The Perfect Date
But was it?
Recently I went on a date, my first in literal years. We’d met at my job once awhile ago. He was a 46 year old divorcee with no kids in the liquor distribution business. We exchanged Instagram handles. Occasionally he would comment on a story or post. It went on like that for months. Very nonchalant. Very casual. Until recently when a reply turned into a chat, and I mindlessly asked him if he’d like to get a drink sometime. I hadn’t been out in a while and felt like it would be nice to expand my horizons. Maybe it would be fun, I said.
He emphatically agreed and asked about my schedule. It was a particularly busy month for me with a lot of travel, to which he replied he’d gladly work around my schedule. Ok. He then told me he’d plan everything, just let him know where and when to pick me up. Okkk. I rarely meet men that can tie their own shoes let alone take the initiative to execute a date so that piqued my interest. I like a man that can lead so his willingness to handle things was welcome and plans were set for the following week.
As the actual date neared, I was quite excited. He told me we would be attending a work event later in the evening at a club inside the Fountainebleu preceeded by drinks and dinner so we could talk. He sent me some pics of the place along with an idea of what he was wearing so that I could dress accordingly. I was really liking the initiative he showed, giving me adequate time to plan my ensem. I hadn’t been in a club setting in a long time and knew that trash I used to don just wasn’t going to cut it on a 41 year old woman with back pain.
The afternoon before our date, which is usually when I would expect a confirmation, I instead got a “hey, what are your plans tonight?” which irked me somewhat. I replied with busy. “Ok, how about Saturday?” OK, how about the fucking day we already agreed upon, but I didn’t say that. Against my better judgement, I agreed to meet up Saturday instead, although I had a sneaking suspicion that he’d, in fact, not planned anything at all, including making no arrangements for dinner and that our fun night out was hinging on his professional hook-ups. His I’ll-take-care-of-it facade was beginning to crumble, but alas, I gave him the benefit of the doubt.
Saturday comes. A few hours before he’s set to pick me up (a move I almost never agree to), he texts to let me know that he has cancelled his work appearance so we had the rest of the evening to “do whatever we wanted”. At the time that sounded very cool. I wasn’t particularly keen on the idea of club hopping and a free night to go have drinks or check out some music after dinner sounded great. I was running a little behind squeezing my ass into a pair of tried and true skinny jeans so I texted him a reminder not to be early. In my experience, dudes will show up fifteen minutes early, then you’re stuck entertaining them rather than finishing up. Early to a meetup? Absolutely! Early to my house? Absolutely fucking not. He responded with a quip about getting there on time to “get it over with.” I didn’t understand the comment or the context so I simply didn’t respond, but something seemed off about it.
At five minutes after seven, he texted me to let me know that he’d love to come upstairs and get me but there was no parking. In fact, there was a ton of fucking parking just not directly in front of the front door. Okkk. I popped downstairs easy enough and there was a metallic green Cadillac parked out front with brand new paper plates. Nice, fast, expenisve. I immediately knew this wasn’t going to work out. It wasn’t a vanity thing or about money; this was simply a matter of utility. What could I have in common with a man that drives a car like that. No trips to Home Depot. No pulling me out of the mud in the middle of nowhere. No hauling a welder to the house to work on the trailer. I’ve had my fair share of shiny luxury cars in the past, but I’m in my truck era now and need someone who is also at that place in their lives. Am I going to show up in the middle of the night and change his tire instead?
My date hopped out of the car with a bouquet of spring flowers and opened my door. I’m 5’11” with heels and I damn near had to limbo to get into the car so the extra hand was certainly appreciated. He jumped in and we took off down the road. Not a block, as in one actual literal block later, he was already talking about his ex that cheated and how he gave up everything to start over in Las Vegas. Not an unfamiliar story for us 40 year old divorcees but maybe a little heavy on the woe is me. He told me he just bought the new car AND a new house in a very desirable neighborhood in this wildly inflated housing market. Of course I was looking for a man that can provide, but all I could hear was DEBT, DEBT, DEBT. On paper this guy was probably great but there was a gentle nagging in the back of my brain that this wasn’t it. Must’ve been me, of course. I hadn’t been on a proper date in so long I forgot how to act. Silly me.
We headed to a restaurant I’d been to before called Frankie’s Uptown. I wasn’t particularly fond of it the first time having gotten a pretty shitty Chicken Marsala, none of which I devulged to my date. I wouldn’t call it a particularly “first date” kind of restaurant, more like a place I’d take my mom for lunch or a place you grab drinks after work with the girls. We walked in on a Saturday night and my date asked for a table for two. No reservation as I suspected. Yet another small thing that bothered me. He didn’t actually make “plans” as could be seen by the lack of a reservation on arguably the busiest night of the week.
