Seeing as I’ve been happily dating The Brit for over 2 years now, I seldom get a taste of what dating is like these days. And thank sweet jesus for that, as I recently went out with one of my girlfriends, who is also a fellow surgical resident, and discovered just how bad it can be. And by "bad", I mean "funny."
Dr. Downtown and I went to a local bar to catch up over a couple of drinks. We’d been there for about an hour when she got up from the tiny couch we’d elbowed everyone else off of to go use the bathroom. Little did I know how vulnerable I’d be without a wingwoman to shield me from the advances of the barely post-pubescent...
Before Dr. Downtown’s seat could even cool off, a young thing, just barely legal I later found out, promptly sat down beside me. And proceeded to ignore me while he made a deliberate show of the fact that he was perfectly happy to just peruse the cocktail menu, thank you very much. He swung it around, examining the back and front several times, with all the dramatic skill of a high school thespian in his starring role. Then he leaned back in what I still considered very much to be Dr. Downtown’s seat, and almost succeeded in looking surprised to find me sitting there beside him.
“Oh, hey,” he said nonchalantly. “Anything good on this thing?” He pointed to the drink menu.
“You mean you’re actually planning to order one of those?” I asked, quite sincerely. He’d picked up the girlie menu of fruity cocktails, among which were the raspberry mojito and pomegranate martini that Dr. Downtown and I had ordered. Dainty drinks I didn’t think any man intending to hit on a woman would actually order in front of said woman.
“Well, I don’t know about all this other stuff, but the gimlet looks like my style,” he smirked.
I nodded, about to tell him that my drinking buddy was due back any moment and that he should probably move when he said…
“Yeah, so I’m here with ‘my boys.’ We live in Palo Alto, do you know where that is?”
This time I did the smirking. First of all, because I hadn’t had a conversation in which anyone had seriously referred to their posse as ‘my boys’ since I was in high school. And second of all, because he was clearly making an unsubtle attempt to be subtle about the fact that he was in some way affiliated with this reputable academic institution, which is the only reason anyone his age would ever live in Palo Alto. He misread my smirk for an invitation to tell me more.
“Yeah, so, you know what it’s like then. It’s like fuckin’ suburbia. It sucks. So you know what I mean when I say that, since we don’t come up to SanFran too often, when we do, we gotta make it count.”
Oh?? And how, exactly, was this kid, who probably doesn’t even shave yet, planning on ‘making it count?’
Just as I was about to find out, Dr. Downtown came back. She examined the Abercrombie and Fitch shirt tucked into the pants that were occupying her seat and then looked over at me. At which point I pointed out to him that he should probably move. He gave her the seat back and repositioned himself on the armrest of our sofa. Just as he was about to squirt yet another smarmy remark out from betwixt his lips, one of his ‘boys’ came over to join him. Some whispers were exchanged.
“Hey, I’ll be right back. I owe ‘my boys’ a round.” And he was off.
I filled Dr. Downtown in on his efforts to make this SF trip count. By the time he came back, with a gimlet in his hands, she was up to speed. And since he apparently wasn’t going away any time soon, we figured we might as well make it count.
“So, I take it you’re in undergrad in Palo Alto?” I said, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of saying the name of his highly esteemed school.
“No, I’m in law school. First year.” He tried to say it as if the sheer vocalization of it didn’t give him a stiffy, but it did. You could tell. He was quite pleased with himself.
Dr. Downtown and I exchanged glances at the shameless attempt to impress us. As women who seldom tell strangers what we actually do, for reasons I’ve already disclosed, this was entertaining. And cute. And destined for failure. But he kept going, and without prompting I might add.
“Yeah, I mean, it’s cool and all, being a lawyer. But it’s not like lives will rest in my hands or anything. It’s not like I’m holding a heart in my hands…”
Considering I’d quite literally been out on a procurement call with the transplant team earlier that day, and I had, in no uncertain terms, actually held a heart during the operation, it almost seemed like we had to tell him what we did for a living. If for no other reason than to shut him up and move him out of the way so we could flag down our cocktail waitress for another drink.
Dr. Downtown looked sideways at me for the go ahead, which I gave her. “Yeah, we know about the whole ‘lives in our hands’ type of job,” she said.
“Oh yeah? Why, what do you two do?”
“We’re surgeons,” she said.
