Adventures In Dating If you are single, it’s best to have a sense of humor. The summer after my first year in law school, I got lucky enough to land a job with a personal injury law firm. I was single, and I had hoped I would get to the law firm and meet a hot young associate who could pretty much be my sugar daddy. I know what you are thinking, and I’m not a golddigger; but money was tight (my job was work study) and who doesn’t appreciate being spoiled? However, after I got to my four-partner firm that harbored NO young associate attorneys, that fantasy dissipated. The job was fun, not a lot of work, but a lot of lunches out and meeting people. One day one of the partners took me to a trial lawyer association luncheon. It wasn’t a big gathering, and everyone in the room was over 50; except for me and one other person. I noticed him right away, mostly because he was the only person within 10 years of my age in the room, and not overweight, and because he was wearing a bright blue shirt that matched his bright blue eyes. I followed my boss to a table, and sat down to listen to some droning catching up, smiling and nodding but not really paying attention. Blue Shirt came over and introduced himself to me, and we chatted for about two minutes; I silently thanked whatever supernatural forces were at work that had allowed this chance meeting to occur on a day when I had actually put some effort into my appearance and put together a pretty rockin’ outfit. I only put my foot in my mouth once, when I asked where he was going to school; he had graduated four years ago and was practicing. Oops. But just as I thought he was about to ask me out (prefaced by “so do you not know anyone around here?”) the luncheon was called to order, and he went to sit by his boss. I vowed to talk to him again before we left; but my boss wanted to get out early because he had a meeting with a client. Curse that woman that started the luncheon and curse my boss for not keeping that client waiting, just this once. I decided I was not going to give up just quite yet. I knew that I was never going to see this guy again, so I really had nothing to lose by sending him an email to let him know I was interested. I found his law firm’s website, and through a fixed “potential client inquiry” form, told him I wanted to chat again, and to let me know if he was up for it. I freaked out a little after I sent it, because the response that came up was a thank you from the law firm, not just Blue Shirt. Oh well, nothing I could do about it now (and I later did find out that the email went to his boss, who then forwarded it to him; excellent). Blue Shirt emailed me back the same day, saying we should grab coffee and giving me his number. I could not stop grinning after I read it, even though it was about 3 lines long. It took every ounce of will power I had to wait until the following night to call him, but there was no way I was going to respond right away. I wanted to at least appear like I had a life, and hadn’t constantly checked my email for his response. I manage to hold out until 7 the next night, and then I can’t take it anymore and I give in and call. We don’t talk for very long but decide to meet for coffee the coming Sunday. It was Wednesday and I could hardly stand the wait. Sunday rolls around and I have to head back up to town from my parents’, about an hour’s drive. I’m cruising along, singing my little heart out, getting myself pumped up for my coffee date and visualizing potential outfits in my head, when I look down at my dash and notice my engine is as hot as it can get and the “hot engine” light is on. This is particularly infuriating because I have just gotten my car back from being serviced, so it should be in working order. I make it to a Chevron and wait for my car to cool down, buy some water and put it in the reserve tank and turn around to head back home. I had only made it 15 minutes on my drive, so I thought I would be able to get home to switch my car out and make it back into the city in time for my date. Oh, was I mistaken. I got back on the freeway, and watch in agony as my temperature gauge moves at a startlingly fast rate towards the “hot” section. I made it a mile, and that was pushing it. I sat for about 20 minutes, and started off again. A mile later I was in the same position, this time on an off ramp instead of the shoulder of the freeway. I call my parents, and he suggests to wait forever so I can take the radiator cap off and top it off with water, thereby increasing the distance I could potentially drive. He also advised me that I would need to grasp the cap with something other than my bare hand (my mom suggested a towel-well of course mom I travel with beach towels ALL THE TIME!! All I had handy were white t-shirts). So this time I wait for about 45 minutes, until the cap is cool. My phone is dying, but I am still on it, talking to my dad, trying to figure out just where exactly the radiator cap is. Yes, I remain embarrassingly true to the stereotype that women know nothing about cars, and can barely check the oil, let alone get the radiator cap off. When I finally do identify the cap, I take off the black