Two men casually drinking by the ping-pong tables: a guy in glasses and a man in plaid.
I approached them and asked where I could get the drink tickets.
“Do you guys come here often?” I asked. It wasn’t an original question, but it was a decent conversation-starter.
We chatted for fifteen minutes and Glasses seemed interested in me. I was definitely interested in him. He was clever and quick with a joke.
Everything was going fine until he turned abruptly toward me and said, point-blank, “You knew how to buy drinks here, didn’t you?”
So far, no one had called me out.
I was a terrible liar, so I had to come clean.
“I did, but I saw two handsome men and needed an excuse to talk to them.”
Holy crap, I had officially become the new Rico Suave.
I could have stopped there, and I would have been charming. An expert PUA. Unfortunately, in true Olive fashion, I overexplained by adding information he hadn’t asked for.
“I’m here with a pickup artist and he’s teaching me how to hit on men because I’m writing a book about dating,” I said.
Glasses laughed but there was no warmth in the laughter.
He didn’t believe me.
“Okay, let’s say that’s true. Where is he then?”
I looked around and couldn’t find Eric. He had picked the most inopportune time to go to the bathroom. When I couldn’t find him, they thought I was making the whole thing up.
“Let’s say you’re ‘with a pickup artist,’ then you’re learning how to manipulate people?” Glasses said.
“No, no, no. That’s not it at all. I’m trying to not feel intimidated by men I find attractive. How’s it going so far?” I said, trying to save the situation.
“You can tell your ‘pickup artist friend,’ if he exists, that you did just fine,” Glasses replied.
Eric returned, and I could see him in my periphery. I expected him to hit on women while he was waiting for me, but he didn’t, opting instead to sit at the bar alone, sipping water.
When he saw me look at him, he got up and came over.
“You ready? I’ve got to go to bed early tonight. Let’s get going?”
He walked away.
Glasses shook his head, “Ohhhh, he exists. Good-looking dude. But seriously, you don’t need a pickup artist to help you hit on men. I can’t understand why you would be having any problem meeting people.”
“Thanks,” I said, running off to meet Eric, some of my shyness kicking back in.
“Did you close?” Eric asked once we were outside of the bar.
“No, I couldn’t tell if he was interested or not.”
“Well are you interested enough to get his number or give him yours?”
“Yeah, but I can’t go back in,” I said.
“Sure you can, I’ll wait for you here.”
I walked back into the bar slowly, reminding myself that I was brave and rejection didn’t faze me.
I walked up to Glasses, and said, “Are you single? Can I have your number?”
“Oh look, she’s back! Looking for a story. And no,” he said.
I felt a little defensive; that was more aggressive than I had expected.
“I’m not looking for any sort of story,” I said.
“No, I’m not single,” he clarified.
Now it was awkward, especially because I had already left the bar and come back. I knew I shouldn’t have come back in. I couldn’t figure out why he had wasted twenty minutes flirting with me if he wasn’t single.
There was no graceful way to leave a second time so I just said. “Okay then. Bye.”
I rejoined Eric outside and seeing the look on my face he reminded me that it would get easier the more I did it. Getting rejected was good because it made me less sensitive.
By the end of the night I had gotten three rejections and successfully given my number to two people. I wasn’t overly excited about any of the successes and I wasn’t destroyed by any of the failures. That was progress.
I didn’t think I had met the future Mr. Persimmon, but Eric was right, it got easier the more I did it.
“How’d I do?” I asked Eric as we walked toward the subway.
He told me I was a model student and should practice a few more times before saying, “Listen, you don’t need me. You’re a capable, smart, attractive woman living in NYC. You know how to communicate. If you’re not dating, it’s because you’re not putting yourself out there.”
It was the second time I wondered if he was hitting on me.
He was right, though; it was time to start putting myself out there.
But how?
* I had read about these on the Internet. Peacocking was the art of wearing something crazy or some sort of accessory that helped you stand out from the crowd. Kino escalation was about slightly increasing touch to build tension and connection.
BRINGING SEXY BACK
Twenty blind dates in thirty days.
That was my latest and greatest idea for how to “put myself out there” as Eric had suggested. I had been working on the internal crap for months and I wanted to get back into the dating scene for real.
Normal people just downloaded Tinder but I thought it might be more fun to post a status on Facebook asking friends and acquaintances to set me up with their favorite bachelors. To my surprise, the post resulted in twenty blind dates.
I was booked solid for the month. I had dates on Mondays, Tuesdays, and Wednesdays. Dates for breakfast. Dates booked for lunch. I was exhausted just thinking about it. We met at coffee shops and bars. We went on walks and ate dinners. I wore my red top, my black off-the-shoulder dress, and then Febrezed my red top to wear again. For the most part, my friends set me up with thoughtful and kind men. Despite this, most of them were first dates only.
Until Simon.
He was blind date number nine, a setup from a trusted friend, Brian.
We arranged to meet at a park for a picnic on one of the hottest days of the summer. I wiped the sweat off my forehead and hoped he wouldn’t notice the glossiness of my face as I reapplied my blush for the second time that day.