His head jerked back in surprise. He almost spilled his gimlet. The one he’d put so much effort into effortlessly choosing from the menu. “Nuh uhhh!! You two are surgeons???”
Nodding, I almost felt bad about how easy it was to knock him down a few notches, not to mention nearly off the side of the couch.
“Like Grey’s Anatomy types??” he said, still baffled.
Oh, jeez, here we go again. Yeah…exactly like on Grey’s Anatomy.
-La Cubana Gringa
Friday, February 23, 2007
Monday, February 19, 2007
Sometimes mothers don't know best...
I am not a big fan of set-ups or blind dates. I rarely and reluctantly agree to be set up by my friends… and even more seldom so by my parents. One thing I’ve learned, despite their suffocating love, is that my parents have no idea who is right for me. At this point, given my age, I think they probably think that anybody who is still breathing and is able to open his eyes to look at me (through his cataracts) and blink once for “yes” is a great match for me… and I am not even close to retirement. Nor do I look it. In fact, a few years ago, a girl at Great America, whose job it was to accurately guess people’s age, guessed I was 10 years younger than my stated age. I got to pick the biggest stuffed animal there and she might have been fired for it, but that’s another story.
Now back to dating. Even though I don’t like my parents setting me up with anybody, there have been a few exceptions. You would think that I would have learned my lesson, after they tried to introduce me to a few losers, one of which spent 4 hours telling me how drunk he liked to get and how so very much he enjoyed kicking people’s asses. Wow, what a catch! Then, there was that one nice bald guy… but he was so nice that I couldn’t figure out if he had a personality under that thick hairless layer of agreeableness. I don’t mind baldness when it’s on the top of a head, but I do mind baldness when it’s of the personality.
Anyway, apparently having not quite yet learned my lesson, my mother convinced me to meet the older son of one of the local doctors. Whatever she said to convince me to allow her this gesture is now beyond me. I guess I was in medical school at the time and he was related to somebody in medicine… I am not sure, but a few phone conversations later, he was driving an hour and a half to see me. I considered this a fairly bold move, so I was excited to meet this guy, a guy who will earn the right in all of our hearts and minds to deserve the name: Mr. Hands-On.
First impression: no sparks or fireworks. But, he had just driven such a long way, so I wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt. After about 2 minutes of hanging out, he offered to give me a massage. I would have considered it a nice offer, had it come from somebody who I knew well, but considering this guy had barely been in my presence long enough for me to steep my tea, I politely declined. Despite my several attempts to make conversation, each one was shot down with yet another proposal for a massage. He even offered a foot massage if I thought the idea of him touching my back was too forward. I was getting a little uncomfortable with his proposals. However, not only had he come all the way from another city to see me, he was the son of a friend of my mother’s. So I had to play nice.
We came back to my house after lunch. (In retrospect, a very poor administrative decision on my part.) I sat on the couch in my living room and he positioned himself on the floor. We had a semi-normal conversation for a few minutes, until his attention was suddenly distracted by the Costa Rican figurines on my bookshelf. His eyes shifted hungrily from one wooden figure to the next, each one of a man and woman in a different exaggerated sexual position. Note to self: Hide inappropriate figures when attempting to make a “proper” first impression. As well as when trying to stave off the advances of the overly-eager. I cringed at the thought of what he might say.
“I see there is a man kissing that woman’s breasts. Do you like your breasts kissed?”
WHAT?!?!? Though I should have half-expected it, I was still shocked at the audacity. We’d moved on from the topic of him massaging my feet to whether or not I liked my mammaries suckled. Smiling awkwardly, I explained to him that I didn’t feel comfortable discussing this on our first meeting. He seemed to have understood where I was coming from, and just as I thought we are going to switch subjects he proceeded…
“Well, if you are not comfortable talking about your breasts, then tell me what your favorite sexual position is… and do you like giving or receiving oral sex?”
I don’t think I even pretended to be polite after this question. I told him that I was suddenly very tired and asked him to leave. On his way out he informed me that I was a nice girl, but a little too TIMID for his taste!!! Oh if only he knew how wrong he was! But he’d never have the privilege to find out, much less to kiss my breasts.