shirt I am wearing, change into a white t-shirt (even though I have on a black bra) and step back out to take off the radiator cap using my t-shirt to grasp the cap. Right as I step out of my car from changing, it starts to pour; so much that cars on the freeway slow down because windshield wipers can’t go fast enough to slosh water off the cars so drivers can see. Then it begins to hail. I should have realized that these were signs, but when there is the possibility of a date on the horizon, I blatantly ignore even the most glaring indicators that maybe things aren’t meant to be. Finally, it lightens up, and I get out again to take off the cap. It won’t budge. I am somewhere between hysterical laughter and big, gulping sobs. I twist with all my might and it still won’t budge. I use my left hand, then my right hand; nothing. I throw caution to the wind and use my bare hand. Nothing. I call my parents to make sure I am attempting to remove the right cap, and they say they are coming out to meet me. I tell them no, I will try again and call them back if I can’t get it. I am 24 years old and there is no way in hell both of my parents are driving out to show me where the radiator cap is on my car. At this point, I tell the cap that it is coming off if I die with it in my cold, raw fingers; and finally it moves. I pour in the water and make it home. By this time I have called Blue Shirt and he was so understanding, asking if there was anything he could do, and offering to push our date back or cancel all together and reschedule, whatever I wanted. I tell him I’ll call when I’m headed back and we can decide then. But I think, however backwards it may be, that there is no way I’m canceling because I have looked forward to this since Wednesday and I deserve a good time after all this. I am going to press on at all costs. Looking back, this is probably not the best attitude to have when preparing for a first date with someone who is, for all intent and purposes, a stranger. My grandpa is kind enough to allow me to use his car, and my mom takes me over to get it. It is pretty much ready to go, I just need to check and make sure the insurance is in the glove box. I find the card, and of course, it has expired. I ask God why He is punishing me; then I rethink and ask why he chose to wait and do it now. My mother and I hunt around the house for 45 minutes, and I end up calling the insurance company to make sure my grandpa’s insurance is current and that a card was issued; he tells them to send another card, and right as he hangs up the phone my mother finds the mailing from the insurance company containing the card, which my grandpa just forgot to rip out of the mailing and put in his car. I allow myself to think things are turning around. BIG MISTAKE. I hit traffic immediately on the highway leaving town, on a Sunday afternoon at 4:45. It is not a holiday weekend, nor am I traveling through a city. I start to laugh to keep myself from crying. Someday this will be hilarious. Someday. I call Blue Shirt and let him know that I am finally headed back, but that I am in traffic and I’m not sure how long it will take me. I also tell him that I could really use a beer, and we agree to still meet up. I am supposed to call him when I get close, we’ll meet at a gas station and then drive to a bar not too far away. Perfect. I am dressed in jeans, Adidas slides, a white t-shirt and a black bra; I have on no makeup. And when I say Adidas slides, I mean the black ones you put on after a basketball game-not to mention my roommate gave these to me, and they are a size too big. My toenails sported severely chipped polish but at least I took a shower that morning. My hair is in a ponytail and is irrevocably kinked from being wet from the rain and in a ponytail, so there is no changing that. I decide that I will get to the gas station, put on some makeup, change my shoes, and then call him to meet me. I think I can manage that. I get to the gas station and he is there waiting for me, because he decided that the gas station wasn’t in the best neighborhood and I probably shouldn’t be sitting there waiting for him by myself. The thought of how sweet it was that he was concerned lasted about a millisecond since his kindness had ruined my plan to salvage my homeless look. I force a smile and try to picture my happy place, where strange men that don’t know me think I am beautiful in formless clothes and no makeup. Did I mention that when I first met him I was sitting and he was standing? I am a pretty sturdy 5 ft 8, and I have long dreamed of finding a 6 ft or taller Mr. Right, with some meat on his bones. Blue Shirt was not him. He was maybe my height (and that was in shoes and me without) and a runner. I might as well have been a hammer throwing steroid taking Norwegian named Olga. Shit, I just can’t get a break today. We head to a bar to grab a beer. The conversation isn’t bad; he has just a hint of a lisp. It’s almost unnoticeable, but it sneaks in enough that I am convinced that a minor speech impediment exists. But I have done the math; he is 31 and I am 24, which is very alluring. He is making money, and has been for four years, while