My last political act was submitting my Black-and-White Birthday Cake recipe to the Food Tasters for Obama bake-off. (I won, BTW. I have the t-shirt to prove it.)
So, no, we were not a perfect match. In fact, there was no match action involved. That’s why I liked this guy. He took the time to do his research, found the Man Eater website on his own, and emailed me directly. That was classy. I told him so…then promptly Googled him to make sure he wasn’t a freak. Nope. Far from it. In fact, he’s friends with the president of the United States! (They went to school together.) And now he wanted to date me!
It’s time to whip out a pseudonym for this democratic party pusher. How about "Politico"? On with the show...which took place at The Strip Club.
I’d been wanting to hit up the steak house since I met its owner at a cooking club get-together two years ago. Unfortunately, my bank account was so anorexic that I couldn’t afford to eat his grub. Enter Politico.
“Are you game, big spender?” I asked when I emailed my restaurant pick to Politico.
He was.
Does that sound like I prostituted myself for a meal, readers? I thought so, too. So I did what a proper prostitute does: I wore a dress. With, like, stockings. And high heels that I could barely squeeze my feet into. I figured if Politico was going to pony up the big bucks for my big hunk of beef, the least I could do was provide the eye candy.
No sooner had Politico ushered me to our table (perfectly situated next to the fake fireplace), he complimented me on the dress.
“I haven’t worn this since my Insatiable release party a year ago!” I said. Politico was flattered that I’d pulled the frock out of retirement just for him. (Hey, what can I say? Buy me steak and I will dress like a piece of meat.)
I felt a little overexposed, however—and it wasn’t even my wardrobe’s fault. The Strip Club was way too bright for dinner time.
“Excuse me,” I said, reaching for the lamp behind me and dimming the bulb. “I have a thing about proper lighting.”
(If Slump Buster is reading this right now, I hope he is laughing his ass off. He knows about this quirk of mine all too well.)
“So. How was your day?” Politico asked, squinting slightly as his eyes adjusted.
“I have so much energy to burn!” I said, practically jumping out of my chair like a puppy mid-potty-training. “I had a double job interview today and I didn’t make it to yoga!”
Politico admired my energy. He said his number one complaint about Match dates was that they were boring.
“I’ve had the same problem!” I said. “Match never works…and yet I keep coming back for more!”
Politico confessed that he was a fellow Match masochist. Both of us were on our third go-round.
“How many dates have you gone on?” he asked.
“From Match?”
“Yes.”
“Ever?” I gawked.
Politico’s eyes widened as if to say, “That many?!”
“I suppose I could just read your blog…” he said.
“Nah,” I said. “Only three of them are on there. The rest weren’t interesting enough to write about. Not one quotable in the whole damn conversation.”
“So you get asked out a lot, I suppose?” Politico asked.
I shrugged my shoulders. “I don’t know what to compare it to. I’d need a baseline. How many dates have you gone on from Match?”
“One.”
"One?!"
Well, then. If that’s the baseline, I am way above average.
Politico seemed to be waiting for my magic number, but my lips were zipped.
“Let me just state for the record,” I said, “That getting hit on, getting asked out, and agreeing to go out with someone are all very different things. I get hit on a lot, I get asked out less than that, and I accept even fewer invitations.”
(With a non-answer like that, I should really consider a career in politics!)
“How old are you?” I asked him.
“Guess.”
“Noooooo way. If I shoot low and I’m wrong, it’ll be obvious that I’m trying to flatter you. If I shoot too high, you’ll be offended. It’s fine. You don’t have to tell me. I know you must be in your 40’s.”
“I’m 46.”
Another shrug on my side of the table.
“I’ve had older,” I said.
“Really?”
“Oh, yeah. At least two.”
“You’ve dated two men older than me? I’m surprised.”
“No, I’ve had two long-term relationships with men older than you.” (I later calculated that at least four of my former lovers were over 45.) “As for how many middle-aged men I’ve dated…again, I don’t know. A lot of my dates don’t even make it to the ‘How old are you?’ point.”
