Read Me a Story
Guy One (the nice single dad) called me up again for a first date (oddly, about the same time Guy Two came back, but more about him later). We went for our first date, to the opera. A little intense for a first date, but I think he had tickets previously (at least, that’s what he told me) and I like the opera. The perfect gentleman through the whole date, very nice.
Nice turned to creepy pretty quickly.
He and my friend A were in the city for some work function and they stopped by for lunch after work. A had an appointment and left early, but Guy One stayed behind for a little while. He was looking at my bookshelf, going through the titles when he said, “I didn’t know this was a book first.”
He was holding a copy of “Howl’s Moving Castle,” an amazing young adult book that I loved as a kid. Recently, it was turned into an animated film where they turned Howl, the outlaw bastard rock star wizard, into some prissy, homosexual 16-year-old in tights. It’s not my favorite film. But the book is something you all should read. To yourselves. It should take you two days.
We talked briefly about the book and the movie and then it was time for him to go. We weren’t seeing each other that weekend (he was out of town) but we were going to get together the following Friday. So about a week later, he called to make plans.
“Are we still on for Friday?”
“Sure!” I replied. “What do you have in mind?”
“Well, I was thinking we could go to dinner,” (so far, so good) “and then go to a movie” (still good) “and then I was thinking we could go back to your place” (wait, this is a little presumptuous for a second date—shouldn’t we see how things go first? Oh wait, he’s still talking …) “and you could read ‘Howl’s Moving Castle’ to me.” (EXCUSE ME?????)
Who ever thought premature sexual activity was ever going to look like the better option?
He wants me to read to him? Really?
Now, normally, given the people I tend to date, I would think that there was a good chance that he was illiterate and couldn’t read to himself. Or that drugs were screwing up his vision too badly for him to focus on the teeny-tiny words. But he’s a teacher that doesn’t even drink. I’m pretty sure there’s nothing wrong with his vision or his cognitive skills.
Trying to make lemonade out of this sudden batch of lemons I found myself with, I started asking people what they thought. I figured somebody had to think this was normal.
Not ONE person thought this was acceptable second-date behavior. Not too many people thought this was acceptable ANY date behavior.
“Maybe he’s just trying to get into your apartment late at night,” my friend Chris suggested, trying to be helpful. You know there’s something wrong with a situation when your friends are suggesting that the guy you’re dating is trying to get in your pants too early … and that’s the better scenario.
I decide that I’m going to just say my apartment’s too messy and that nobody’s coming over. That’s something everybody can understand, a messy apartment, and if he’s not in the apartment, I can’t read to him. Because I really just can’t. I’m picturing plot lines to bad “Who’s the Boss?” episodes, where Tony tries to seduce Angela by seeming literate and cultured, taking her to Vermont and reading her poetry on a bearskin rug in front of a roaring fire. But then Mona shows up and somebody cracks a tooth and antics ensue. In short, I CANNOT read to a guy on a second date.
We go for Ethiopian food, which was a lot of fun, if you put the fact that actual Ethiopians aren’t eating anything while you’re stuffing your face out of your mind. And then he starts in.
“I’m thinking, instead of going to the movies, we go back to your place.”
I choke on whatever tasty-but-indistinguishable thing I’m eating. “Oh, no, not tonight. My apartment’s a mess. I had a choice between taking a nap and cleaning up and unless I got a nap in, I wouldn’t have been able to see you tonight.” That’s flattering, right? I chose seeing you over cleaning my apartment. So now it’s your turn to be understanding and drop the freakin’ “read to me” bullshit.
He wouldn’t let it go though. “But I brought dessert! And it’s going to go bad! I was having this the other day and it was amazing and I thought I had to share it with you. But I have to make it tonight!”
“What is it?”
“It’s a surprise, but it’s amazing. You have to let me make it for you. I can’t wait until the next time I see you, it’ll go bad.”
He kept it up through the end of dinner and through two across-town blocks until I finally just let it go. I could care less if my apartment was a mess at this point. I wasn’t ever going to see him again. Of this I was damned certain.
He came over. He made me dessert (oh, it was hot chocolate. From a mix. He left the mix at my house. Expiration date: November 2007.) We watched a movie on tv. He finally left. I didn’t have to read to him. More importantly, I never had to see him again. And that was a sweeter ending to the date than any dessert he possibly could have had in his messenger bag.