I am going deeper in debt by the minute; again, very attractive. And, while I have never been one to check out nice cars or really even care what kind of car a guy drives, I did notice that he pulled up in a Mercedes. A nice one, not an old one. And so I chose to ignore the slight, really almost nonexistent lisp. I also chose to ignore the fact that he described himself as a “wayward poet.” And that after he tricked me into following him back to his apartment, he had wine bottles with lilies around because it really “lightened the place up.” Now maybe some of you are thinking “oh, how romantic!” The thought that flashed across my mind was “is this guy a douche bag?” Again, I ignored it. He makes us some food (pizza and steak, quite a combo) and we decide to watch a movie he just got that he hadn’t seen before. The movie is going along, and we aren’t really touching or anything, just sitting by each other. Then he leans in and kisses me. With tongue. I am surprised and ecstatic (about being kissed by a guy with a speech impediment; I realize how this sounds now). He does that about three more times throughout the movie, just leans in and starts kissing me. The movie gets over and he has to come out with me to let me out of his gated apartment complex. He kisses me goodbye, and I am walking on clouds. It was wonderful. He was a pretty good kisser, the conversation wasn’t bad, and did I mention he was fluent in German? I was thinking I had found my ticket to a hot summer romance with a guy that could keep me from going further in debt. I am such a complete idiot sometimes. We kind of left it up in the air, he didn’t say he would call me or anything about hanging out again. I get some balls and email, tell him I had a good time, he turned my day around. I get an email back, saying he had a good time too, but again, nothing about getting together again. So I decide I will leave it alone, because although I have taken initiative, I am NOT desperate enough to keep calling/contacting someone who just isn’t that into me. But a few days later, he calls me, and wants to hang out again. We go back to the same bar we had gone to before, to watch the baseball game that was on that night. I love sports, so this sounds like a pretty good date to me. And I have enough time to get ready, and actually look like I care and know how to look good, rather than some weird law school hippie who doesn’t believe in makeup or heels. Though not believing in heels might have been good for this guy. I pick him up at his apartment, after I drive the wrong way for a while (I swear, Google maps is NOT foolproof); he tells me I look really good. I haven’t been on a first date in a while, and this is pretty nice to hear. We have a few beers, watch most of the game. He has a few shots, we take one together, but I am not even buzzed (2 beers and 1 shot over about 2.5 hours didn’t do it for me) but I think he might be, because he had one really strong shot and he might have had one more beer, I’m not sure. We get in the car and right away he leans over and kisses me, and I am thinking, God, I am so lucky. We turn the game on in the car, and I am thinking I am just going to drop him back at his apartment. But we stop on the way, to listen to the rest of the game at a little park that overlooks the city. He kisses me a little more, not a lot, but a little. Then he asks if I have to get home soon, and of course I say no. He suggests we listen to the rest of the game up in his apartment. Um, yes please. I have to go to the bathroom when we get into his apartment. I honestly thought we would sit on the couch and listen to the rest of the game (at least at first, there was only about an inning left). Coming out of the bathroom, I pass his bedroom; the hall is dark and he is in the bedroom. The only light in the whole apartment is coming from his bedroom, and he is sitting on his bed taking off his shoes, and the radio is on in there as well. I say, “oh, we are listening in here?” He indicates that I am correct. My heart is pounding, because even though I have been around the block before, this is kind of new for me: is this 31 year old, mature attorney pulling some frat guy shit to get me in his bedroom? YES. Another blatant sign, and obviously I again ignored it. I slowly move into the room, looking down at my feet, and sit on the edge of his bed, not next to him. Fiddling with my foot, I am wondering exactly where this is going, if we really are in here to listen to the game, if he is going to make a move, and how in the hell I can manage looking cool and comfortable sitting on the edge of a 31 year old man’s bed listening to a baseball game on a radio at eleven on a work night. But I don’t have to wonder that long, because about two seconds after I sit down, he grabs my hand and pulls me on top of him. Jesus, he didn’t waste anytime! My hair is falling everywhere, and he is pushing it gently out of my face, and there is lots of smiling and kissing. It continues, we roll around his bed…his nice, big, fur covered bed. He gets up and lights some candles. This is where I start to panic a little; where does he think this is going? I think I