It's Wednesday, December 10th and all I can think of as I slide on my cool and crip awesome shirt and pants that I bought from somewhere so expensive I can't eat this month is how wonderful I look. I stare at myself in the mirror, ready to go out for the first time in my life, on a date.
A date with you.
I'm ready, I take a deep breath, apply colonge lightly, and then apply more of it for no apparent reason out of fear that it's faintness isn't enough, and take note that it's called "Manly Musk" or something that makes me wonder if my Mountain Spring scented (?) body wash will coincide with it. Then I think about how I've never smelled a mountain spring but try to shake that off, it's time for me to go out.
I walk out the door, locking it behind me, and go straight to the garage. From there I grab my really awesome car that totally ruined any hopes I had of retirement and rev up the engine pointlessly as I gently pull out of a parking space like a civilian. I look at the speedometer taking note that I could, someday, go over 160 miles an hour and smirk at how cool I am as I cruise out off of the end of my street at a mere 20. I'm just so badass.
I arrive at the resturaunt fashionably late. About 5 minutes. I see you, over there, when I walk in and point to the table allowing the desk ... waiting person (is that what they are called?) to guide me to your presence. I take a deep breath and say "Hi" in the manliest voice I can with the confidence of a mountain spring and the huskiness of a really musky man. It sounds bad.
You ask me how I am as I begin to sit down and I answer that I am "well". I then return the question and you say "good" which grates the fuck out of my nerves and makes me envision reaching across the table and slapping you but I regain my composure and take a deep sigh. We are given menus by our server, some guy who is more attractive than I am, and taller, and has that annoying twinkle you only get in movie stars in his eye and I feel a pang of threat as he smiles at you and offers you the wine list. I, of course, say nothing, and instead wait for my wine list ... which never comes. He just forgot about me? Or is this a deathmatch to see who gets to mate! Whatever the case, it is time for small talk:
"So, what do you do?" you ask me.
"I am a really impressive ... lawyer accountant economist author playwright thing." I answer nervously.
"Wow, that is so impressive, you know, my sister loves plays!" you respond.
"That's great!", I say dismissing this bullshit about your sister while oggling your ... you, "So what do you do?"
"I'm the wealthy daughter of a business tycoon which allowed me to open up my own Children's Hospital downtown." you respond.
"Oh. I volunteer too!", I respond trying to sound cool and not like some elitist corporate tool who makes money that adds me to the 1%., "I uh... I tutor kids!"
"That's so sweet", you respond, and then you dispense of the small talk when the totally hot waiter returns.
"What will you be having?" he says, so smooth, so damned smooth, I feel not only jealousy but my own emotions melt at the sound of his hotness. He's so hot. Oh my god. I just think I had my first bisexual crush at this table with you, my first date, but it's okay. I regress to reality instead of wishing his hard biceps would take me ever so gently into his embrace.
"The cod." you say, so simply, and look to me.
"I will take fill-it minion.", ordering shit I can't say let alone know what it is...
"One beautiful cod for the beautiful lady and filet minion (said correctly) for the .... you.", I feel defeated and yet I long for his touch and attention. He takes the menus, I tug at mine a little, his fingers only a mere foot away because he grabbed the very edge since I'm creepy about shit.
I turn to you, and say, "So uh, do you like Pokemon?", and you blush and your eyes grow wide and sparkle.
"Yes." You respond, "I can name them all..."
From here we begin whispering the pokerap for the first 150 because let's face it, that's what Pokemon fans do, no matter how ritzy the joint is. . . Right? Anyway, so you get your cod and I get a chunk of raw meat rapped in bacon (who knew?) and we eat. We dine and we laugh. We just sort of laugh manically for no reason too because we don't actually say anything, we just stare and laugh, which is really awkward but that's okay because no one else is paying attention to the love clearly blooming right there in front of them.
During the meal, which I will refer to as "mid-meal", the hot manwaiter comes back and asks if we would like refills. You've drank three glasses of wine and I've drank zero because I never got a wine list ... and actually all I've had is water because he "forgot" to give me anything but no matter how many times I re-ordered it. Man, that guy is such a hot douche; the things I would do to him! But wait, anyway, during this "mid-meal" he passes you a note with his phone number on it. How do I know it's his phone number?
I don't. It was a fool presumption. But whatever the case you now have this note. I'm burning with curiousity as I chew this awkward delicacy and wonder what the world is coming to. That and parsely really is decorative; I should have listened to the cooking channel. Where was I goin with this? Oh, our date.
So it comes time to pay the bill which is $297.66 without tip and we decide to split it because egalitarianism and anti-sexism and if I don't I'll be speared to death by the men on this website. After doing things like math and swearing and using our phone to improperly average total costs we finally pay the bill and leave. I can't get the note off my mind and as we are walking out to my car, which is really cool, much cooler than yours, and really everyone elses', because I'm not compensating for anything stop thinking like that, I ask:
"So, uh, what was in the note the waiter gave you?"
"Oh, it was his address, and to meet him after you go to bed at 8.", you respond so nonchalantly.
"Wai...what?", I respond. It was 7pm. I had one hour before I went to bed. Here you were, gorgeous, and probably not turned on in the least but at least able to sing the Pokerap, and I was going to lose it all to petty things like sleep? I don't think so!
We reach my really, really cool car and get inside (because you know, whatever happened to your transportation is unimportant and I don't want to dea lwtih that in this story, okay? I'm sure it didn't get stolen or towed.) and start driving to my house while talking about all sorts of non-erotic things and references to pointlessly difficult things to find hot. You know, stuff like finances and the political affairs of the world, and at one point even the evolution of society.
After fifteen minutes of driving and talking we finally reach my crib. Well, my house. My ... um... abode? Is abode really upscale? Mansion. Yes. Mansion. We reach my mansion. I get out and rush to the other side to open your door but then remembering that the men will kill me just stand there while you stare at my quizzically wondering what the hell is wrong with me. I just motion for you to come with me and uh ... it was awkward.
So we go inside. It's 7:30. I'm tired. You've had enough wine to ensure that you are slightly easier than you would normally be but also still sober enough to know better than to ever give me anything I've not earned. This is a challenge. I have 30 minutes to woo you. I know exactly what to do. First, I get out some cards, and we build Pokemon decks, that takes 10 minutes because you couldn't find the limited edition FarFetch'd you needed to complete your deck idea for a bit. We get it done. Now I'm a man's man so I prepare myself to get horny by smirking just before laying my first energy card.
When I smirk suddenly all that scent kicks in and you smell my Manly Musky Mountainous Spring (that sounds like a penis, heehee!) and slap me. You slap me hard. You look me dead in the eye and say, "don't you dare tantalize me with your hot colonging and generically smelled ambiguously named body wash!"
Shocked and slightly overwhelmed I growl and wiggle my eyebrows seductively. We toss the Pokemon cards behind us and push the stuff off the table and just as we are about to begin going at it I yawn.
I fucking yawn. It's depressing. It's true. It's 7:55. My entire body doesn't even ... I flop down, and close my eyes, and I watch you get frustrated with me with that face. Then you get up, pull out the note, and tell me that he's in my building and you'll talk to me never.
You slam the door behind you.
I ... sleep on the table.
The next day I send you a text apologizing and you send me a text of how absolutely amazing that waiter was. My day is ruined with fantasies of how hot he is.