“Be safe out there,” I said without any detectable sarcasm—admittedly a peculiar way to sign off on a first date. But these last words, the last words I will probably ever speak to her, were appropriate considering the events leading up to that point…
We met down by the pool for a stroll along South Congress. Like old friends, we chatted about mundane details in a mundane setting.
“So how was work this week?” I inquired.
“It was fine, hectic, there was this one kid…study…dog…crash…and…” she continued. Don’t be fooled, the omission of words from that quote is not meant to indicate inattentiveness. I absorbed every detail. And I could regurgitate each pause, um, and, smile, onto the page. Unfortunately, this would only serve to remind us how boring we are in real life. And I don’t blame her for that—but, it was only a matter of time before I would have to take the night in a different direction.
Dinner at Home Slice Pizza went swimmingly. We drank, we talked, we ate. From an objective perspective it must have seemed like we were having a fabulous time…because we were. She punctuated speech with her hands–when they darted off to her sides, that was a comma, when they were planted firmly on the table, that was an exclamation point, her palm up and hand extended, indicated a question.
“And he jumped right out the window.” But her hand was in a new position now—palm down, and on my side of the table. Did this mean period or ellipsis? Without adequate time to process, my hand spoke for me—smoothly falling on top of hers.
It wasn’t until we began our walk home (we live in the same apartment complex) that the conversation took a more liberal turn.
“I’ve always wondered about that place,” she said referring to the Austin Motel across the street.
“What exactly do you wonder…whether they have hourly rates?”
Okay, let me be clear, this well-timed sexual innuendo was exactly what the date needed—her natural laugh would indicate that she was not offended in the least. And it provided a perfect segway for invitation up to my apartment.
“I know a place where we can get a cheap room.” She accepted. I know what your thinking, you’ve seen this one before—and there is nothing I would rather do than describe the how her skin squeaked sliding back and forth on the faux marble countertop, or how I could barely get the key in the door before her hands were sliding up the back of my shirt and our clothes lined the path to my bed like bread crumbs. But, none of that happened.
Instead I decided to pleasure her with words—my command of conversation would wet her mouth with saliva in anticipation of each successive syllable. My diction would arouse the lobe of her exposed ear, guiding soft vibrations deep inside her canal. The only exchange of fluids would be the secretion of thoughts from my mind directly into hers–unfiltered and unedited. Baring my innermost soul could provide a level of intimacy that meaningless sex could not begin to touch.
Taking this concept to heart meant the withholding of any other stimuli that could distract from my verbal eloquence. No I didn’t blindfold her or anything—I just mean the TV was off. In the background no music played, and with the balcony doors open, the phallic shaped Austin Motel sign visible from the couch (I’m serious you can actually see the sign from my apt. and it’s really shaped like a penis) was the only visually provocative image.
“I wish my best friend was a serial killer,” I opened. Pause.
“Why?”
“So when he came home at night he could share stories about how his latest victim’s organs were squishier than usual…you know the usual chit-chat.”
I went on to explain my hypothetical internal conflict over whether to turn in my best friend in order to save the lives of innocent people. She could have made any number of intelligent inquires here: “How did you become best friends with a killer? How does he choose his victims? How squishy is normal? Etc….” But, instead she resorted to a stock conversational tool.
“This is good drink,” referencing the Gin ‘n Tonic she had barely touched since we arrived. Now I can’t remember my exact quote here—but it carried an implied warning that she might not think the drink was so good by the time she finished it. What girl can’t appreciate a good roofie joke on the first date?
Silence. It was about this time she reminded me of her work obligations early the next morning. The pouring out of her drink, must have seemed like a daring move in route to her escape.
Walking her to just outside the door, I gave her a friendly kiss goodbye. And as she walked away I said, “Be safe out there.”
I knew it would probably end there—with a cordial text following the date, left unreplied to, in her inbox.
But as luck would have it, we share a mutual friend—and I have been afforded an opportunity rarely granted to those involved in detrimental first encounters. I got to find out exactly what she was thinking…
Part 2
“So I went out with ____ the other night,” I told Stacy, our mutual friend…”No I don’t think it went that well.”
She acted oblivious to this information, “Oh that’s too bad,” and had little else to say on the matter. I didn’t divulge any more details—you know it would be tacky to put someones personal life on display like that.
On the most depressing day to be drinking, Sunday, trying desperately to ride on fumes from the weekend, I decided to withdraw from the night.
Phone rings–Mark calling. “Dude, she thinks you were on drugs.”
“Who, Stacy?”
“No, the girl from the date…hard drugs.”
Apparently, after I left the bar, Stacy was a bit more forthcoming about her knowledge of my date. Not only was she aware that we went out—of course she knew. But date girl had called immediately to confess how I must have been on some sort of serious drugs.
She also said dinner went great.
Now there are a couple ways I could have reacted to this revelation: call and apologize, um, don’t think so, take this criticism of my dating style to heart and adjust accordingly, no way, or, the option I chose, pure revelry. Cause for celebration.
That said, I would love an opportunity for a second date, my pizza laced with shrooms, and see how she reacts to the what comes out of my mouth when I am on drugs.