might have come off as a little naïve to him, and he thought I was this young student who totally looked up to him and he could take advantage of that. If he only knew the real me… So before we get too into it, I stop him and tell him that I don’t want to have sex, because we barely know each other (don’t ask me why, this has never stopped me before). He acquiesces, very agreeably, and adds “but I DESIRE to have sex with you.” I wonder if I am in an episode of Dawson’s Creek, where the characters have vocabularies way too extensive and sophisticated for the teenage soap opera the show really was. Granted, he is thirty, but it is getting to be too much. But I digress, the climax to this story looms on the horizon. Somehow, even after I claim I am not interested in sex, my shirt comes off. Actually, this is pretty natural. It comes off more often than I’d like to admit. But, in all the times previous to this where I have unmasked my perfect, wonderfully shaped breasts and supple nipples (sorry, too much graphic description for you? Trust me, it’s necessary.). Not three seconds after my top half is unsheathed, do I hear words I will remember (and my friends won’t let me forget) for the rest of my life: “Oh my God, I love your nipples. You should be a nipple model.” I don’t understand. Wait. Did I really hear that? After my initial shock wears off, I recover and manage some words. But my first thought is- “What? Do they even have those?” Yes, I asked if they have nipple models. Wouldn’t you wonder if someone said that to you? (A friend of mine whom I told this story informed me that they do: they are commonly referred to as PORNSTARS). He answers he doesn’t know. Then he proceeds to begin to use the word (and I’m sorry if this is offensive, but to be true to the story, I feel it is a necessity to insert it in its unstarred or unabbreviated form) fuck an INORDINATE amount. “You are so fucking hot.” “This is so fucking good.” “Mmm. Fuck.” The man had barely sworn at all the entire night up to this point, and now he dropping the f-bomb like it’s the only adjective, verb and noun he knows. I was confused; did this have to do with his alcohol intake or is this what he was like all the time? Well, I will never know. But the awkwardness did not end there. He didn’t have air conditioning, as many in the area don’t because it’s only really hot about 2 days out of the year. Of course, that does not account for the hot sex people may be having in their residences that would benefit from a little airconditioning, as would this residence on this night (although it really only qualified as a warm makeout). He suggests we go out to the living room. I am thinking he means we should move to his cool leather couch over his hot furry blanket on his bed. Consistent with the pattern of thinking that pervades throughout this quasi-relationship I have going with him, I was again, mistaken. We stood, in the living room, in the dark, both of us topless, for 20 minutes. Imagine 20 minutes of making out, knowing it’s not going past that, completely sober, standing the whole time. Maybe he thought it was different and exciting. I was wondering if he was trying to wait me out, and force me to return to the bed and remove the rest of my clothing, because this was the alternative. Well when I want to I can be stubborn, and there was no way in hell I was suggesting getting back in bed. And no way I was going to remove any more of his clothing. Not in the mood for a peak at his one-eyed snake just yet. And I almost forgot another gem of a line! Before we had moved to the living room, there had been a pause, and he had professed to me his lack of intent for pursuing a relationship. He just wanted to have fun. I kept it light, saying I considered myself warned, and we continued to makeout. I really wanted to say “you think I want to date a a guy who has a smaller ass than mine, who has a lisp, who calls himself a wayward poet and thinks it is a compliment to tell me I should be a nipple model? ARE YOU SERIOUS??” I never really think that far into the future anyway. My friends can confirm: I’m not a planner, and my attempts at such are usually unsuccessful. At any rate, this guy must have considered himself quite some Casa Nova. I did not. At all. Now truthfully, this ought to have been the end of my contact with this guy. I had pretty much figured out that he really wasn’t my type. But I was in a big city, where it would have been fun to have someone with a lot of money take me out. I only think about things like that when they are short term; I just want the maximum output for the investment of my valuable time! About another week later, I decide I will give this one more shot (we had talked a few times in the interim) and ask if he wants to hang out. I’m usually not this aggressive, but excess time and boredom prompted me so to act. He responds that he was planning on going for a run-but, brilliant idea-I should join him! I knew he was in a lot better shape than I was, and at first I declined. But he pressed, saying he would really enjoy it, and he could adjust to meet my needs. What in hell would possess me to respond positively? He was