I've had a sort-of skanky couple of days. Not actually skanky by normal 23-year-old standard, but by my standards, yes. Two raunchy make-outs in a 24-hour period with 2 relative strangers, to me, is skanky in comparison to the rest of my life.
Mr. GoE and I had a quickmatch on okcupid. This is actually one of my favorite aspects of the site because it indulges my superficial side. What happens is: after you click on the quickmatch tab, random photos of individual members appear one by one. You can see their information as well, but you can't see their username until you rate them on a 5-star scale. If you give the member in question 4 or 5 stars, they are alerted that someone has given them a high rating, and are then prompted to go through the same quickmatch process. If they then give you a 4 or 5 rating, the site alerts both of you that you find one another attractive. Well, Mr. GoE and I both gave each other 4 or 5 stars and received alerts. I was in the thick of some other messages at the time, so I didn't respond. He, after about a week or so, emails me a pretentious-as-all-get-out (but still, attentive) message querying if it was accidental or coincidence that I only listed American poets in my "favorite books" section.
True to form, I respond: "Coincidentally intentional," because really, what kind of question is that?
We go back and forth for a couple of messages, discussing pop culture and white middle class notions of democratic politics. He likes Chuck Klosterman, I like Chuck Klosterman; he hates John Cusack, I hate John Cusack. Did I mention he is particularly good looking? Well, he is. It's all very promising. After a collective five messages, he asks if I'd like to grab a drink at some point. I say yes and leave him my number.
By no means am I a prude with my contact information, but I only give out my number if I expect to receive a call. None of this hard-to-get, I'm-really-busy-and-will-call-you-in-two-weeks crap. With this in mind, I thought that Mr. GoE would call me within a couple of days and we'd grab a drink later that week. And then, there was no call. For a week. Don't get me wrong, I don't take stuff like that personally; I just send you off to the island of lost men who are cowards or hung up on ex-girlfriends.
So when he finally did call a week later, I was taken aback. It was Tuesday night, the night after Date #4 with Q. I was having friends over for dinner that night, was particularly exhausted, and see that I have a new voicemail: "Hi Sarah, is Mr. GoE from okcupid. Wondering if you want to grab a drink at some point this week. Give me a call back when you get a chance." I sat in my living room for a good 10 minutes, drinking a screwdriver and laughing at the timing of it all. What the fuck, I thought? I can make this a three-date week. I called him back, and we planned for Thursday at 6, drinks at National Mechanics.
Thursday rolled around, and I spent the bulk of the afternoon being relatively unproductive in my cube. Even the 6 cups of coffee I consumed between the hours of 2 and 5:30 could not make up for the 1am evening I had the night before. However, when I finally did leave work, I found myself anxious, like actually nervous about the date. Mr. GoE, in my own, perhaps negatively biased opinion, was WAY cuter than me. Like way cuter. I walked over to the bar from work, and left Danielle a surprisingly insecure message: "Holy shit, I need a pep talk. I'm feeling particularly disheveled and ugly. But you're not there, and it's 6, so I guess I'll get myself out of this one."
And I did. At 6:05, Mr. GoE had yet to show up. I was waiting outside, looking like one of those people who was having a minor internal freak-out (you know, when someone is so self-aware that all of their energy points inward), so I decided to text him and let him know that I'd be outside when he got there. Rip off the bandaid. Turns out, he was inside already, and walked out of the bar to come get me.
My first thought: holy crap, this is a tall man. My second: he is wearing pink and brown argyle. I'm incredibly pragmatic in terms of my man-selection. That, and mildly narcissistic. Meaning: I go for guys who I perceive to be in my league, and semi-subconsciously, "in my league" means that we have similar features and body traits. For me, this usually entails a shorter guy, maybe 5'6" to 5'8", someone with brown hair and brown eyes, someone who is not too masculine (because I'm not too feminine) and of average build, not fat, not thin, not too muscular. Mr. GoE has the brown hair and eyes thing, but he is an astonishing 6'6", by far the tallest guy I've ever been interested in, and is lean, which is not a body type I would ever go for because really, in what realm does that work with someone who is 5'3" and a size 12? To the naked eye, this is a man, like the kind of man a sophisticated woman in her 20's dates. Not so much a manlyman who cuts down trees, but a politics/business man who has working lunches with other rich men.
Still overcome with minor shock, I follow him inside and we grab a beer. From the get-go, I assume this will be a one-drink date, that we'll say our polite goodbyes and not call each other again. And I assume this will be his doing and not my own. But as soon as he opened his mouth, the tables turned. He told me about his job (accounts for a non-profit) and his background (a theater/business major at a jewish, liberal arts college) and his family (Long-Island Italian gone Connecticut). And as he monologued for about 20 minutes, I realized that what I lack in woman-in-her-20's sophistication, I greatly compensate for in my ability to have a conversation. This guy loves to hear himself talk. And I don't think it was in a conceited, I'm-better-than-you sort of a way; he just doesn't understand what it means to have a back and forth discussion. So the night went on like that for three beers: I would tell him a story, he would tell me a story, and so forth. But as the beers kept coming, his talking became less and less annoying, and he became more and more attractive.