He called me the next day though, to ask if I wanted to hang out again. So I decided to forgo timid, go unswervingly to bitch, and directed him straight to my mother. It’s high time she start meeting the men she decides to set me up with first. Actually, it’s high time I stop going on blind dates that she arranges…
-Innigma
Now back to dating. Even though I don’t like my parents setting me up with anybody, there have been a few exceptions. You would think that I would have learned my lesson, after they tried to introduce me to a few losers, one of which spent 4 hours telling me how drunk he liked to get and how so very much he enjoyed kicking people’s asses. Wow, what a catch! Then, there was that one nice bald guy… but he was so nice that I couldn’t figure out if he had a personality under that thick hairless layer of agreeableness. I don’t mind baldness when it’s on the top of a head, but I do mind baldness when it’s of the personality.
Anyway, apparently having not quite yet learned my lesson, my mother convinced me to meet the older son of one of the local doctors. Whatever she said to convince me to allow her this gesture is now beyond me. I guess I was in medical school at the time and he was related to somebody in medicine… I am not sure, but a few phone conversations later, he was driving an hour and a half to see me. I considered this a fairly bold move, so I was excited to meet this guy, a guy who will earn the right in all of our hearts and minds to deserve the name: Mr. Hands-On.
First impression: no sparks or fireworks. But, he had just driven such a long way, so I wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt. After about 2 minutes of hanging out, he offered to give me a massage. I would have considered it a nice offer, had it come from somebody who I knew well, but considering this guy had barely been in my presence long enough for me to steep my tea, I politely declined. Despite my several attempts to make conversation, each one was shot down with yet another proposal for a massage. He even offered a foot massage if I thought the idea of him touching my back was too forward. I was getting a little uncomfortable with his proposals. However, not only had he come all the way from another city to see me, he was the son of a friend of my mother’s. So I had to play nice.
We came back to my house after lunch. (In retrospect, a very poor administrative decision on my part.) I sat on the couch in my living room and he positioned himself on the floor. We had a semi-normal conversation for a few minutes, until his attention was suddenly distracted by the Costa Rican figurines on my bookshelf. His eyes shifted hungrily from one wooden figure to the next, each one of a man and woman in a different exaggerated sexual position. Note to self: Hide inappropriate figures when attempting to make a “proper” first impression. As well as when trying to stave off the advances of the overly-eager. I cringed at the thought of what he might say.
“I see there is a man kissing that woman’s breasts. Do you like your breasts kissed?”
WHAT?!?!? Though I should have half-expected it, I was still shocked at the audacity. We’d moved on from the topic of him massaging my feet to whether or not I liked my mammaries suckled. Smiling awkwardly, I explained to him that I didn’t feel comfortable discussing this on our first meeting. He seemed to have understood where I was coming from, and just as I thought we are going to switch subjects he proceeded…
“Well, if you are not comfortable talking about your breasts, then tell me what your favorite sexual position is… and do you like giving or receiving oral sex?”
I don’t think I even pretended to be polite after this question. I told him that I was suddenly very tired and asked him to leave. On his way out he informed me that I was a nice girl, but a little too TIMID for his taste!!! Oh if only he knew how wrong he was! But he’d never have the privilege to find out, much less to kiss my breasts.
He called me the next day though, to ask if I wanted to hang out again. So I decided to forgo timid, go unswervingly to bitch, and directed him straight to my mother. It’s high time she start meeting the men she decides to set me up with first. Actually, it’s high time I stop going on blind dates that she arranges…
-Innigma
Saturday, February 17, 2007
Things men should never tell a woman
Long before I married, I was out on a date with a young lady who possessed the innocence of one of those cloistered Catholic school girls (Yeah, right!). She was short of stature with an angelic face and equally ample caboose. We had been seeing each other for quite some time, but up to that point we had shared no carnal knowledge. As a matter of fact, she had never been engaged in any kind of sexual activity beyond the normal coital stimulation which women often perform upon themselves as they venture into self-discovery. The only time that an attempt was made happened to be on a snowy Christmas night when my parents were out of the house. She became quite excited as we thrusts our pelvic bones together and I was just about to give her the seasonal Yule Tide log when my mother walked in. This is just a brief history of our relationship which has absolutely nothing to do with what I am about to tell you; I just thought it might amuse my readers.