Once at the table, I begin to look over the liquor and beer menu. Our server came right over in lightning speed before I had a chance to land on a selection. I asked for just a minute so my date says to the waiter “Can we get the calamari while she figures out her life” and chuckles a little. Mmm. Ok. Could have been funny, a little jokey joke, but let’s be honest: it was a touch condescending. I know when I go on first dates it’s always a good idea to put my date down in front of complete strangers for a laugh just to set the tone. I land on a glass of cab and ask what he’s having. He emphatically renounces liquor and reminds me he’s driving. OoKk. I respected it but the delivery could’ve been better. I finally got my life together and ordered the pasta. We ate while he talked about his family, parents, siblings, dad’s military career. I boxed the rest of my dinner up even though I wanted to plow through the entire thing. Then the check arrived and he plopped down the plastic. No word of another glass of wine or perhaps dessert. No small patch of time to sit and talk after the meal. Just like that, dinner was over.
Before I knew it, we were back in the car. I could have easily gone home at that point. The lack of inebriation mixed with the simple fact that there was just no vibe was enough for me. We were headed back toward my house when he mentioned showing me his place. This would be when I really started to get uncomfortable. I knew in my heart of hearts that we weren’t going to be fucking but clearly he did not. A quick meal at the local joint and right back to his pad? Nah, I’m good. Yet another reason why I never let them pick me up. This wasn’t a date; it was a quickie with a meal before Jimmy Fallon comes on at 11.
As soon as we turned into the gate, my stomach dropped. I’d been here before, emotionally as it were. In a place I didn’t want to be about to be in a situation I didn’t want to be in. I knew I wanted to leave before he pulled into the garage, but I said nothing I was immediately bombarded by two lovable little dogs, by far the best part of the night. He gives me a tour of the house: his backyard and fire pit, the roommate’s room (she is out of town), and then his bedroom. The entire room is swallowed up by this enormous bed on a metal frame and a massive 80 inch TV mounted across the wall. “Siri, turn on the bed lights” he said and the underbed lighting changed to red. I turned to retreat, but he stopped me to admire the art in his water closet. His divorce decree was hanging above the shitter in the bathroom so he could admire it every morning while he takes a piss. His words, not mine. I could tell he was trying to corner me in the bedroom so he could make a move, but I swiftly deflected and chased the dog back downstairs.
Downstairs I’m covered in dogs and trying to keep the mood light, which I prayed was inhibiting this date from progressing further but a couple minutes later he shooed the dogs away and pulled me to my feet. He jammed his hard tongue in my mouth for a pretty aggressive first kiss. I felt nothing. Not a twitch, a spasm, nothing but emotional discomfort. It was like my pussy went completely numb, my body stood still, and only my brain continued to work. So there I was, standing in this dude’s entryway with his hand on my ass and his enormous tongue playing hide and seek in my mouth while I was having this internal dialogue about how I could get the fuck out of there. I knew I just couldn’t bring myself to fuck him and before I could come up with an adequate excuse, he unsuctions his mouth from mine and says “I meant to get us dessert but I forgot. How about I just have you for dessert instead?” and that was fucking it. Before the words were completely out of his mouth, I choked out “Not tonight. I have to wake up early to put solar on my trailer!” Of which was completely true. I did indeed need to wake up to put solar on the trailer. But I also needed to get the fuck out of there because I couldn’t think of anything I wanted to do less than fuck him.
He agreed to take me home. We got in the car, and he revved his engine through the neighborhood streets, not even hesitating at stop signs. A true gentleman by all accounts. I kept up the charade until we got to my place. He pulled up to the apartments and I endured one more sloppy kiss before running inside. I immediately wiped my face before the door was even closed, threw on some sweats and tore into my doggy bag. My food was cold by now but knowing the night was over made everything that much better.
NOW LET’S BE HONEST WITH ONE ANOTHER…
This wasn’t a terrible date by any means. I’ve been in much worse situations many, many times. I was locked out of a hotel room over night in California wearing only a nightgown. I was locked in a dude’s garage while he hid me from the babysitter. I have flown all the way to Europe just for some guy to tell me he’s not looking for a girlfriend. However, just like this dude, the date was a 10 on paper. If I were to explain this date by facts alone, it looks like the perfect date. He made all the plans. He picked me up. He bought me flowers. He took me to dinner and paid the tab. Fuck, he even offered to eat my pussy!
