“Didn’t I tell you the story of how I met my wife?” my date asked a couple weeks back.
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure.”
“I must be thinking of somebody else. I guess I might’ve told this story last night, too.”
I laughed because this guy (who I’ll call Rocky, as that’s his movie hero and he used to be a boxer), was way too much like me, a fact I found simultaneously intriguing and frightening.
“I forget who I tell what,” Rocky said with a shrug. “I’m just being honest.”
“I know. Believe me, I know.”
The How-I-Met-My-Ex-Wife story, Cliff’s notes style: Rocky went to a nudist resort in Jamaica. He witnessed all sorts of freaky things. He met two cheesehead chicks who claimed to know the perfect girl for him…if only he didn’t live so far away from her (she lived in MN; he on the East coast). Months later, the perfect girl got a job only miles from where Rocky lived. Boy met girl, they fell in love, and at the end of the summer, he proposed because he couldn’t imagine life without her.
Aww. Now that’s the kind of fast-paced, impulsive romance I’m looking for! (Without the divorce ten years down the line, of course.)
Appearance-wise, Rocky looked like a cross between Brad Pitt and Stanley Tucci. (If you don’t think Tucci is sexy, watch Julie and Julia and you will see why I say he is.) Unlike Tucci, however, Rocky was tall. At least 6’3”. He had incredible fashion sense, was deliciously fit, and had just joined a rock band. Basically, he was a 20-year-old in a 37-year-old’s body. Within ten minutes I knew that this guy would be a fabulous fuck, but relationship material? No way, Jose.
Rocky was a repeat offender; meaning, he’d hit on me during my first bout on Match (waaaaay back in February 2009!) and again last month when I rejoined…without realizing I was the same person. I knew who he was right away, as he hadn’t changed his profile picture or screen name. (Because as we know, men never change!) I reminded Rocky of our prior online acquaintance and he reminded me of our flirtation surrounding our mutually favorite movie.
HIM: Want to know charming? The whole part in Rocky when he has the old school tank on and he gives a little Rocky love to Adrian in the corner by the door on the floor... so smooth that Balboa character :)
ME: Somehow I read "old school tank" in your email to mean "fish tank". No wonder I was confused! (Rocky liked turtles, not fish...right?) At least we were referencing the same thing--his undergarments. Ha ha.
HIM: turtles...yes...cuff and link :) old school tank = wife beater :) I guess I am rather new school when it comes to undergarments.... regular t-shirts and boxer briefs. I have a feeling that Rocky didn't have a single one of those in that wardrobe of his!
Hell-oh-oh-oh! We were discussing briefs before we'd even met. This guy was right up my alley (or at least, I wanted him to be, ASAP!) But we never got together. I don’t recall what the tipping point was that caused me to write Rocky off. Reviewing my email archives, it looks like there was a failed attempt at him calling me and my refusal to try again. I told Rocky so now.
“You probably met someone,” he said.
“Nope,” I said. “There was absolutely no action going on at that time.”
Whatever the reason Rocky and I didn’t connect way-back-when, I didn’t care. Rocky didn’t, either. There’s no better time to enjoy a surprise package than the present!
I asked Rocky why he’d rejoined Match. He said he’d been dating a ballerina (whose hotness he mentioned multiple times) who toured too much for a relationship. I asked Rocky what his online dating experience had been like thus far.
“Match is like a part-time job,” he sighed. “All those emails. It takes forever!”
Uh-oh, I thought. Do I really want to date someone as popular as me?
“But I like that about Minneapolis,” Rocky continued. “I could have a date every night of the week if I wanted to.”
I nodded without saying a word, but my knee-jerk reaction was: Run. Away. Fast.
“What are you thinking?” he asked.
“I think you’re a player,” I said.
You could’ve heard a pin—or a jaw—drop after that comment.
“Ooops,” I said. “Am I going to regret saying that? Did I put you on the spot?”
“Not at all,” Rocky replied, shifting his shoulders back like an attorney preparing his defense...or a prize-fighter readying for a right hook. “Do I date a lot? Yes. I’m looking for a partner. That’s how you find one. I’m doing exactly what you’re doing.”
“Do you like dating?”
“I like the company.”
“Do you miss being married?”
“I miss being married, yes. Married to her? No.”
Rocky told me how heartbroken he was post-divorce.
“I went through the rampage stage,” he said.
“Ahh, yes,” I said. “The cock rampage.”
Rocky chuckled. “Exactly. Then I went through my saint phase.”
“Yup.”
“Then I went through the I’m only having long term relationships phase.”
“How’s that working out for you?” I asked.
“It takes so fucking long to get anywhere!”
“I know. That’s why you have to have other people in between the genuine prospects.”
And that’s where I’d slotted Rocky: as an in-between-boyfriends beau.
As though on cue, Rocky slid up behind me on the banquette. He rubbed my shoulders, working his way down to my thighs. I tilted my head back and leaned into him, closing my eyes, expecting him to slip me the tongue…but he didn’t, and by the time I had opened my eyes, I realized I was nuzzling my cheek against his temple instead. His lips were nowhere near mine. It was weird. Finally, he kissed me…but he didn’t just kiss me; he sort of lapped at my face like a dog. His mouth—and mine—had been eclipsed by his huge tongue.
Rocky pulled back after a few laps (natch).
“What?” I asked. “You don’t want to?”
“I want to,” he said. “But I don’t know how the restaurant management feels about it. Or those guys.”
Rocky nodded at a table across from us where a few middle-aged men and a teenage boy were dining.
“So where are we going?” he asked.
“Nowhere,” I said.
Rocky smile drooped. He hadn’t had sex in a looong time (meaning, in male measurement: a month) and I was pretty sure he wanted me to be his slump buster.
