Today is the morning after a failed second date. Today is also the day that they refused to sell me liquor at my neighborhood supermarket. Let’s talk about the dates first.
This woman I went out with was not the hot dog girl at the movie theater; I still need to call her. No, this person was someone I met by replying to a Craigslist personal. She was a 37-year-old mom with a beautiful smile and intriguing eyes. We exchanged a few pictures and kept telling each other how nice we looked, but we also hit it off in our email conversations. We exchanged ideas about books, vices, and music, and after two days, we also exchanged numbers. I’ll call her Jean.
Jean asked if I wanted to hang out at this cool dive bar that I’d never visited. I one upped her and asked her to go out to dinner beforehand. We met on a Sunday night outside the place. We both told each other how nervous we were, and that somehow broke the ice. She looked just like her picture, but I hadn’t expected her to be so thin. Even under the sweater and the jacket, I could tell that she was very slender.
We had plenty to talk about over dinner to the point that the waitress had to come by several times before we could decide on food. My date was allergic to wheat/gluten, so her choices were limited. We both ordered whiskey although it was more of a beer place. I ordered a duck reuben sandwich and salad, while she ordered a side of potatoes and fries. I remarked that she must really like potatoes, and we started talking about a man in Washington State who ate only potatoes for sixty days. There were no awkward silences.
Jean kept offering and sometimes shoveling potatoes onto my plate from her side dish. I convinced her to try some of the meat off my duck reuben, and she took a rather small piece. We barely touched the fries. I said that I’d get the check if she’d get the drinks at the dive bar. Jean handed me a CD of this Swedish rock band whose name I can’t pronounce or even spell before heading to the bathroom. The check was handled and still no Jean. I thought that she had left until I saw her jacket was still on the chair. Fifteen minutes later, she came back to the table smiling.
We took a cab to the bar, and I got the feeling that it would be OK for me to kiss her. It didn’t feel like the right moment, and I hesitated. Jean was going back to school for music and sound production, so the bar was more of a music venue. There were painted car doors, detached baby doll heads, and possibly ironic artwork hanging all over the walls. I told Jean that the bodies for the doll heads were hidden behind the bar, and when the place closed, the bodies would come to life and choose a head. The bartenders didn’t have to clean anything because these creepy elves would handle it. She laughed, an adorable series of gasps complemented by her eyes looking down at the floor.
No one was dancing as a band played an experimental, elongated tune that may have involved a fiddle. I hadn’t worn my glasses, since I hadn’t been wearing glasses in any of the pictures that I’d sent via email. I didn’t want Jean to think that I was a fraud. People in the crowd stared at us and moved away until we had a three yard radius surrounding us. I realized that we’d been talking the whole time while everyone else was silently, motionlessly enjoying the music. It was definitely a hipster crowd.
During one song, which included a high-pitched singer and what may have been an accordion or a mini-fridge, Jean asked if she could my hand. OK, this is the right moment, I told myself. By this time, we were standing under a green light near the sound control board. In the green glow, she looked closer to 17 than 37. I kissed her cheek. She responded by kissing my neck. It was nice?
The only part was she wanted to keep kissing and kissing and kissing. I was having a good time and obliged, although I wanted her to buy me more drinks since I’d bought dinner. We’d been kissing for a good 20 minutes, and I was starting to feel self-conscious and slightly bored.
I suggested that we get another drink, and Jean suggested that I wait on the bar’s only couch while she got some. I did so, and she came back with a small glass of Bourbon. If you’ve read this far, then sorry that I haven’t given you any dialogue up until now.
“We can share,” Jean said. She set the glass of bourbon on the armrest and went back to kissing me. We tried doing the tongue thing, but there wasn’t symmetry or rhythm, so I started sucking and biting her lips and playfully smooching her long, shapely nose.
“Here, I want to try something,” I said as I broke away. I took a swig from the bourbon, swallowed most of it, and swished the last bit on my lips before kissing her again. The Bourbon kiss was more interesting. I also found that I liked it better when she was kissing my cheeks, ears, and neck, so I kept turning my head.
“You have money cheeks. I just want to spoil you and kiss you all over your body and give you massages,” she cooed in my ear.
I told her that would be fine. We joked about money cheeks. I was having a good time, but I was trying not to get impatient about the Bourbon only lasting a few kisses. We’d been kissing for about an hour on the couch. There was a pool table right across from the couch, and I must’ve tripped at least four hipsters playing while trying very hard to look like they didn’t care about what they were playing.
“Do you want water?” Jean asked.
“Yeah, my mouth is getting sort of dry. You really like making out,” I said.
“I don’t make out with just anyone,” she said.
“No, I wasn’t saying that. I was just saying that I like that you like making out. I appreciate your enthusiasm,” I replied.
Jean left to get us some water, and I said I’d go with her to get my own drink. My passive aggressiveness paid off, since she told me to stay on the couch while she got some water and more Bourbon.
There was about another half hour of Bourbon-flavored kisses. Finally, she decided that she needed a Bali Shag cigarette, so I joined her outside. I was chewing nicotine gum, and I’m not going to smoke anymore for obvious reasons. On the way out, a hipster in a stupid, green flannel shirt approached us.