I paced around the park entrance waiting for him to arrive when I received a text saying that he thought he saw me.
We had exchanged pictures beforehand but when he approached, I was delighted to see that he was even better-looking in person, five-foot-ten with dark blond, curly hair swooped to one side. His plaid shirt accentuated his lean build. A long scar down the side of his face added a sense of mystery. He was definitely sexy.
“Olive?”
“You must be Simon. Nice to meet you,” I said.
We found an old park bench next to a pond and wiped away chipped pieces of paint before sitting down. He had brought a bag of hot dog buns so we could feed the ducks, even though we were sitting next to a large sign that said we weren’t supposed to. After getting through the basic small talk, we both relaxed and conversation started to flow easily. He was charismatic and funny.
“So, you’re a writer?” he asked, grabbing a hot dog bun and tearing it into small pieces.
“Yep!” I said, feeling cautious about this detail after the reaction from Glasses at the bar.
“That’s so cool! I’m a writer myself. Brian mentioned that you’re writing a book about sex to ‘break your dry spell’ and you’re exploring all sorts of crazy stuff?”
Talk about laying all the cards on the table. I was relieved that he already knew though, the thought of telling a new prospect about my inexperienced past gave me anxiety.
“Yeah, it’s been an interesting year! What do you write about?” I responded.
“It’s mostly just a bunch of meandering thoughts, but I want to write more. That’s why I was excited for this date. To be honest, this is only the second date I’ve been on since I’ve moved to New York.” He shared that he had moved from Arizona a few months before and was settling into city life.
“Tell me about your life i
n Arizona.”
“Honestly, a lot of drugs in the desert. I wore vests . . . like macramé vests,” he said, simultaneously laughing and rolling his eyes. “The last few years were a little weird. I moved here because I needed a change.”
He entertained me with more stories about his life in Arizona and how he had taken a job in NYC walking dogs to pay his rent. The conversation bounced around effortlessly, both of us making jokes.
“Tell me something totally weird about yourself,” I said.
“Okay, I’ve got one. I love to eat rotisserie chicken with my bare hands, ripping it right off the bone,” he said with enthusiasm, raising both hands to his mouth, and baring his teeth to recreate the image.
“I love it,” I said, laughing.
He shared intimate information about his life with ease and humor. He listened as much as he talked, laughed at my jokes, and asked me questions about my own stories.
The date felt easy, like hanging out with an old friend I had known for years.
An hour in and I wanted to touch him. Badly.
But I still couldn’t tell if he liked me. He made no effort to leave but also no effort to be obviously flirtatious. It seemed like we were just two good friends having a nice evening in the park.
We sat on the bench, side by side, for three hours. It was the first date of all my blind dates where I wasn’t watching the clock. I hadn’t checked my phone and even though it was getting dark, I didn’t want it to end.
The park wasn’t safe at night, though, so we got up to leave, walking slowly, neither one of us really sure where we were going.
“Do you have to get home soon?” I asked, uncertain if he wanted to keep hanging as much as I did.
“No, do you?” he said.
“Nope. Let’s go for a walk.” I suggested.
“I’d love that. But I have to do this first. . . .”
He leaned down, his mouth meeting mine. His lips were warm and open. He kissed me slowly and passionately, sliding his tongue into my mouth. I leaned into him, my body responding, moaning softly into his lips.
I had kissed dozens of boys since my dry spell began, but kissing Simon reminded me that I hadn’t truly been kissed in that butterflies-in-your-stomach sort of way in a long time.
I pulled away, grinning.
As we started walking, he reached down and casually grabbed my hand.
We spent the next three hours walking, kissing, and finding other benches to sit on in between kissing and walking. We stopped in a hidden alcove and he leaned over and kissed my bare shoulder. His lips grazing my skin was enough to make me shiver in pleasure.
“This is nice,” I said, leaning over to kiss him again.
“Really nice,” he said, running his finger over my palm.
We reluctantly ended our date six hours after it began, my face plastered with a dopey grin the whole way home. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d had a date like that.
I’d had a crush on Adam; I’d kissed Ben. This was different from all of those. It was the best date I had been on in years.
Maybe ever.
On the way home, I touched my lips, trying to remember the feeling of his. I couldn’t fall asleep because I wanted to replay the night over and over, trying to burn it into my memory. It was enough fodder for masturbation for days.
He texted me the next morning, “Thoroughly enjoyed myself yesterday. Would love to see you again.”
For our second date, we met for coffee. On our third date, I met his friends and his brother. Both times felt magical. This boy was doing weird things to me. My body felt tingly and warm even when he wasn’t around.
On our fourth date, we went to the Metropolitan Museum of Art. We took our time, strolling through the rooms, taking long breaks to make out in corners. We couldn’t keep our hands off each other. Standing across from a Monet, I looked at his face and smiled happily. He caught me looking at him and smiled back, squeezing my hand.
I was falling for him, hard.