Nice turned to creepy pretty quickly.
He and my friend A were in the city for some work function and they stopped by for lunch after work. A had an appointment and left early, but Guy One stayed behind for a little while. He was looking at my bookshelf, going through the titles when he said, “I didn’t know this was a book first.”
He was holding a copy of “Howl’s Moving Castle,” an amazing young adult book that I loved as a kid. Recently, it was turned into an animated film where they turned Howl, the outlaw bastard rock star wizard, into some prissy, homosexual 16-year-old in tights. It’s not my favorite film. But the book is something you all should read. To yourselves. It should take you two days.
We talked briefly about the book and the movie and then it was time for him to go. We weren’t seeing each other that weekend (he was out of town) but we were going to get together the following Friday. So about a week later, he called to make plans.
“Are we still on for Friday?”
“Sure!” I replied. “What do you have in mind?”
“Well, I was thinking we could go to dinner,” (so far, so good) “and then go to a movie” (still good) “and then I was thinking we could go back to your place” (wait, this is a little presumptuous for a second date—shouldn’t we see how things go first? Oh wait, he’s still talking …) “and you could read ‘Howl’s Moving Castle’ to me.” (EXCUSE ME?????)
Who ever thought premature sexual activity was ever going to look like the better option?
He wants me to read to him? Really?
Now, normally, given the people I tend to date, I would think that there was a good chance that he was illiterate and couldn’t read to himself. Or that drugs were screwing up his vision too badly for him to focus on the teeny-tiny words. But he’s a teacher that doesn’t even drink. I’m pretty sure there’s nothing wrong with his vision or his cognitive skills.
Trying to make lemonade out of this sudden batch of lemons I found myself with, I started asking people what they thought. I figured somebody had to think this was normal.
Not ONE person thought this was acceptable second-date behavior. Not too many people thought this was acceptable ANY date behavior.
“Maybe he’s just trying to get into your apartment late at night,” my friend Chris suggested, trying to be helpful. You know there’s something wrong with a situation when your friends are suggesting that the guy you’re dating is trying to get in your pants too early … and that’s the better scenario.
I decide that I’m going to just say my apartment’s too messy and that nobody’s coming over. That’s something everybody can understand, a messy apartment, and if he’s not in the apartment, I can’t read to him. Because I really just can’t. I’m picturing plot lines to bad “Who’s the Boss?” episodes, where Tony tries to seduce Angela by seeming literate and cultured, taking her to Vermont and reading her poetry on a bearskin rug in front of a roaring fire. But then Mona shows up and somebody cracks a tooth and antics ensue. In short, I CANNOT read to a guy on a second date.
We go for Ethiopian food, which was a lot of fun, if you put the fact that actual Ethiopians aren’t eating anything while you’re stuffing your face out of your mind. And then he starts in.
“I’m thinking, instead of going to the movies, we go back to your place.”
I choke on whatever tasty-but-indistinguishable thing I’m eating. “Oh, no, not tonight. My apartment’s a mess. I had a choice between taking a nap and cleaning up and unless I got a nap in, I wouldn’t have been able to see you tonight.” That’s flattering, right? I chose seeing you over cleaning my apartment. So now it’s your turn to be understanding and drop the freakin’ “read to me” bullshit.
He wouldn’t let it go though. “But I brought dessert! And it’s going to go bad! I was having this the other day and it was amazing and I thought I had to share it with you. But I have to make it tonight!”
“What is it?”
“It’s a surprise, but it’s amazing. You have to let me make it for you. I can’t wait until the next time I see you, it’ll go bad.”
He kept it up through the end of dinner and through two across-town blocks until I finally just let it go. I could care less if my apartment was a mess at this point. I wasn’t ever going to see him again. Of this I was damned certain.
He came over. He made me dessert (oh, it was hot chocolate. From a mix. He left the mix at my house. Expiration date: November 2007.) We watched a movie on tv. He finally left. I didn’t have to read to him. More importantly, I never had to see him again. And that was a sweeter ending to the date than any dessert he possibly could have had in his messenger bag.
posted by Still Hopeful @ 8:16 AM
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