Anyway, one evening as we were manducating our victuals at a local eatery, my sweet and bashful convent girl asked me if I thought she looked fat. Initially I said that she was just right; a vision of loveliness. If she had accepted that response, I dare say that our relationship would have flowered into more mature and long-lasting adventures. However, she continued her furious interrogation, insisting that she was fat and that I should not be afraid of giving her my unbiased opinion of her figure.
“Well”, I said “you probably could stand to lose a few pounds.” From that moment and all the way to her front door, she obliged me to subject myself to a tirade of the most horrible insults and expletives known to man.
So, I said all that to say this, guys. Never, under any circumstances or duress should you ever voice your opinion concerning a woman’s weight or how she looks in a dress. If you do, you will be seeing a side of your woman that you thought never existed; not to mention the possibility of physical assault. I’ve seen both, and it’s not a pretty sight.
- Daddio
Friday, February 16, 2007
Steady sexual income
When Ms. ATM and I first met, in the middle of our very first conversation, completely out of the blue, she started laughing hysterically. When I asked her what was so funny, she barely pulled herself together and holding back another attack of laughter said, "Do you always look so serious?”
I suppose I was a bit too serious throughout our brief relationship, mainly because I was afraid she liked me a little too much. It's never a good thing when a girl likes you too much when all you're trying to do is just have some fun. In fact that was precisely the reason I broke it off - my exact words were, "We probably shouldn't see each other - you like me too much.”
It was my turn to laugh when she informed me that she really didn't care for me all that much and was just after "…some steady sexual income..." After I somehow managed to wipe off the dumbfounded look off my face, I thought about asking if she would still be willing to accept a direct deposit, but I didn't have the heart.
- Mr. DirectDeposit
I suppose I was a bit too serious throughout our brief relationship, mainly because I was afraid she liked me a little too much. It's never a good thing when a girl likes you too much when all you're trying to do is just have some fun. In fact that was precisely the reason I broke it off - my exact words were, "We probably shouldn't see each other - you like me too much.”
It was my turn to laugh when she informed me that she really didn't care for me all that much and was just after "…some steady sexual income..." After I somehow managed to wipe off the dumbfounded look off my face, I thought about asking if she would still be willing to accept a direct deposit, but I didn't have the heart.
- Mr. DirectDeposit
Thursday, February 15, 2007
Unsavory tale
I met this man, whom I shall call Mr. Mushroom Head (for reasons I have no intention of divulging), at a dinner party. He wasn't particularly attractive, in fact he was a bit too rotund for my liking, and he was not at all tall; but he made up for his (literal) short-comings by being witty, slightly sarcastic and very at ease with himself. I had so much fun that evening, laughing until I was doubled over in pain, talking about anything and everything. There was something wonderfully different about him, and come to think of it he was actually quite sexy… So when he asked for my number at the end of the night, I gave it to him.
He called a few days later and we went out for dinner, and again I felt totally relaxed with him. He was slightly more suggestive, we flirted and it felt good. And there was definitely something very sexy about this short, slightly podgy man. He didn't try to be cool, but nor did he seem to feel at all insecure. It was rather attractive combination. Now, I'm normally not particularly moralistic about the "doing it" bit, I didn't grow up in a country where one has to abide by the strict rules and regulations on what is supposed to happen and not happen at various stages in the dating process. If you get on, if you fancy each other, then why not?
But for some reason Mr. Mushroom Head and I went out several times and merely kissed, and although the kissing did get quite hot at times (it is very sexy kissing a man who is slightly shorter than you), it simply didn't go any further.
Until that fateful night when he invited me to his house for dinner. I knew he loved food (and not just from his generously sized self), so I was really looking forward to the evening. And yes, I admit it wasn't just the food I was anticipating…
The food was delicious, the wine was vintage, his house was beautiful, I was beautiful. It was all going perfectly, and whilst he disappeared to use the bathroom I shamelessly entertained thoughts of living here in this house overlooking the sea, and…
My daydreaming was interrupted by his voice calling me from, well it sounded like the bathroom. He wanted to show me something. I got up and went into the hallway. The lights were turned down and I could see the shadows of flickering candles on the walls. I was surprised. Had he drawn a bath for me? But we had just eaten. I entered the bathroom (which was gorgeous by the way) and there he was, lying stark naked in an empty bathtub, and while doing things better left unmentioned in this respectable publication, he looked up at me and said in a dreadful little boy's voice: "Pee on me, please pee on me, I have been a very naughty boy".