But here’s where shit gets dicey so hear me out before you call me a spoiled little bitch. Yes, he did do all those things but he did them low effort as fuck. Keep in mind this dude knew I had a blog and has read some of it before. How do I know? He mentioned so at the beginning of the date. He even divulged that he sent one of my posts to a male friend of his and they agreed his needed to go “all out”. He told me I deserved the perfect date.
The entire vibe for the night was checking off items which I clearly talk about in The Wine, Dine, and 69 Method. The premise is that dating to fuck is dead because society has moved in the direction of hook-up culture. But what I must have failed to mention is the effort, the build up, the gene se qua that a proper date creates to help initiate sex. Plenty of women want a hook-up too but a night of flirting and intrigue is far more stimulating than engaging in 15 minutes of half hearted sex, much like my last hoorah.
This dude had a loose blueprint of expectation, but the execution was all wrong. He pulled up but couldn’t be bothered to park in a spot. That’s cool. He brought me flowers from the Mexican guy on the 215 off ramp, also totally cool. It’s the thought that counts, right? We went to dinner without reservations. Super low effort but still fine. He rushed us through dinner like we were on our lunch break. He pays before anyone even asks if we’d like anything else, perhaps another drink when, let’s be honest, we should both want me to have another. Of course I want another drink. In fact, I want two. We’re not engaging. We’re not building interest. You’re paying $30 for my meal so I’ll suck your dick after. Instead the food is gone and we’re out the door. Be cute. Be funny. Be nasty. But show me you have a personality and if you don’t, know that those few drinks may be the deciding factor in whether I’m fucking you later or not. Then the “fun thing we have all night to do” turns out to be going straight to his house so he could try and get his dick wet while his roomie is out of town. Bro.
I’m guessing from his perspective, it really was the perfect date and I’m sure when he tells his friends this story, it sounds like it. I think it’ll go something like this:
Man, I did everything right. I even got her some fucking flowers and I picked her up. Like what more could she want? Then she couldn’t even suck my dick! Man, I just don’t know what these bitches want nowadays.
I wish this was the end of the story but it isn’t. I’d hoped he’d just fade away without any further contact like Galadriel at the end of Lords of the Rings (it’s a very famous fucking scene so don’t make me feel stupid for that). But alas, he did not. The next day he sent me a meme of a hole in a rock cliff face above the tide. When the water splashes up, it squirts out of the hole. This was on repeat for the entire clip. Let me explain this to you in case you’re confused: this geological phenomenon was a metaphor for making me squirt.
Days passed and then I got a wounded message about how he hoped to hear from me…but didn’t. He gets it, he can take a hint. He guesses he wasn’t “up to my potential” whatever the fuck that means. It was nice to meet me. As a female, I understand the psychology. End on a high note as if you don’t give a fuck. Say goodbye first. Call their bluff to illicit a response. The important part of this tactic though is that you have to be ready for that bluff to be called. Someone has to care enough to give a fuck, and a stranger you met once who didn’t want to fuck you is not the ideal candidate. Me. I’m the stranger that doesn’t give a fuck. So I respond in kind. I’m busy, I’m not in a place where I plan to communicate with someone on demand. Best of luck. I could have told him the truth but it’s not my responsibility to tell every guy how to be better for the next bitch.
This should have been the end of the conversation right?
A week later he sends me another meme of some broad talking about how MAYBE men treat women the way women treat men first and that’s why women don’t get the reaction they want. Interesting theory. AGAIN, this is the kind of shit you send your girlfriend of six months that you’re having problems with. Not a stranger you spent an hour and a half with and never spoke to again.
A week AFTER THAT I get a meme of a different broad talking about how there is no down side to sucking more dick. She goes on and on for ten minutes about how women should be blowing their dudes every single day and if we did, we’d be getting better results from our relationships and our lives. Again, this is the kind of thing you should send to someone who is actively and currently sucking your dick, not a stranger who recoiled when you kissed her.
So my perfect date turned out to be an immature, insecure 46 year old man who uses memes to communicate his overreaction to inconsequential events. And while he didn’t hold me captive in a garage or lock me out of a hotel room, I can honestly say it did nothing to steer me back toward the male persuasion. Just remember you can wrap a bow around shit and call it a present but in the end, it’s still just shit. Stay safe out there ladies.