Special thanks to oldnakeddad for editing my first submission, and of course, thank you to my muse, Charlie.
*****
I had a date, a proper date. You know, the one when the guy picks you up and takes you out for dinner then returns you home, virtue intact, and performs the perfunctory first date good night kiss.
I was utterly thrilled. Actually I lie. Thrilled and dates weren't words I used in the same sentence together...ever.
Adam was a divorcing landscaper who I had met on a dating site a few weeks before. His messages were polite, well written and contained none of the usual nonsense like; `here's my Kik username, phone number, email address, and PO Box if you want to chat off here.'
He didn't pick me up. He offered but I thanked him and said no...the last thing I needed was a man knowing where I lived, especially if he turned into a dick. Oh, they all said how lovely they were but I think it's a well-established truth that serial killers don't come straight out and say, `Hey, after I lure you into my car, I'm going to torture then kill you.'
I hated all the underlying withholding that took place while dating. Nothing ruined my appetite more than watching a man figure out which category he'd like to put me into: either the Fuck On First Date or the Take Home to Meet Mother girl. I could usually figure out pretty quickly which one he'd decided I was, too. If he wasn't sure I was the kind of girl who'd fuck him in the car on the way home, I would be subjected to all sorts of stories from his glory days and he'd tug on my heart strings with stories of how his wife never really understood him. I guess the fact he's divorcing makes it reasonable to assume he never really knew her, either.
I took lovers while I dated...my own version of fuckable or datable. My favourites were the guys who left marriages and realised they'd not lost their sex drive but rather shelved it amongst the litany of mortgage payments, soccer training, and arguments over who was walking the dog. The pressure to perform and maintain to their family a weight that rendered them impotent to living the life they'd imagined. They were always so horny and ready to explore almost anything.
I, myself, was over the juxtapose of being dragged into the Madonna/Whore decision men made based on a set of criteria I was unaware of. I really didn't know what made them make these black and white decisions or what boxes needed ticking in order to pass the mark. I also didn't fucking care.
I had two lovers, a younger man and then Charlie. It was Charlie who I most often spoke to of my dismay over the dating game. It was over seared scallops and crisp white wine that I noticed him. He was sitting at a table, on his own, and I had no idea how he knew where I'd be. I racked my memories of our last few times together. This was no stalking event either (before you get any ideas...) so when Adam excused himself and went to the gents room, I picked my phone up and checked my messages.