By Waspgoddess
He called a few days later and we went out for dinner, and again I felt totally relaxed with him. He was slightly more suggestive, we flirted and it felt good. And there was definitely something very sexy about this short, slightly podgy man. He didn't try to be cool, but nor did he seem to feel at all insecure. It was rather attractive combination. Now, I'm normally not particularly moralistic about the "doing it" bit, I didn't grow up in a country where one has to abide by the strict rules and regulations on what is supposed to happen and not happen at various stages in the dating process. If you get on, if you fancy each other, then why not?
But for some reason Mr. Mushroom Head and I went out several times and merely kissed, and although the kissing did get quite hot at times (it is very sexy kissing a man who is slightly shorter than you), it simply didn't go any further.
Until that fateful night when he invited me to his house for dinner. I knew he loved food (and not just from his generously sized self), so I was really looking forward to the evening. And yes, I admit it wasn't just the food I was anticipating…
The food was delicious, the wine was vintage, his house was beautiful, I was beautiful. It was all going perfectly, and whilst he disappeared to use the bathroom I shamelessly entertained thoughts of living here in this house overlooking the sea, and…
My daydreaming was interrupted by his voice calling me from, well it sounded like the bathroom. He wanted to show me something. I got up and went into the hallway. The lights were turned down and I could see the shadows of flickering candles on the walls. I was surprised. Had he drawn a bath for me? But we had just eaten. I entered the bathroom (which was gorgeous by the way) and there he was, lying stark naked in an empty bathtub, and while doing things better left unmentioned in this respectable publication, he looked up at me and said in a dreadful little boy's voice: "Pee on me, please pee on me, I have been a very naughty boy".
By Waspgoddess
Tuesday, February 13, 2007
I am, afterall, only 61.75 inches tall...
Before The Brit rode in on his armored Mini Cooper and rescued me from The Battlefield that is dating, I’d dated several “characters.” This, much to the dismay of my mother who would twist her face in a pretzel of incredulous disapproval upon mention of the subject, particularly when I would, quite tastelessly, compare the ritual of dating to an afternoon of shopping for shoes: One has to try on several pair sometimes before finding the right fit. Gasp!! You see, when she married my father at the tender, unripened age of 16, he was the only boy she’d ever been on a date with. And a chaperoned date, at that. So, one might understand how this whole Dating Thing was beyond her comprehension. And, as such, why she would frequently remind me that farmers rarely bought the cow when they could get the milk for free.
Thank God I was a sharp kid and didn’t take her literally. Otherwise, I might have ended up estranged and confused. On a dairy farm.
No. I stayed away from those perverted farmers and went straight for the perverted doctors. Within weeks of starting my residency, I’d spotted him. Dr. Ferrari. He was good looking. Smart. (I mean, presumably, right? He went to med school, after all, so he couldn’t be completely devoid of grey matter.) ( Presumably.) And upon our first few encounters in the ICU, he seemed to have just the right touch of confidence. You know the kind…that which teeters on the cusp of arrogance, juuuuuust enough to be mysteriously sexy without actually being arrogant.
It was a quick beginning. But after I’d tried the shoes on a few times, I came to the brisk conclusion that I’d leave them at the store after all. Not that they weren’t GREAT shoes. They were. The fantastically naughty and spontaneous kind. However, I realized that that there was no teetering on the cusp for this guy. No, Dr. Ferrari had long ago fallen off the teeter totter, down the slippery slope of his silver spoon, over the gargantuan cliff next to his privileged house on a hill, and into a cavernous pool of smug self-righteousness and trite entitlement. Conversations with him revolved around him. His collection of Versace ties. His boundless affection for the LA lifestyle he someday hoped to live, you know, in between all the clubbing he’d do. His reputation for being a player…the seventy-some women who he’d already conquered. His platinum colored convertible Porsche 911, which, I was frequently reminded, was simply a stepping-stone to the car he was truly meant to drive. A Ferrari. Of course.
