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I've recently realized that dating should be approached like
going to a Jerry Bruckheimer movie. Think: "Armageddon", "Pearl
Harbor", "Coyote Ugly". Expect surprises, explosions, car chases,
gunshots, near-death experiences, sudden cliffhangers, surprise twist
endings, a little blood, and more often than not, unfortunately, a
complete lack of sex and skin. Do not expect interesting dialogue,
in-depth character development and analysis, intriguing plot, complex
social-cultural themes, or hard-core porn. Go to the movie expecting
the worst, and you'll leave with maybe a good ride, a stunning
adventure, something you can tell your friends about, like "guess what
I did" or "I'll take this bullet myself so you don't have to." And if
something interesting does happen, you'll be pleasantly surprised
instead of horribly disappointed.
This winning attitude led me into the lair of a thirty-eight year-old
Jewish public defender transplanted from New York City. We met at a
party. She was cute: large eyes, wild hair, petite yet firm. I
subjected her to some cheesy seduction, which she managed to fend off,
entertaining me with only some hippie-ish hand dancing, deep glances
into the eyes, licking of the lips, and lots and lots of projected
scenarios that failed to materialize. We parted ways at four in the
morning. I spent the next two days hunting down her email knowing only
her first name. She asked a mutual friend for mine. We agreed to meet
Thursday for after dinner drinks downtown. I drove, and three
Manhattans later, casually offered to give her a ride home. It was
convenient. She invited me inside. It was cordial.
She lived in a three-bedroom rambler, an anomaly for her neighborhood.
I immediately insulted her by calling it a prefab. A wood-burning stove
sat in a lowered corner of the living room surrounded by a wood
railing, giving an unsubtle likeness to a sacrificial alter. I opened a
bottle of wine while she lit the stove and the candles, first the ones
around the pit, then those on the counter, and finally ones hidden on
end tables and bookshelves. In all, there were twenty-three candles, or
maybe it was 666, I didn't count. The house glared red. The fire
crackled viciously. The heat began to swell.
We talked. She was entranced. I was entertained, at most. We had common
interests: traveling, activism, passions. We'd seen the same movies,
read the same books, and other requirements one seeks in a life-long
partner. And we'd yet to kiss.
As we sprawled out platonically in front of the wood-burning stove, she
crawled across my face to stoke the fire. She arched her back like a
cat, raising her ass in my general direction. I noticed she was wearing
a thong.
Her energy was transparent and she could hardly contain herself. There
was, unfortunately, nothing to contain herself from: I just wasn't
interested.
"I really need to dance!" She announced. She got up and put on some
hardcore thrasher punk/rap music and began thrashing her head about,
swinging her arms as if she were hurling dishes across the room. "Come
on!" She yelled above the music, "don't you feel it?!"
I stood next to her, marveling at this latest turn in the evening, the
sudden explosion in the Bruckheimeresque action-fest. I tapped my foot.
My hips twitched. She took my hands and initiated a two-person drunken
mosh pit in front of her stereo, surrounded by candles. Then she
started the seductress dance, twisting like a gypsy, pulling my hands
down firmly while bringing her face close to mine and giving me "the
eye".
"Don't you feel it?" She said, this time in a husky whisper.
"I don't know," I interjected, "I... I just broke up with somebody."
Her freeze was instantaneous. She looked at me as if something just
died, violently, right in front of her. "What?!? Oh my God!!! What did
you say?"
I repeated myself, but it didn't matter. I could've spoken in dead
Biblical tongues and she would've known by the intonation and
circumstance what exactly I was saying. By now, all words were useless,
and a discussion ensued regardless to what I actually said.
Her first reaction was a mild disbelief: "What? Are you sure? I mean, I
feel all this energy, you're giving me this vibe. How can you say you
just broke up with someone???"
Cause I just did.
"But so what?"
It means I don't feel anything. You're nice and all, but I just don't
feel.
"What do you mean? I certainly feel it! It's so obvious, we're lying
here, flirting."
So? I flirt all the time. They call me the 'serial kisser'.
"But this energy! This..." making circles with her hands to indicate
the space between her and me, "...this doesn't just happen. This is
incredible! Are you sure?"
Yes, I'm sure.
"But what if we were meant to be?"
We aren't. I'm certain.
"But what if this is the one, you and me? This doesn't just happen.
What if this is it? Don't you think you shouldn't pass it up?"
It isn't. I'm positive.
"But you tried to kiss me! At that party last week, you tried to kiss
me! A kiss is a promise!"
I would have laughed, but I found the comment equally ridiculous and
deeply disturbing.
From there, the reactions descended the standard checklist of emotions:
Jealousy, Vengeance, Guilt, Ennui and finally, Lust.
"Fine, but before you go, we've got to make out."
Fair enough.
Sometime in the night we finished a second, and perhaps a third bottle
of wine. I threw up in her toilet, and we walked her dog around the
block at two a.m. Then we made out. We kept our pants on. She bit
my nipples in vengeance.
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