“So, if I were a fly on the wall, how would I hear you rate me to your friends?” he asked, popping his head out of the shower.
This was an odd morning for me. Not because a masculine voice was echoing through the doorway- but because I had woken up in a bed other than my own. I was trying to remember the last time this happened. I was also trying to remember the last time I had a 13 hour first date.
“Are we talking letter scale or number scale?” Any sort of conversation involving personal intellect was beyond my early morning skill set. It was 8 a.m., I’d slept a whopping four hours at best, and the closest Starbucks was, at estimate, at least a mile away. Post make-out delirious and caffeine deprived, I would have to make do on intellectual auto-pilot; meaning, it was only a matter of time before I would need to dislodge my foot from my mouth.
The truth of the matter is, I really wasn’t sure what to make of the situation- and had you told me on Tuesday that this is where I’d find myself on Saturday- I would have inquired as to what you’d been smoking.
The previous Tuesday morning, while walking my dog, I was hit by some jackass who had chosen to flagrantly disregard California's cell phone laws. Granted, he more slow rolled through a stop sign- and I was more shocked, scared, and blood-boiling irate than actually injured, but, well, considering the massive tongue-lashing which ensued- I think it’s safe to say that neither one of us figured we’d wake up next to each other four days later.
It’s the type of
poorly written story Lifetime Movies are made of.
My mental fog began to lift.
Letter scale or number scale? That’s the best I could do? God I’m an idiot.
He paused. “Just in general.”
Okay brain- help me out here.
“I’d have to go with pleasantly-surprised-yet-cautiously-optimistic,” I answered, thankful I’d partially regained my ability to string a sentence together. “So how about you? Same question.” Turnabout was fair play, and well, after all, fair is fair. That, and I was curious.
“Well, I did ask you to spend the night. I’d say that’s a pretty good sign.”
As he drove me back to my condo I found myself moderately amused. In just a few minutes I’d be walking through my front door wearing last night’s clothes, faintly smelling of Skyy vodka and bad choices. Staying over on a first date is definitely not my M.O., and although I was being taken home in a remarkably sexy Mercedes convertible, I couldn’t help but wonder if this could be classified as a grown-up version of the walk-of-shame; one that involved leather seats and a BOSE sound system.
I wondered if I’d see him again.
Several days and several lines of pseudo-flirty instant message banter later, I decided to take matters into my own hands. When I received a press invite to an event at a posh downtown hotel- I decided to ask the cell-phone-law-breaker if he’d like to be my "plus one."
An hour later he sent me an instant message- so I sent him the invite via email. Then he replied to my Blackberry, so I texted to his cell, and several minutes later got a reply turning down the offer.
I felt my left eyebrow raising. I couldn’t help but laugh.
Did I really just have to check all these electronic portals to get rejected via a path of five different technologies?
I suddenly found myself experiencing the oddest sense of déjà vu - I felt as if I’d been cast in that movie- the one where Drew Barrymore works at a gay newspaper and is surrounded by all these fabulous men yet has a heck of a time finding a decent one to date.
On second thought- wait. That is my life.
Over the years, the ongoing saga that seems to be my all-too-laughable personal life has provided for endless column fodder. Looking back, there was the 30 year old virgin, the guy I caught in my bedroom holding my favorite pair of high heels up to the side of his face, and the sad “everything about my life sucks” guy who proceeded to tell me all his shortcomings (including the lacking size of his disproportionately small, “ahem”).
This time, however, I have to be thankful. I’m thankful to have not found myself out with a creepster, a stalker, or an overall nut-job. I’m grateful to have been out with someone from whom I wasn’t itching to get away from at the first presented opportunity. It was nice to spend time with someone who didn’t drop the “I know you said you don’t date people with children, but I only have four and they’re adorable” bomb on me (Yes, that’s happened).
Will we see each other again? The jury is still out on that one. But even if we don’t, what I do know is this- the universe has finally thrown me a proverbial bone- which indicates that there just might be a few good ones left out there. But if finding Big Love entails my needing to start throwing myself into oncoming traffic- the universe and I are going to need to have a serious talk.
Margie M. Palmer is an award winning columnist and SDGLN.com's resident editorial dominatrix. She has been published extensively throughout the national LGBTQ media circuit and has been itching to revisit her days as a witty bantress. Although she'll be more of a guest contributor (as opposed to a regularly featured face), rest assured she still has quite a bit to say.