It got boring. (The conversation, not the shoes.) I thought after about a week it would fizzle out. He’d move on to some other cow and I’d move along to the next shoe store. But he kept calling. Started getting all sentimental. And serious! At first I found it humorous. Much in the same way I’d find it humorous if my mother decided to pursue her previously stifled passion for the kazoo as an orchestra instrument. Which she hasn’t by the way (we’d never stifle such a dream) but really, it would elicit the same hampered laugh and the same “you’re not serious are you?” But alas, Dr. Ferrari was serious. And quite persistent. So, gingerly and with my udders on guard, I humored him and continued to date him.
It was during this time that I came to learn that beneath what I had initially thought was a shallow pool, was, in fact, another even shallower pool. Honestly. The clubbing was fun at first, but after a couple months of juggling it with an 80-hour work week, it got old. As did the Ferrari talk, which was tediously perseverative. Especially when I found out that he wasn’t even paying for his current ride, his physician parents were. In fact, his parents were paying for everything. His house with a view. His medical education. His Versace ties. All of it. Having come from a family that had never owned a home, one that lived paycheck to paycheck, and having put myself in tremendous debt to educate myself, it was safe to say that we came from two different walks of life. Furthermore, he was admittedly getting ancy with the whole Monogamy Thing. Dr. Ferrari was successfully ruining his conquistador reputation by hanging out with the same chic. And one that wasn’t a Hollywood blonde, at that. This was ok, though, as I’d concluded that I’d enjoyed the shoes for long enough.
Our break-up discussion was uncomplicated, as they tend to be when a cow attempts to talk to a used pair of shoes in a shallow pool. I gave him a brief soliloquy about how I thought we simply came from polar opposite backgrounds and would never understand each other. I poured on, too long in retrospect, about how, since he’d never really struggled for anything in his life, he’d never truly get me. That I needed someone who could relate. Someone more sensitive. And that he could stand to be a little bit more thoughtful to other people and their feelings.
When I was done, I shifted my gaze from my fidgeting hands to his face. He stared back at me, blankly. Lips pursed. I waved my hand in front of his vacant eyes, no doubt interrupting the mental scrolling he was doing through the list of clubs he might hit up later that night. He snapped out of his silent social planning and looked at me with eyes that said, “Right. You done then?”
Not quite. One last thing. So as not to be accused of not allowing him to give me an equal amount of criticism, I asked him if there was anything he thought I needed to work on. Any weaknesses he might see in me that I might improve for my next relationship.
A great number of vacuous moments went by. He sat back on his leather couch (parents paid for that too), let out a big cumbersome sigh, bit the inside of his cheek and allowed his eyes to drift up and to the left…thinking thinking thinking.
“Well?” I said.
He looked back at me, slowly and reluctantly. And then he uttered the words that have since gone down in history as the most ridiculous and most quoted phrase of any ex of mine: “Well…I have often thought you were quite short.”
[Exited stage right, laughing out loud.]
-La Cubana Gringa
Thank God I was a sharp kid and didn’t take her literally. Otherwise, I might have ended up estranged and confused. On a dairy farm.
No. I stayed away from those perverted farmers and went straight for the perverted doctors. Within weeks of starting my residency, I’d spotted him. Dr. Ferrari. He was good looking. Smart. (I mean, presumably, right? He went to med school, after all, so he couldn’t be completely devoid of grey matter.) ( Presumably.) And upon our first few encounters in the ICU, he seemed to have just the right touch of confidence. You know the kind…that which teeters on the cusp of arrogance, juuuuuust enough to be mysteriously sexy without actually being arrogant.
It was a quick beginning. But after I’d tried the shoes on a few times, I came to the brisk conclusion that I’d leave them at the store after all. Not that they weren’t GREAT shoes. They were. The fantastically naughty and spontaneous kind. However, I realized that that there was no teetering on the cusp for this guy. No, Dr. Ferrari had long ago fallen off the teeter totter, down the slippery slope of his silver spoon, over the gargantuan cliff next to his privileged house on a hill, and into a cavernous pool of smug self-righteousness and trite entitlement. Conversations with him revolved around him. His collection of Versace ties. His boundless affection for the LA lifestyle he someday hoped to live, you know, in between all the clubbing he’d do. His reputation for being a player…the seventy-some women who he’d already conquered. His platinum colored convertible Porsche 911, which, I was frequently reminded, was simply a stepping-stone to the car he was truly meant to drive. A Ferrari. Of course.