so not worth it. He picks a trail that is close to me, and we meet there. And he is stretching and shirtless when I pull up. I rethink my previous doubts about him, as despite his height and runner’s build, he is a little thicker than I remember and has quite a sculpted upper body. Then I remember that I am meeting him to go on a death march, and I cringe at what I have gotten myself into. But I thought I would be ok if I just went slowly. Well, there were two problems with that theory: 1) the beginning of the trail was easy, so I misjudged it and ran too fast and 2) I had way too much adrenaline and wanted to show him that I wasn’t your typical slouchy female. I was a former college athlete, damn it! My pride may have gotten the best of me. We set out and the trail is flat, and I am thinking, oh, this will be a piece of cake! I can run on flat land forever, at a slow enough pace. I was picturing us running together weekly, down by the water, in the city, when suddenly his voice cut through my fantasy: “I just feel like I should warn you, it’s not this flat the whole time, it will start going up a hill in a little bit. But it’s not too bad, and it will be all down hill on the way down.” That’s ok, I think. I ran a trail in college that had some hills in it, so I think I will be able to do fine. The first few hills really aren’t that bad, and dart right up them, and he comments that he likes the way I am shooting up the hills. I think, I could do this forever. But then the trail began to climb as well, and the hills got longer and steeper. I begin to wonder if I am attempting to run up a small mountain. Or a large one, I am not quite sure. Embarrassingly enough, I have to stop. This NEVER happens to me, only once before when the first physical activity I attempted after having mono was running two miles. But my thighs have never burned like this before, it was as if with every step I took, they were becoming more and more like thick lead posts. It would be impossible to run with thick lead posts as legs. And it was becoming impossible for me to run. We finally make it to the top. I have never felt more grateful to stop moving in my life, and I once hiked down a mountain, walked 4 miles in the wrong direction, and had to turn around and walk back up the mountain, with a backpack on. That pails in comparison to the way my legs felt this day. Down the mountain had to be better. I tried to stretch out our break as long as possible, but I could tell he was getting antsy-his heart rate must have dropped a beat and he wanted it back up. I could have thought of a different, more fun way to get it back up…but now was neither the time nor the place. We start down the mountain. Well, there were dips and valleys coming up the mountain, so there were dips and valleys going down. Some severe dips, and drastic valleys. After the second one, I needed another break (this was like some weird nightmare, running with a cute boy, getting no action, and my body breaking down slowly, but never completely, and I just have to keep running and running and running…). My pride and ego are so wounded at this point, I think I may have left them at the top. I tell him he can go on ahead, that I know I am holding him back and I can just follow the trail down the mountain. His response surprises me; he says that it doesn’t matter how fast we are going, he was just happy to have me there, because he hadn’t been in a relationship with a girl who enjoyed being active. I didn’t understand; this was the same guy who had just told me he wasn’t looking for a relationship. And here he was, cheering me on, making me feel comfortable, looking genuinely happy (maybe deceivingly so) just to have me there. We finish the run, eventually, and walk out to our cars. There is a little small talk, he puts a shirt on (and for a runner, and not being that big of a guy, he was ripped-and I don’t mean he was so skinny his skin was stretched across his tiny muscles; they were developed). I am sweaty and red in the face and feeling very unattractive. And then his next sentence just kills me: “Well, I am going to the gym; maybe next time we can shoot around or something.” Going to the gym? What was wrong with him? Hadn’t we just gotten enough of a workout running up Mt. Everest? That was the last time I saw him face to face. He called once more to see if we could get together, but I was going out of town that weekend. Then he left for a solo trip to Hawaii, after which I was leaving to go on an Alaskan cruise and then back to school. So he never called me again, and this time, I let things die. I only wish I had seen him, at least in passing, just once more. The last memory he has of me, my face was red and sweat covered, my hair was plastered to my scalp, and I could barely breathe. But I guess that didn’t do him in, because he did call me at least one more time after that. But it just wasn’t meant to be. And if I had just read the signs, I wouldn’t have had to go through all of this. But then there would be no great story to tell, and I wouldn’t be able to claim the title of “Nipple Model.” That alone should make it worth it.
Copyright © 2007 Samantha Jane |