I tend to reserve my weekends for the Viking. After all, I can meet the OkC idiots at any time. So it was unusual that I had a date on a Saturday.
I had a Saturday date because I had moved it from Friday, the only daytime weekday that one of the guys I’d been fucking could meet. See, I give priority to guys who’ve already proven to be decent to hang out with and good lays over guys who seem nice enough but who have yet to prove themselves in the sack.
So I had a Saturday date and the Viking understood. I woke up early – for a Saturday – and got ready to take the two busses to meet the guy at a restaurant of his choosing – one I later found out was both new to him and close to his place.
We had agreed there would be sex. On our initial meeting we had had some frank discussion of sex, and then in our negotiations about what became the Saturday date, I said I’d need condoms and lube. We even discussed my lube of choice and he went out and got a tiny bottle of the stuff.
I did not guarantee sex. Good thing.
The restaurant of his choice turned out to be a small café without any alcohol. No, I don’t need to drink alcohol all the time, but it sure goes well with brunch (or any meal, really). Besides, this guy was supposed to be getting me in the mood to use lube he’d gone out of his way to purchase. We order our meals – me some breakfast enchilada thing with some sort of hybrid name like frijoladas or some other Taco Bell-sounding (or, in this case, probably TexMex) bull shit, and him chilaquiles topped with steak.
During the way-too-long-considering-the-mediocre-quality-of-the-result wait for our food, we talked. Sort of. I asked very open-ended questions that would have allowed him to talk about what is likely a very interesting job, but he just said nothing good had happened recently. Ok, then give me something good/interesting that happened not-so recently. Give me something! I spent a good portion of the wait looking out the front window, something I had to turn my head a full 90 degrees away from him to do.
His conversation starter consisted of, “I went to the zoo,” because he knew I volunteer there. And what did you see at the zoo, little boy? I suppose he wanted me to ask him, because that’s all he said, “I went to the zoo.” Great. Now what do we say.
The food finally arrived after a period of time where I drank probably six glasses of water just to have something to do. The food was a bed of flavorless, watery refried beans holding scrambled egg-filled corn tortillas topped with squeeze bottle-created swaths of sour cream and something slightly spicy. Very much blah, but since eating was something to do I concentrated on getting every boring bite into my mouth. I may have concentrated too hard, because I finished my entire meal by the time he was about half done with his.
I was bored. I attempted to begin a conversation with, “I don’t have cancer.” Folks, when you get to be an old, old person like me, conversations can start like that – IF other people in the conversation participate. That’s an opening to make fun of my age, to make fun of cancer, make fun of my shitty conversation starter, to SAY SOMETHING other than, “Oh, did you go to the doctor?”
He said his food was really, really good. Bull shit, he just didn’t know good food.
A few nights before I had left my umbrella at a wine bar in the neighborhood. When I figured out that I was meeting the guy in the same neighborhood I took it as a good sign – that I wouldn’t have to take a special trip to retrieve the umbrella. After lunch, dude and I walked to the wine bar under the auspices of getting my formerly forgotten rainy day accessory. I thought it would be a good opportunity to sit down to a bottle of wine – or something in the relaxing, alcoholic family – and try to get him talking and me less irritated/more likely to want the dude to go down on me.
He had other ideas, likely led by the part of his simple brain that just wanted a body in his bed. I could have been flattered the guy was so eager, but since his desire had little to nothing to do with getting me in his bed, I wasn’t. We’d barely had a conversation over a lame meal, how could that have put him in any sort of mood? Because guys will fuck anything? 1) That’s bull shit. 2) That’s not something that should be either encouraged or desired.
For the most part I don’t jaywalk. While living in Chicago has definitely changed that, since most pedestrians jaywalk and most drivers are inconsiderate asses, when there’s a crosswalk in sight, I will use it. When we were across a six-lane avenue from the wine bar, guy decided to jaywalk; I opted to walk the “extra” 100 yards in toto to lawfully cross the street.
By the time I walked and waited for the light, he was already in the wine bar asking them to fork over my umbrella. By the time I was near the establishment’s front door, he was coming out with my umbrella in hand. I know it’s only an umbrella, but why didn’t they make sure the guy was actually with me before handing it to him?
Sure, I could have told the dude to turn around and reenter the wine bar so we could have some drinks, but I shouldn’t have to tell a grown-ass man how to behave on a date. Just like I shouldn’t have had to be in charge of all the conversation. Both (or all) parties to a date need to put forth an effort.