“So do guys think you have anything left for home?” he asked and smiled to himself.
I turned to Jean. “I don’t know, it can be hard you know. Do you think you’ve got anything left?” I said.
“ Yeah, I think so,” Jean said.
“Huh, because we were wondering whether or not to give you guys tips,” the hipster said.
“Yeah! If you want to give us tips, we’ll take them. I won’t say no to money,” I replied.
The hipster looked confused that we weren’t ashamed at the prospect of being offered money.
“You know if you aren’t comfortable with giving us tips, then you could buy us drinks. Do you want to buy us drinks?” I asked.
He didn’t reply and stuffed his hands into his pockets as we put on our jackets. I really wouldn’t have said no to another drink. Jean smoked. We came back in, and I bought myself a huge bottle of Arrogant Bastard when she went to the bathroom. Unlike at the time at the restaurant, she wasn’t gone for 15 minutes.
We danced for a few minutes to this DJ who only played funk.
“Do you want to go back to the couch?” Jean asked.
“Oh, it looks like other people have claimed it,” I said. Those people got up, so we made our way back to the couch.
I cradled my beer and tried not to count the kisses. I’m one of those people who doesn’t always close his eyes when he’s about to kiss. I sometimes like to see the other person’s face as they move in. Jean’s pale, smooth, elfin face looked very trusting, and her bottom lip would flatten out as if she was about to put in a mouth guard. She kept telling me how gorgeous I was and how lucky we were to have met. I felt like I had to say something back.
“You have beautiful eyes, and I can tell you have a beautiful soul,” I said.
The utter content on her face scared me. I wanted to add something like “It’s pillow talk, baby,” but I succumbed to more kisses instead. I also blurted out that I was still living with my ex-girlfriend. She said that was OK, and thanked me for being honest. We went back to kissing.
Throughout the whole affair, I couldn’t get a feel for her body underneath the layers of skirt and sweater. I felt in some places, but the most I saw were her legs; they were pale and thin like a doll’s.
Still, I thought we had an excellent time. I liked that she kept listening to my stupid stories, laughing at my lame jokes, and complimenting my looks at a time in my life when I really needed it. We eventually took a cab back and almost got hit by a minvan. As the taxi driver cursed, I was invited to cuddle back at her place, and I wanted to, despite the hours of kissing. I realized that it’d look bad for my current living situation with my ex-girlfriend to be gone the entire night on a first date.
At least, that’s what I told myself. I knew that I was having a good time, right? Jean and I agreed to go out for a movie the next night, since we both agreed that we’d hit it off.
24 hours later, I was in Jean’s apartment. Guess what we were doing? Yes, we were making out. I was kissing halfheartedly by then, but I was a horny mess.
Before getting into the apartment, I met her at the grocery store where she was picking up meat for her cat. The feline had an allergic reaction to all the other affordable, brand name foods, so her Vet suggested the meat over buying an expensive, allergen-free brand. Oh yeah, I also found out that she had three cats.
I forgot their names, so I’ll call them Larry, Moe, and Curly. Larry was a fat, grey, Garfield-esque cat; Moe was a badass tabby with a mangled ear; and Curly was entirely black except for a small patch of white on his chest. Larry and Moe were on the bed as Jean and I kissed and unbuttoned each others’ shirts.
I told her about having only one testicle. I hated saying “only one” but it came out that way. Her response was “so what?” I could tell that she noticed the scar on my stomach, but she didn’t mention it.
To make a twisted story perhaps more bearable, I’ll cut to the chase. Jean and I went down on one another. Her technique was skilled and compassionate, but I was too distracted by the thumping against her bedroom door.
Jean assured me that it was the third cat trying to get in, but I kept wondering if it was her 18-year-old son trying to gain entry. Thankfully, I never had to meet the guy, since that would have been awkward on several levels. I imagined lying about my age, but it still would’ve been strange to have that interaction, that unspoken eye contact that I was getting things from his Mom that he should never imagine.
Finally, I was able to let go and hit climax. It wasn’t quite the vibrating door or the two, watchful cats on the bed that held me back. The woman with whom I’d had an amazing first date was shockingly skinny. She had beautiful skin, but I could count her ribs. I kept remembering her long trip to the bathroom during last night’s dinner. There was a map of the United States along the wall closest to the bed, and I kept staring at it, wondering what the fuck I was doing there.
We finished and cuddled. She massaged my back and butt in an attentive, heartbreaking fashion. We smoked a bowl and talked about everything and nothing. We had originally agreed to go to a movie that I’d picked, but none of the clocks in the apartment were set to the right time. Instead, we agreed to catch dinner at a nearby pub, since I’d told her that I was hungry.
In addition to going to school, Jean more or less worked as a full-time waitress. She had formerly worked at the pub we went to, and she knew the waitress there. This compelled the waitress to give us intimate details about her recent personal life. I didn’t care. I busily ate peanuts from the table bowl as they talked, since I was hungry. Finally, we both ordered burgers.