“If that’s the case, I should feel honored that you’re still here,” Politico said.
“Yes, you should! I rarely agree to dinner on a first date. But a well-written email says a lot. You’d be surprised how many men are incapable of putting a few coherent sentences together.”
“Do the men you go out with know about Man Eater beforehand?” Politico asked.
“Oooh, good question!” I had to think about that for a minute. “Yep. This year, they all did. Except for one.”
“Did he approach you in a bar?”
“Nope. At a concert. We didn’t date very long, but now he’s one of my best guy friends.”
This would be Cameraman Chris. I didn’t mention it, but perhaps should have, that when Chris and I were on our second date, I asked about his political leanings. “Everyone who’s involved in politics is unhappy,” he’d said. “I don’t want anything to do with that.”
That comes pretty close to describing my feelings on all things election-related. (I’m much more interested in the erection action.)
“Psst…” I said, leaning across the table to confess my dirtiest secret to Politico. “I didn’t vote in the last election.”
Perhaps in some states, this wouldn’t be a big deal. In Minnesota, where we’re facing yet another election too close to call, requiring a recount, my ballot might have made a difference. Politico said he didn't want to talk politics. He was fed up with the cyber-vultures and nastiness. Lucky for him, our salads were served before I could stick my foot in my mouth any further. I dug into a delightful mixed greens concoction while Politico contemplated his Ceasar. Had it not been for the name, I might not have recognized it. It was basically one unchopped heart of romaine with a single, giant crouton stacked on top and drizzled in dressing. It looked like finger food.
“You seem rather guarded,” I said after we chewed in silence for a few minutes.
“You’re right about that. In politics, you have to be discreet.”
“Isn’t it odd, then, that you were attracted to me, who puts it all out there?” I asked.
“I’m attracted to interesting people. Your blog piqued my curiosity.”
“Oh, please,” I said. “You just liked the half-naked photos.”
“What?” Politico said, almost dropping his fork. “Where were the half-naked photos?”
“Ah-ha. You haven’t done your homework after all!” I said. “But I’m not going to tell you now.”
“At least tell me which half is naked.”
I raised an eyebrow in response. “Nope. You’ll have to do the digging on your own.”
Our waiter arrived for the ump-teenth time to see if we were ready to order the main course. I was still waffling.
“Take your time,” the waiter said with a dash of sarcasm. “I’ll be here ‘til next week…”
Politico had been to The Strip Club before and knew what he wanted: New York Strip with bleu cheese, cooked medium.
The waiter turned to me.
“What he said,” I said.
As it turned out, Politico and I had little more in common than our dinner orders. Though we were both marathon runners, he raced much more frequently, but much slower, than me. Though we were both bookworms, he liked fiction and historical tomes; I only wanted to read memoir and erotica. Other mismatched traits included his pack-rat nature and affinity for felines, whereas I live simply and love pooches.
Personality-wise, it was a fascinating dynamic. Though Politico and I were both big fish in small ponds, and notorious in our respective environments, neither of us had ever gotten our feet wet in the other’s waters. We hardly had any mutual friends, except...
“How do you know Carnage?” I asked.
“One of my staffers dated him,” Politico said.
“No way! I dated Carnage!” (And he has been the only suitor who specifically requested off-the-record interaction, which is why you’ve never read about it.)
We were both silent for a moment as we contemplated the incestuousness of the Twin Cities. Then Politico told me he had never married and was childless.
“Excuse me,” I said, “But some people might say that a man as successful as yourself doesn’t end up single at 46 unless he’s either dating 20-year-old undergrads or he doesn’t really want to be married.”
“I would have asked a couple of my exes to marry me…eventually…” Politico said.
(Uh-huh. Why does that sound familiar?)
Our steaks soon arrived, tender and red on the inside, swimming in their own bloody juices. The meat was accompanied by piles of thinly-sliced carrots that tasted way more savory than vegetables should.