It got boring. (The conversation, not the shoes.) I thought after about a week it would fizzle out. He’d move on to some other cow and I’d move along to the next shoe store. But he kept calling. Started getting all sentimental. And serious! At first I found it humorous. Much in the same way I’d find it humorous if my mother decided to pursue her previously stifled passion for the kazoo as an orchestra instrument. Which she hasn’t by the way (we’d never stifle such a dream) but really, it would elicit the same hampered laugh and the same “you’re not serious are you?” But alas, Dr. Ferrari was serious. And quite persistent. So, gingerly and with my udders on guard, I humored him and continued to date him.
It was during this time that I came to learn that beneath what I had initially thought was a shallow pool, was, in fact, another even shallower pool. Honestly. The clubbing was fun at first, but after a couple months of juggling it with an 80-hour work week, it got old. As did the Ferrari talk, which was tediously perseverative. Especially when I found out that he wasn’t even paying for his current ride, his physician parents were. In fact, his parents were paying for everything. His house with a view. His medical education. His Versace ties. All of it. Having come from a family that had never owned a home, one that lived paycheck to paycheck, and having put myself in tremendous debt to educate myself, it was safe to say that we came from two different walks of life. Furthermore, he was admittedly getting ancy with the whole Monogamy Thing. Dr. Ferrari was successfully ruining his conquistador reputation by hanging out with the same chic. And one that wasn’t a Hollywood blonde, at that. This was ok, though, as I’d concluded that I’d enjoyed the shoes for long enough.
Our break-up discussion was uncomplicated, as they tend to be when a cow attempts to talk to a used pair of shoes in a shallow pool. I gave him a brief soliloquy about how I thought we simply came from polar opposite backgrounds and would never understand each other. I poured on, too long in retrospect, about how, since he’d never really struggled for anything in his life, he’d never truly get me. That I needed someone who could relate. Someone more sensitive. And that he could stand to be a little bit more thoughtful to other people and their feelings.
When I was done, I shifted my gaze from my fidgeting hands to his face. He stared back at me, blankly. Lips pursed. I waved my hand in front of his vacant eyes, no doubt interrupting the mental scrolling he was doing through the list of clubs he might hit up later that night. He snapped out of his silent social planning and looked at me with eyes that said, “Right. You done then?”
Not quite. One last thing. So as not to be accused of not allowing him to give me an equal amount of criticism, I asked him if there was anything he thought I needed to work on. Any weaknesses he might see in me that I might improve for my next relationship.
A great number of vacuous moments went by. He sat back on his leather couch (parents paid for that too), let out a big cumbersome sigh, bit the inside of his cheek and allowed his eyes to drift up and to the left…thinking thinking thinking.
“Well?” I said.
He looked back at me, slowly and reluctantly. And then he uttered the words that have since gone down in history as the most ridiculous and most quoted phrase of any ex of mine: “Well…I have often thought you were quite short.”
[Exited stage right, laughing out loud.]
-La Cubana Gringa
Still can't figure out if I need it or just really want it...
Dating seemed a rather simple matter when I was younger. All of my first dates (A) naturally evolved into relationships (B), which were seldom long-lived but still made it seem as though dating was fun and simple (C). It was an uncomplicated equation: A+B=C. Repeat, until C = The Right One.
At the age of 21, I still hadn’t found my “C.” Quite the opposite, I was newly single, yet again, and busily gluing the pieces of my broken hear back together. Back to the drawing board to start a new equation all over again. So, when a friend of mine wanted to play matchmaker, I went along with it. And this is how I arrived in time and place on a first date with Mr. Sexessity. He was tall, good looking, and charming. I thought, how bad could it be?
Little did I know I was about to encounter an entirely different equation…or at least one in which the variables had entirely different meanings: A = What the fuck?? And B = Yeah, if you could go ahead and NEVER CALL ME EVER AGAIN, that’d be great!
