Read part 1 of the series here.
If you give a mouse a cookie, he’s going to ask for a glass of milk. If you let your Tinder date come inside for a glass of water, he’s going to ask for a hand job.
I was looking forward to seeing Arnold again after a first date that involved a novelty bar with a vending machine that contained dried squid and board games with missing pieces. I had enjoyed it enough that I had semi-butterflies, or something, as I traipsed down the few blocks to the restaurant we were meeting at in my neighborhood.
7:31 p.m.: I’m outside the restaurant and nervous and telling myself to calm down as my fingertips scrape my purse pockets for Xanax remnants for anxiety attacks past. (I find none.)
7:33 p.m.: Arnold and I hug over the corner of a window table and talk about our weekends, forgetting to look at the menu until a waitress with an aggressive scowl encourages us to do so. I order wine and some sort of mini hamburger patties (which are my dream).
8:51 p.m.: We finish dinner and decide to go to the corner store to get supplies before driving up to Twin Peaks for a night view of the city.
8:55 p.m.: Supplies purchased include: one large beer and one watermelon lollipop I insist on. We drive down the dips of Dolores Street and past the Christmas lights of Noe Valley. When we reach the top of the peak, we rush out into the wind and climb the steps to the top. I am slightly out of breath, and my nose is slightly running, and I try to force a romantic moment that includes kissing on the top of the hill, but Arnold does not seem into it.
9:15 p.m.: We look at the view for approximately 34 seconds and step back down to the car and its warmth and share the beer. I eat my lollipop while he plays the ukulele and makes up a song about masturbation per my song-topic request.
I ask him what his most embarrassing moment is.
“I kissed a girl once, and she told the whole class I had thin, chapped lips.”
“You don’t have small, chapped lips,” I tell him.
“Er, it’s OK, I do have small lips.” (I don’t say anything because it is true, but that’s OK because I have small things on my body too, like my pinky toe.)
10:10 p.m.: We kiss and fog up the windows. I draw a penis on the passenger-side window in the fog before saying that I should probably go home since it is a school night and such.
10:34 p.m.: “Can I come inside for a glass of water?” Arnold wants to know.
I tell him sure, I suppose so, and direct him to park in front of the school where the children’s lost jackets are hanging on a fence. We step quickly inside, whispering, and I hand him a glass of water.
10:42 p.m.: I remember the state of my bedroom, which includes a piece of deserted beef jerky on my dresser, a straightener on my bed and at least four pairs of dirty underwear, crotch up, littered on my floor.
I tell him to enjoy his water and give me 60 seconds. (Or else.)
10:49 p.m.: (I take longer than 60 seconds.) We kiss on my bed, and I introduce him to my naked mole-rat stuffed animal.
11:02 p.m.: I can’t stop thinking about my too-big tights that go above my belly button; my Italian, we-have-definitely-not-seen-a-razor-in-four-weeks legs; and my bra, which a Republican great-grandmother would never consider wearing.
There is a tangle of limbs and the clumsy removal of high-waisted tights. My hope for this dating situation is slowly dissolving with each garment removal. I like this man; it’s Monday; I just ate four mini hamburger patties; and I’m not ready to have sexual intercourse.
“Can I ask why not?” We’re lying in our underwear, and he wants to know.
I want to tell him that because if he puts his wiener inside me and never talks to me again, I will hate it. But instead I tell him I am not great at casual sex. Because attachment. Because oxytocin.
11:24 p.m.: He asks me for a hand job instead.
11:26 p.m.: There is semen all over my duvet cover. My duvet cover! They are awful to wash and even more awful to put back on the duvet.
11:28 p.m.: I would like him to leave.
11:34p.m: I tuck him out of my house and into the cold of the street.
11:41 p.m.: I notice the beef jerky is still on my dresser.
11:42 p.m.: I consider eating it (but don’t).
