a Bahama Mama (nice, manly) and is disproportionately unhappy when the bartender– who is extremely busy, Kona Club is the place to be on a Friday night evidently– doesn’t know how to make one. Keeps asking me about the haircut he got that day, how I think it looks. Looks fine. This is the first time I’ve met you, so how would I know how it compares to your old hair? He spends a fair amount of time bitching about working at Apple corporate as a forecaster, which is a pretty impressive job and beats the hell out of the perks at my company, but to each their own.
After two drinks– which he sucked down in about twenty minutes like a coed on spring break– he asks what else is around here. We go in search of dinner for him, and he grabs my hand and just starts massaging the shit out of it. Tells me how easy I am to talk to. (That’s because I’ve been asking you questions all night, buddy, no shit it’s easy to talk about yourself.) It inevitably turns into us making out on the street (hey, my wheelhouse!) and he’s not a great kisser. He has this weird open-mouthed thing he’s doing but there’s absolutely no tongue involved so it’s kind of like that SNL skit with Chris Kattan as Mr. Peepers blowing on people’s faces, except it’s in my mouth. Mm, not really working for me. Literally stops the making out at one point to ask, “So, you really like the haircut?” JESUS.
And this is when it occurs to me that this is how women end up marrying professional athletes or future tech millionaires– you get ’em when they’re young and insecure and useless and ride it all the way to the top. Useful information, if I were that kind of woman.
What the hell, I’m not using my vagina nearly as much as I should be, he gets the invite home. Proceed to have rather terrible sex which includes him attempting to talk dirty to me and asking me if I like what he’s doing to me– every woman’s favorite move, the jackhammer– at which point I decide I have zero fucks to give so might as well tell the truth: NOT REALLY. To be honest, the bad sex is more than a little my fault– I’d decided I was doing this before I really examined how into it and him I was, so I’m not all that enthused. He really does come off as a sweet guy, though, and he’s got all the hallmark signs of an all night cuddler which I’m really not interested in so I just cut to the chase and ask him to leave after the requisite five minutes of snuggling. The coup de grace would have to be putting on my flannel puppy pajamas as he’s leaving– ZERO FUCKS, PEOPLE. He takes it well. Calm down about the hair and you’ll do just fine, future tech millionaire.
Price tag: Ah. Interesting question. He buys the drinks at Kona Club then turns to me when he gets the bill and asks, “They factor in the tip, right?” When I say, no, I really don’t think they factor in the tip at a bar, he shrugs and says, “Well, these were expensive enough already, they’re doing fine.” (Am I insane for fucking him? Maybe. Maybe.) Asks me to split a dinner in which I did not partake. Also a classy move. I buy the final round of drinks too– and left a tip, might I add– so I’d say this was probably a great night for him fiscally. Probably dropped $30.
Grade: Date grade: B-y. Sex grade: C-.
Bottom line: I’m not even sure why I fucked him except I’d already shaved my legs. I wonder if guys know how much their getting laid depends on a decision we’ve made beforehand. I thought that giving him the very blatant line of “WELL I GOTTA GET UP EARLY YOU SHOULD LEAVE SERIOUSLY PLEASE LEAVE” would’ve given him an impression that this was a one and done thing but evidently I’m going to have to be the complete bitch whore from hell and break it to him gently over text. Also left me a hickey that’ll force me to get a little creative with my work wardrobe the next week, AWESOME, May is scarf and turtleneck weather.