But let’s not get ahead of ourselves. First, he took me to a bar in North Beach. A few red flags went up right away. Let’s just say Mama didn’t raise me in a barn: I was a proper lady (at the time) and I’d previously only dated gentlemen. Mr. Sexessity was clearly NOT. I went to the restroom (NOT to powder my nose) and when I came out, he was already seated at a table, sipping a drink he’d gone ahead and ordered for himself. He didn’t pull out my chair. Or take my coat. (Mind you, I was way more sophisticated then than I am now…all that properness has disintegrated into a puddle of lowered expectations.) I was appalled but decided to give him the benefit of the doubt. He was quick to start the conversation with a few basic questions. They seemed pretty innocent. Only, after about five minutes, I noticed a pattern: each question started with the phrase “So, I’ve asked many girls this question, and I’m wondering what your answer is…” These questions ranged from what town I was born in to what my preferred mode of transportation around Europe was (train or air?). I found myself wishing I’d taken the time to print out my resume, as that would have given me a sufficient lead-time of peace and quiet to concentrate on getting drunk. The interrogation lasted an hour. Given that this was my first date in a while, I went along with it, particularly since I was unsure about whether or not this rapid-fire question session was just the way dating was done now. I felt like I was being quizzed for potential hire as the “next girl” who he was going to date. Then, the final question came: “So, I’ve asked many girls this…Is sex a necessity or a pleasure for you? Many girls say it’s a pleasure for them, but for me, it’s a necessity.” My jaw dropped and before I had the time to formulate a response, he invited me to accompany him to the nearest sex shop.
Wait! Had I passed?? Hang on…was that a good thing or something to be feared? I wasn’t sure I wanted to be one of the lucky many who then had the pleasure of experiencing the necessity that was sex.
I got home, my mind reeling with the shock of just how much dating had changed since I’d last been on the scene. Minutes later, I received a phone call from none other than Mr. Sexessity himself asking if he could see me again. I told him I’d be busy for at least a year. That, if he still remembers my number, he should not call back then, cause chances are, I’d most likely be busy as well.
Will A+B ever = C??
- Innigma
At the age of 21, I still hadn’t found my “C.” Quite the opposite, I was newly single, yet again, and busily gluing the pieces of my broken hear back together. Back to the drawing board to start a new equation all over again. So, when a friend of mine wanted to play matchmaker, I went along with it. And this is how I arrived in time and place on a first date with Mr. Sexessity. He was tall, good looking, and charming. I thought, how bad could it be?
Little did I know I was about to encounter an entirely different equation…or at least one in which the variables had entirely different meanings: A = What the fuck?? And B = Yeah, if you could go ahead and NEVER CALL ME EVER AGAIN, that’d be great!
But let’s not get ahead of ourselves. First, he took me to a bar in North Beach. A few red flags went up right away. Let’s just say Mama didn’t raise me in a barn: I was a proper lady (at the time) and I’d previously only dated gentlemen. Mr. Sexessity was clearly NOT. I went to the restroom (NOT to powder my nose) and when I came out, he was already seated at a table, sipping a drink he’d gone ahead and ordered for himself. He didn’t pull out my chair. Or take my coat. (Mind you, I was way more sophisticated then than I am now…all that properness has disintegrated into a puddle of lowered expectations.) I was appalled but decided to give him the benefit of the doubt. He was quick to start the conversation with a few basic questions. They seemed pretty innocent. Only, after about five minutes, I noticed a pattern: each question started with the phrase “So, I’ve asked many girls this question, and I’m wondering what your answer is…” These questions ranged from what town I was born in to what my preferred mode of transportation around Europe was (train or air?). I found myself wishing I’d taken the time to print out my resume, as that would have given me a sufficient lead-time of peace and quiet to concentrate on getting drunk. The interrogation lasted an hour. Given that this was my first date in a while, I went along with it, particularly since I was unsure about whether or not this rapid-fire question session was just the way dating was done now. I felt like I was being quizzed for potential hire as the “next girl” who he was going to date. Then, the final question came: “So, I’ve asked many girls this…Is sex a necessity or a pleasure for you? Many girls say it’s a pleasure for them, but for me, it’s a necessity.” My jaw dropped and before I had the time to formulate a response, he invited me to accompany him to the nearest sex shop.
Wait! Had I passed?? Hang on…was that a good thing or something to be feared? I wasn’t sure I wanted to be one of the lucky many who then had the pleasure of experiencing the necessity that was sex.
I got home, my mind reeling with the shock of just how much dating had changed since I’d last been on the scene. Minutes later, I received a phone call from none other than Mr. Sexessity himself asking if he could see me again. I told him I’d be busy for at least a year. That, if he still remembers my number, he should not call back then, cause chances are, I’d most likely be busy as well.
Will A+B ever = C??
- Innigma
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