2 Craigslist Dates
I arrive at the bar early. Melissa, the hot lesbian bartender who I wish wasn’t lesbian, is working so I talk to her and don’t have to needlessly fiddle with my cell phone to pass the time. I’m long past the point in life where I get nervous on dates. This is just something to do on a Tuesday night. I’m on my second Heineken and The Vapor’s Turning Japanese is coming through the speakers…I still maintain it’s one of the coolest songs ever recorded.
I immediately recognize her from the cell phone picture she emailed me. She looks exactly like the grainy image – even grainier in person. I wasn’t expecting much because she described herself as out of shape. Seeing her in person, she’s in-shape…just in the shape of a bowling pin. On the phone earlier that day, she told me she wasn’t going to dress up and I would be seeing her on her “off day.” Nice.
She’s short, frumpy and I’m fairly certain she represents the lollipop guild. But conversation is easy, even flirtatious…thank you Heineken. On the phone, she told me she had huge nipples, which sounded kind of erotic at the time. Now, it just makes me reply “no” when she asked if I was going to eat. I’m familiar with the menu so when she orders the calzone, I know it says to allow thirty minutes for cooking. She goes to the bathroom and I order a Jag Bomb from Melissa who now more than ever, I wish wasn’t lesbian…Melissa’s one of those girls who always smells like she just applied lotion to her body.
She returns and mentions that she’s writing a book about her adventures in dating; this is the second time she mentions this and the second time I have to bite the inside of my mouth to refrain from laughing at the fact that her source material will maybe, just maybe, be enough for a short story. And that’s if she uses lots of run-on sentences like the one you just read.
With each successive Heineken I quickly drink, I somehow think it will make her teeth straighter, her stomach flatter, her hairstyle more contempo, her clothes nicer and make-up would magically appear on her face. Before I know it, I’m half in the bag and we’re making out in her car in front of my building. Guess it worked…thank you Jag bomb. I’m now avoiding her calls and emails. I’ve also removed her from Yahoo Messenger.
DATE #2 – Two days later.
She described herself as blonde, six feet tall and “fairly smoking.” She also mentioned that she loved wearing heels. So I knew that at an average 5’11”, she would tower over me by at least 2-3 inches. She walks in and is indeed very blonde, tall and hot in the way a second grader would think his teacher is hot. I say this mainly because she reminds me of Mrs. Lange at C.C. Lee Elementary – long blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail, which made her facial features seem angular and rather plain. Dressed in all black, she’s not much of a head turner but is leggy, athletic looking and her black skirt hugs her hips well. The black knee-high boots are also a nice touch. At least this one knows Prada and doesn’t think Jimmy Choo is Chinese take-out.
We’re seated at the bar. Me – rather relaxed… leaning back in my barstool, facing her with my legs uncrossed. Her – facing me, arms and legs crossed with her coat resting on her lap…pretty much every sign that she’s turned off and probably regrets not wearing a watch so she could glance at it and bail after downing one drink. But we’re seated near the door on a chilly night so her body language is no doubt due to the frequent bursts of cold air from the entering, rather young crowd.
“Are you cold?” I ask, hoping for something in the affirmative.
Cue the crickets chirping in the background and the tumbleweed rolling across the dusty floor. Suddenly, I shiver from the chilly air. And why didn’t I wear a watch? We finish our first beers at the same time and slide our empty bottles toward the bartender. Her empty Blue Moon bottle is easily two inches taller than my empty Heineken bottle. Fitting.
Halfway through the evening I ask her if she ever wears her hair down. She replies that she does on occasion, but it hadn’t been cut in awhile. Reaching behind her head, she unties the ponytail. Cue the slow-motion and the choir of heavenly angels singing, “Halleluiah.” Cut to me with the cartoon jaw hitting the floor and eyes bulging from head. Her angular and plain facial features suddenly become soft and delicate. The wavy blonde locks frame her face perfectly and sweep down to her breasts, which I now notice for the first time. Now I’m sitting with a hotter and younger Ann Coultier – equally as articulate and educated minus the steady stream of bullshit spewing from her gorgeous mouth.
Conversation is easy for the next four and a half hours. She drinks two Blue Moons, a glass of water and an Italian soda. I stop counting my intake after Heineken number four. Her body language eventually loosens. She pulls her barstool closer to me and rests her feet on the bottom rung of my barstool. I do the same with my feet. She tells me about her experiments with pot, coke and acid with a famous local writer’s daughter – they were childhood friends. She spends holidays alone because she’s not close with her parents. And she says her first date test is whether she could envision herself making out with the guy. I toy with asking her whether I pass the test, but why ruin a pleasant evening?
Throughout the night, I give her two chances to leave after my two trips to the bathroom. I figure if she wants an out, she can take it and the night is still young enough for me to go to Seven Corners and go shot for shot with someone.
“Don’t let me keep you if you’re tired,” I say.
“No, I’m having a nice time. Why would I want to leave?”
“Well, I’ll feel bad if you get a parking ticket.”
“Don’t. It’s not your fault that we’re having a nice conversation.”
As the night is winding down, I realize I’m doing what I always do. I ask all the questions leaving her to reveal pretty much everything she wants to reveal. She has zero time to ask me anything. She’ll realize that we spent four and a half hours talking and she knows absolutely nothing about me.
We park in different directions and hug goodbye. I tell her to call me if she wants to go out again. She walks to her car. I walk to mine.