So when he suggested that we find another bar, I thought it was a great idea. I was feeling buzzed, happy, a little hungry (because it was about 8:30 and I had last eaten at noon), and very attracted to him. We found ourselves a couple blocks away at Sugar Mom's, a bar that's the occasional apres-work, happy hour watering hole for my company. It's a notsodivey dive bar. At least from 5 to 7. After 7, as I found out upon entering, it is empty. Me and Mr. GoE were two of four patrons. And we had run out of stories to exchange.
As I've gone on more and more of these dates, I've realized that I can make most people believe that I'm genuinely engaged and interested in what they're saying. Even if the motivation is as superficial as wanting to make-out, I usually am somewhat engaged and interested, so it's not too bad of a stretch. But as soon as another person is thrown into the mix, in this case, the bartender, I realize how uninterested I actually am. Mr. GoE just kept talking, and I kept drinking and exchanging rolled eyes with the bartender. And then, things get a bit hazey.
I remember at one point, he went upstairs to go to the bathroom, and I started talking to these two guys at the bar about In Bruges, a film that I tried to talk to Mr. GoE about with no avail. I was getting frustrated. Frustrated and drunk. Which means one of two things: I get mean, or I turn up the flirting. I know, these are the two most ridiculous extremes ever. So when he came back downstairs to see me high-fiving another guy at the bar, he suggested we go outside for a cigarette. Smart move on his part. When I go for drunk flirting, I have no mark. We went out, and in a moment of silence that could have turned awkward, I looked at him, and said, "You should probably kiss me." And he did. Thank god. It shut him up for 30 minutes. Not to mention: he was an amazing kisser. Not too much tongue, soft, still fiery.
Except: 30 minutes into our make-out, I started to get that feeling that no one should ever get in the middle of a make-out. Vomit. Yes, vomit. On a date. On a Thursday night. I should have known better: it was 9:30, I hadn't eaten for 9 hours. What else was I expecting? So I quickly excused myself, telling him I was going to run to the bathroom, and that we should go when I got back down. My timing was impeccable, because as soon as I got into a stall, I barfed. Like full-on barfed in a way that I NEVER do in public. Shit, until this summer when Amy came to visit, I had remained vomit free since 2007. But I got myself together, found one last piece of gum in my purse, and returned to my date looking less than fabulous, but normal enough.
We paid the tab, left, and after turning down the suggestion to go to his place (I am not that skanky), went to a park. We found a bench, and I laid down on it with my feet on his lap Notting Hill style (his reference, not mine), and he took off my shoes, and rubbed my feet. It sounds strange, but was actually kind of great and exactly what I wanted at that moment in time. Plus, I was taking a baby cat-nap, so he needed something to do.
After I felt sufficiently rested and pampered (as pampered as I could be in the park across the street from my job with a guy I had just met giving me a foot massage), I wanted to continue our bar make-out. We were relatively secluded, and I was still very uninhibited, so I put my shoes back on, hiked up my skirt, and straddled him as we kissed. Let me just say: I am not one for public indecency, but this was hot. And I was wearing a long coat, so should anyone have come by, it would have been fine.
Which is exactly what I was thinking when someone did come by. "Hi folks, how are you doing tonight?" It was a man in a wind-breaker, a harmless do-gooder on a late-bight stroll. "Um yeah, we're doing fine. How are you," I asked, very tongue-in-cheek. "I'm fine. Just remember, you folks are in public," he answered. "Oh don't worry, I'm wearing tights," I retorted.
As we chuckled to ourselves as he walked away, I saw out of the corner of my eye the holster hanging around his waste. Yes, I talked back to a cop in a park a block away from my job. That was my cue to go home. I hopped on the 21, got home at midnight, and was, shockingly enough, still very turned on by this guy. Never in my life has that happened, that I don't really like someone and still find them attractive.
Oh! The nick-name, I almost forgot. It was the pink argyle that first alerted me to Mr. GoE's potential flamboyance. I think particular breeds of Guidos and other Mediterranean-Americans of that nature can pull off pink, but wanna-be Northern Liberties-hipster business men? It's questionable. He also has a very specific way of talking, like he's hung out with high-pitched gay men for most of his life and has picked up their intonation. The thing that throws me off is that he has this great, deep, rich voice that would be hot if he didn't tail the end of his sentences, you know, elongate the last syllable he speaks. But the kicker, oh the kicker, was that as he was rubbing my feet in the park, he made an off-handed comment: "This is the best thing about getting pedicures, the foot rub." At that point, I sat up out of my drunken exhaustion, looked him straight in the eye, and said, "I'm sorry, pedicures?" "Yeah, I get them every couple of weeks. I like my toes painted." I'm sorry, WHAT! I don't get pedicures ever. I haven't gotten one since my senior prom over 5 years ago.
I laughed it off, of course, because I wanted to keep kissing him, but I'm getting a sneaking suspicion that he is very open minded about sexuality. I would not be surprised if he's been with a man before. But I'm not sure I mind that possibility because he definitely wanted me then.
Hot is hot is hot is hot, and who am I to fuck with that?
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