For lunch, we headed to the museum café and cozied up to each other on the bench. He placed his notebook, the one he always carried in his back pocket, on the table. I imagined it was full of poems, brilliant thoughts, and musings from the mind of this wonderful boy. The writer in me appreciated his need to have a paper and pen at any given time.
He saw me eyeing it and said, “It’s mostly stupid to-do lists and groceries. Nothing of importance.”
“May I?” I asked, curious to see what was on this boy’s grocery list. I wanted to know everything about him. Did he buy a lot of rice? What did he eat for breakfast? This was all valuable information if I was ever going to move into girlfriend zone.
“Of course,” he said, handing it to me.
I flipped open to a random page and silently read, “For years, I’ve showered her with affection and love but she gives me nothing in return.”
It was dated a week before.
Two days after our third date.
My heart plummeted.
Fuck. Fucccccccck.
Of course. Things were going too well.
He looked over my shoulder to see where I landed and when he saw what I was seeing, an uncomfortable silence rolled over us.
I broke the silence first, “You don’t have to tell me. We’re new, this is only our fourth date. You don’t owe me any explanations,” I said, trying to mask my uncertainty about what this new revelation meant.
He was silent for another minute, his face getting visibly emotional. His eyes filled with tears and when he spoke, his voice was shaky.
“That’s about . . . it’s about . . . umm . . .” He paused.
I bit my lip, letting him take as much time as he needed.
“It’s about my ex-wife. I was married, and we have a child.” As he was telling the story, the words rushed out so quickly that I could barely hear them. Her name was Sarah. She got pregnant at seventeen and they were married by eighteen. At twenty-five, she met someone else, divorced him, and moved away with their son. He entered a long depression, which was why he had wound up in the desert doing a lot of drugs.
I was trying to conceal the shock on my face.
He finished telling the story and looked defeated. His eyes brimming with tears, his head downturned. I knew that he assumed that I was going to run for the hills, which, honestly, I was considering. It was a lot. The first boy I had liked in ages came with more baggage than I knew how to handle.
I sat there quietly for a few minutes, trying to process everything I had just heard and trying to figure out how and if I fit into this story at all.
I knew what my reaction should have been. I should have kindly finished the conversation while mentally building a barricade around my heart. I should have asked for some time to think about it carefully before making any decisions. I’ve dated too many men who were broken over other women.
That’s what I should have done.
That was the exact opposite of what I wanted to do.
He looked so disheartened that I wanted to grab his face and smother it with kisses. I wanted to smooth his hair and rub the scar that ran down his left cheek and say over and over again, “It’s okay.” I felt my heart open and pour love at this man. I carefully thought about what I wanted to say, taking my time to make sure I said the right thing.
“I’ll follow your lead here. I’d like to know whatever you want to tell me about your past. If you want to talk about it, I’d like that because I want to know about you. And if you don’t want to talk about it, that’s alright too.”
We sat for another fifteen minutes as I cautiously asked him questions, both of us struggling to get our emotional state back to some level of neutral. He didn’t touch or reach for me, it seemed like he was too deeply buried in his own grief that it didn’t matter if I was there or not.
We walked around the museum for another hour. He changed the topic to lighter things, and as promised, I followed his lead.
Two more hours passed, and w
e managed to return to some place of normalcy, except now I had the burden of knowledge: Simon came with heavy baggage.
Then again, so did I.
I hadn’t had sex in five years. I was writing a book about it.
For many people, those would be deal breakers.
They hadn’t been for Simon. He showed up to our first date anyway.
We left the museum to grab dinner downtown but before we did, he kissed me with great care and intensity on the front steps of the museum. In that kiss was everything we had left unsaid.
On his end it said, “Thank you for listening. I’m glad you’re still here and yes, I am sad.” On my end it said, “I’m still here, everyone has a past.”
We went downtown and shared dinner and despite the revelations from earlier in the day, I still felt happy.
We moved from dinner to a bookstore. From the bookstore to a stroll. From the stroll to a bench where we made out like teenagers.
The date lasted twelve hours and by the end of it, I still wasn’t tired of him.
He left for vacation the next day which gave me some much-needed time to reflect.
I lay in my bed that night and reviewed the facts:
Simon had an ex-wife.
He had a son.
He was divorced.
That was six years ago.
He was still sad about his divorce.
While he was gone, I analyzed the entire situation with intense unease. If overthinking was an Olympic sport, I would have won three gold medals that week alone.
I thought about him. And me. And what it all meant, if it meant anything.
While I was busy thinking and worrying, there was one feeling that was stronger than all of the others.
I missed him.
I wanted to see him and kiss him and continue dating him.
He came back from vacation and met me one night in the park in a crisp blue button-down shirt that highlighted his new golden tan. He wasn’t just good-looking, he was straight out of a GQ magazine. I couldn’t focus on anyone else. We sat down and made out until I noticed a poetry reading going on across the park.
“Want to watch the reading?” I asked.
“No, I want to watch you.” He said, brushing a strand of hair away from my face and leaning in to kiss me. “I’m perfectly content sitting here and kissing you.”
The Coitus Chronicles Page 9