Walking to his place, I asked if he had any alcohol at home. Yes, he had beer. I don’t drink beer. Oh, he had some wine. I can work with that. I would have preferred to work with the wine available in the wine bar – something about which I would feel much more strongly when I saw the interior of his apartment. I asked about vodka and he said he had some kind of flavored vodka that I probably wouldn’t like, it was a Polish thing.
Again, an opportunity to talk about something. I like vodka. I know very little about Polish vodka flavored with buffalo grass. Well, I think that’s what he said. My response was that “buffalo grass” sounded like “buffalo piss” since that’s where buffalos piss, in the grass. Sure, I may have in a wee negative by this point, but he could have told me what this vodka was and/or said that I should taste it and/or tell me that I’m an ass for making fun of a culturally important beverage. He did none of those things. He also didn’t offer to make a pit stop at a liquor store before going back to his place.
We had planned our date for a while. He knew I was coming over. Until Tuesday night he thought I’d be over on Friday – not Saturday – afternoon. Dude had time to make his apartment look like a human with opposable thumbs lived in the joint.
Living room was a random hodgepodge of futon, love seat, cat-shredded upholstered rocking chair, TV trays, and trash. Also, a desk that was clearly masturbation headquarters. When I asked where he sat to watch TV he pointed to the not-quite-as-ratty-as-the-chair love seat on which a kitty was perched. I pet the kitty, who didn’t know his papa was a world-class slob, and pointed out that the view to the TV was blocked by a TV tray and box. There were a lot of boxes around, which he explained were there because he’d only been in the place for three months. (We had everything at least out of boxes in under a week after our last move.)
What I assumed was kitchen counter was absolutely covered with dirty dishes, loose change, a pile of about 30 ties, and random crap. How random? A 2011 dated Mickey Mouse snow globe in its original packaging. When I inquired about this item he said he could sell it to Disney freaks. Ok, so sell it, don’t let it take up precious kitchen counter space. He made a point to tell me not to look in the kitchen sink, advice I was glad to heed after I saw his bathroom.
I’ve seen worse bathrooms, much worse. I’ve fucked guys with worse bathrooms. Guys who had ways of making me not care what their bathrooms looked like – alcohol, good conversation, sex appeal – got some leeway. This guy was already having to work his way out of some negatives that a clean apartment might have made up for. But when he said the bathroom wasn’t that bad, and I saw that it was pretty gross, I knew that there was a chance nothing in his apartment “wasn’t that bad.”
Walking through his bedroom to get to the bathroom, I noticed his bed was made. Well, at least there was that. But a merely made bed, the vintage of the sheets I was not aware, amongst a messy and dirty apartment is not enough for me at this point in my life. Why should I spend time in an uncomfortably filthy apartment with a guy who doesn’t have the forethought to do anything for a date other than pick a crappy café he’s been wanting to try?
I’m not looking for a whole day filled with romantic activities, fancy meals, and expensive bottles of wine. Actually, spending that much time with one person sounds fucking horrible. No, I would have settled for a good meal, a $20 bottle of wine, and an apartment that didn’t make me wonder about cockroaches or, much worse, bedbugs.
He showed me a selection of bottles of inexpensive (not a negative), heavy red (a negative) wines. It was a clear, sunny day in the 80s, why did he think I’d want to drink a heavy red wine? I opted for none of them. He didn’t even offer water.
I was giving him shit about the state of his apartment, the fact that he knew I was coming over. I asked if he brought other women there. After a bit of telling him what a mess his apartment was, he admitted that he was a mess. Oh, shit. I was not there to hear about his sad life, if he had one. I like these casual relationships so I don’t have to talk about feelings and shit. I assured him that it was unclear to me whether he was a mess, but his apartment most definitely was.
Then he went into bargaining mode. Was it fair that I return the following week, after he had a chance to clean up his place? Uh, fair, I guess, but that didn’t mean anything. I told him I wouldn’t promise him anything, and that it depended how I felt. The more I think about it, the less I like the “is it fair” tactic. Just because something is fair doesn’t mean I am in any way required, obligated, or compelled to do it. When it comes to sex, the “is it far” seems even more manipulative.
I didn’t sit down for more than about 30 seconds. I just wanted to leave. He could tell I just wanted to leave, which meant he wasn’t completely devoid of the ability to read social cues. Not completely.
Should I see this guy again?
I swear. True story.
