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