I’d gotten plowed (and I ain’t talkin’ snow) the night before. I was still (OMG, am I actually going to say this? Yes, yes I am) bleeding a little bit from all the bumping and grinding. (Guys really like to go long the first time. And considering how long he was, I didn’t mind. Not one inch…err, I mean, “bit”.)
Rocky didn’t bother to ask me how long it’d been since I’d gotten laid. I wish he would have…just so I could’ve motioned at his pricey watch and said, “In hours?”
“Just because we go to my place doesn’t mean we have to have sex,” he said.
I laughed skeptically.
“Yeah, sure. Have you ever had a woman over to your house and not had sex?”
“Absolutely. A few times, in fact.”
“Well, if I go to your place, I know exactly what’s going to happen,” I said.
How did I know? Because this date was playing out just like 99% of the others I’ve had lately: Boy meets Man Eater. Boy lures Man Eater to bachelor pad. Man Eater drops pants. Boy assigns Man Eater "booty call girl" title. Boy never takes Man Eater on a real date again.
“Listen,” Rocky said, switching into first-date-sex salesman mode. “I definitely want to go out on another date…but I can tell you right now that it might not happen until January.”
“I’ll be off the market by then,” I said.
“When was your last date?” he asked.
“Last night."
“Are you going to see him again?”
“Yup. Tomorrow.”
“Hmm. Well, I won’t sweat it,” he said. “If the timing’s not right, so be it. I’m not going to force anything.”
Rocky paid for my salad, his fish, and our shared platter of waffle fries (“They charge for that little cup of seasoned sour cream?!” he gaped) and we headed toward the restrooms.
“Oh my God! Chris Koza just emailed me!” Rocky exclaimed when he emerged from the W.C. (Apparently, I’m not the only one who checks email on the John!) “Have you heard of his band Rogue Valley?"
"Of course I have. I interviewed them for my blog."
Rocky wasn't aware. Thus far, he'd stayed away from this site.
"You really should read it," I said. "Just so you know what you're getting into before next time."
Rocky waved off the suggestion like there wasn't anything I could possibly write that would shock him. (Uh-huh. Yeah, right.)
"Do you mind if I reply to Koza?" Rocky asked. "Should I tell him I’m on a date with the Man Eater?”
“Yes! Yes! Do it!” I said.
"Will he remember who you are?"
"The band made breakfast for me." (Which is more than I can say for most of the men I've slept with!) "Koza knows who I am."
Rocky tapped out the message right there in front of me. (Chris was responding to a thank-you note from Rocky for some charity work he'd done.) The moment was sort of sweet…like Rocky was kissing my big brother’s ass so he could go feel me up in the car, guilt free. Which is precisely what we did. We made out like 14-year-old virgins. Meaning: sloppily. Cars are not great make-out spaces. Especially with all the winter gear getting in the way.
Not that it prevented much. Before I knew it, we were in motion. Rocky did naughty things with one hand and steered like a perfect gentleman with the other, all the way through the slushy streets of Eagan.
“Stop,” I said as we drove past the apartment where EconMan proposed five years ago (almost to the date, in fact). “That feels really good but if you keep going, we’re going to end up at your place. And that’s not okay with me.”
Though we were in spitting distance to my house, the return trip felt long. Verrrrry long. And awkward.
“So. How many other dates do you have lined up for this week?” I asked.
“One. It’s Friday or Saturday. I can’t remember.”
“Oh.”
The thought of Rocky going out with someone else after expressing so much interest in me was unnerving. I couldn’t hide my discomfort.
“Don’t ask questions you don’t want to know the answers to,” Rocky said sassily.
“Yes, I’m learning that,” I replied.
Rocky pulled up into my driveway. We kissed goodbye. He said he’d check in with me about his schedule so we could get together again.
I’ll save you the suspense. He didn’t call. Or email. Surprise, surprise. Have I said “Trust your gut” already? Of course I have. Because you should. When things don’t work out the first time around, readers, don’t bother with second chances. Not even if a year-and-a-half has passed and he’s way sexier than you imagined. Unless you like torturing yourself or having regrettable sexual experiences.
Two days post-date, Rocky texted me to see how my date went (umm…awkward!). By then, I wasn’t interested in a man who could...um, give me the finger (literally), then give me the finger (figuratively speaking) by not contacting me for 48 hours. (Proper etiquette, fellas, is to touch base the morning after touching any part of a woman’s anatomy!) Forgive me, but I just assumed that single Dads would treat their lovers as they would like their daughters to be treated. (No worries, fellas; karma will come around soon enough. Some guy will knock up your daughter and you'll be a grandpa in no time!)
Rejection stings no matter where it comes from, but I comforted myself with the fact that if a foreplay-with-no-follow-up left me feeling that resentful, thank goodness I didn't let Rocky rock my world!
Delete, next.
***
Ahh, but that's all in the past. I'm scraping the bottom of the bad date stories barrel. Blame The Baconator. He's treating me so well, I'm running out of material! That’s good for me but not so entertaining for you. Or are you interested in sharing my bliss?
If so, we’ll tackle that in a future post. For now, a tidbit of advice: Keep the Rocky Roads in your mouth and the Rockys out of your pants. You'll thank me in the morning.
ROCKY ROAD
Ingredients
2 cups chocolate chips
1 cup peanut butter
4 cups miniature marshmallows
Method
* Line 9 x 9 pan with parchment paper.
* Heat chocolate chips and peanut butter over low heat in a medium saucepan, stirring often, until chips are completely melted.
* Remove pan from heat. Stir in marshmallows.
* Transfer mixture into prepared pan. Let cool. Refrigerate until firm, then cut.
* A tip from the newly matured Man Eater: be mindful about what you put in your body. Don't go overboard or you'll regret it when the high wears off.
0 comments:
Post a Comment