“These carrots have been bathed in butter,” I said after one slid down my throat.
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“Not at all. What I mean is: the food tastes so good, it must be bad for me.”
I polished off most of my plate; I really wasn’t in the mood for dessert, but when the waiter arrived, Politico suggested I might want something. After the waiter waxed poetic about a peanut-butter-chocolate layer cake, I knew it'd be impossible to resist. The caloric damage would be tempered if I shared it, right?
“Do you have a sweet tooth?” I asked Politico. He nodded, almost maliciously so. When the waiter returned, I asked for the cake…and Politico ordered his own dessert!
“Are you implying that I might eat all of this by myself?” I asked when a monster wedge of “peanut butter love” was brought to the table.
“Not necessarily," Politico said. "The apple tart just appealed to me more.”
“Bah,” I said. “I could make that at home.”
(I could make the PB chocolate cake at home, too. In fact, when I shared the leftovers the next day with my 7-year-old daughter she said, “I give it an 'A', but if you had made it, I would have given it an A plus!”)
Desserts mostly devoured, I mentioned that I was looking for some supplemental income.
“Do you know anyone who might hire me?” I asked. “Like, to go as their date to political events?”
“There’s a name for that, you know," Politico said.
“Yeah, an escort. I want to be one!”
"I don’t see why anyone would pay you to do that."
"Becauce I'm a really good date!"
"When I go to an event, I already know everyone in the room. Having a pretty woman on my arm wouldn’t help me out at all. I’m the guy sitting next to Obama. If the ladies can’t get him, they’ll take me; and even if they don’t, I’d have no trouble finding someone to take home.”
“Well, then!”
The restaurant emptied and the waiter brought the bill. I let Politico pay. I didn’t even offer to leave a tip. (I wiggled my way into tights, people! I earned that free dinner!) Then the waiter informed us that my reputation had picked up a portion of the check.
“The desserts were compliments of the chef,” he said.
Politico and I were both pleasantly surprised at the sweet gesture.
“It's because I blogged about him,” I bragged under my breath.
"You're right," Politico said as he walked me to my car. "You are a really good date."
While I’ve lost most of my first-date jitters by now (after having gone on these things so many times), I'm still uncomfortable with the goodbye etiquette. The driver's side door of my vehicle has been the site of more awkward make-out sessions this year than I care to count!
Politico leaned in...for a hug. I think he might have wanted to kiss me on the cheek, too, but I swooped out of the way.
That should have been my sign, but I clung to my ambiguity. As I drove home, I wondered what my indecisive emotional state was all about. Despite two-and-a-half hours of steady conversation, which had gone by in a flash, I wasn't sure if I'd felt any sparks. It was like two firecrackers whose fuses had been watered down. The heat just wasn't there. But why? There was nothing outwardly "wrong" with this man. I tried to identify the problem. Was I afraid that Politico was a workaholic or a commitment phobe? (The former can be cured; the latter, not so much.) Was it his hair color? (Bad experiences with blondes.) Or his height? (I prefer not to date short guys. Then again, as the Millionaire Matchmaker says, "Every man is over six feet tall when he stands on his money!") Were those pheromones I was picking up on...or the deceptively alluring scent of power? Politico hadn't asked if I wanted to do this again...but even if he had, I wouldn't have had an answer. At one point, I even thought, I might have to sleep with this guy just to find out if I want to go on a second date.
I was trying to fool myself into feeling something I didn't; not unlike when I eat embarrassing amounts of mediocre food, hoping with each swallow that the flavor with improve.
I didn't realize that, however, until 48 hours later, when I went on another first date with a different match man...and Cupid completely knocked my socks off. As we said our mutual "Nice to meet you"s, this new suitor flashed his smile and...
Fireworks, readers!!! Fucking fantastic fireworks.
But we’ll gush over those flashing lights in my next post…or not. Because as you know, no news is good news…
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