Jean and the waitress jokingly described my burger as a face-melter, a gut-buster. I’d ordered the bleu cheese burger and wolfed it down. After that was gone, I started looking at Jean’s plate. She had removed the buns from her burger and hadn’t touched the fries…again. I would call it generous to say that she sliced and diced about a third of her cheese covered patty. She noticed my look and explained that she disliked feeling full and that her stomach sometimes had strange reactions. We didn’t make eye contact, and I nodded embarrassedly.
At the same time, I wanted to jam the rest of that hamburger patty down her throat. I was pissed that she had at least one overweight cat at home and that she had bought a good amount of meat for another one. I said nothing. When she reached for my hand, I let her hold my elbow instead.
We got our check. I laid down my last twenty and went to the bathroom. When I got back, I asked Jean if our change had come back. I then found out that waitresses tip each other inordinate amounts. I reluctantly explained that I didn’t have any money to buy an L train ticket back home, so Jean handed me a bunch of singles without counting them.
We made our way back to her apartment and followed a similar line of conversation. Curly, the cat with the allergic reaction, had wandered back to the bed. He started scratching his ear as I tried to pet him. The scratching escalated, and Curly tore at his ear while meowing violently. Finally, he shook his head and sprayed some sort of feline mucous on my forearm before sprinting from the room.
Jean wanted to kiss and cuddle. I noticed that her arms were as thin and doll-like as her legs and covered in impressive veins. I complimented the veins of her arms as I traced them.
“Be honest, do you find me attractive?” Jean spoke. She looked at me seemingly without judgment or expectation.
“You know, I do find parts of you attractive. You have a beautiful face and a wonderful personality,” I answered reluctantly.
“Oh, OK.” Jean’s eyes traveled back to the floor. I felt like the total dick that I was.
“I’m sorry. It’s just,” I began
“No, it’s OK,” she retorted
I spent the next five minutes trying to tell her how beautiful her eyes were, but it was probably more damaging than constructive.
At that point, I just wanted to smoke another bowl, so I hung around. Moe, the cat with the mangled ear, stared accusingly at me from the bed, but she perked up when we blew smoke in her direction.
I felt brutally honest at this point. Jean asked me if I liked her jeans; they were the type of jeans that come with pre-fabricated tears, which I hate. I told her about a threadbare Army shirt that I’d loved and cherished for a dozen plus years. I told her that tears should be earned and not manufactured. I was a complete jerk.
Before I left, there were a few more smooches to the side of my mouth. They felt motherly and sorrowful.
“Thank you,” Jean said as I stepped to the other side of her apartment door.
“Thanks,” I said as I closed the door.
I think we both meant it, but that doesn’t change that fact that I’m a jerk who won’t admit that he’s a jerk and doesn’t know what he wants.
OK, so don’t forget the earlier mention of me being denied liquor at the supermarket. This is the morning, rather afternoon, after that failed second date. I have a 25 page research paper due for school in 2 days, and I have about 5 pages and plenty of research leftover. I decide to make something delicious and satisfying that I haven’t had in awhile: macaroni and cheese with tuna fish. As I procure those items, a fifth of vodka somehow finds its way into my shopping basket. I take that whole mess to the self-checkout line.
When the vodka bottle hit the scan strip, I take my ID up to the monitoring cashier. She looks at my ID for about 3 seconds.
“I’m sorry sir, but your ID has an under 21 line posted on it,” she says.
“Yeah, but look at the birth date. I’m 23,” I reply
“I’m sorry sir. I can’t take that,” she says.
“Listen, I’ve lived in this area for 3 months, and I’ve never had a problem. What’s changed?”
“Most cashiers would take this, but I’m a trainer. The rules say we can’t take an ID with and under 21 on it”
“That doesn’t make any sense,” I say. I stride angrily back to my self-checkout spot and plop my fifth of vodka back into the shopping basket. The trainer cashier comes over to my scan area to take the item off my bill.
“This is silly. This is ridiculous. I’ve never had this before. Look, I can show you my debit and credit cards. They have the same name,” I spout.
“Sir, I have to follow the rules as a trainer,” she replies.
“OK, so what if I brought a passport. No under 21 on that, right?”
“If you had brought the passport first, then that would’ve worked. But I’ve seen the under 21 on you card, so I couldn’t take it.”
“Oh, I see that’s how you operate. That’s how you operate. Does that make sense to you, following those rules? This is really dumb.”
The trainer doesn’t reply. She removes the bottle of vodka from my scan area and lumbers back to her desk. I realize that it’s about 2:30 in the afternoon. I give her a look of death as I file out with my under 21 groceries.
I also realize that I’m not so indignant over her blind adherence to meaningless rules as I am over the fact that I won’t get drunk as soon as I’d thought. There’s a liquor store on the way home, right before I turn off to my home street. I pause at the crosswalk and don’t pay attention to the traffic signals. I finally decide to walk the street home.
There’s this need for instant gratification everywhere. I think I’ve gone into dating with that expectation, and I’ve realized that his parallels my drinking habits. I must always feel good; otherwise; I must be doing something wrong. I know that time is limited, but I think I can stand to wait on those decisions.
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