Once upon a time, five years ago, I was single. I was about 10 months of single, post-college boyfriend, feeling adult and free for the first time. I was half-way into my first year of law school was the split happened - or at least when it definitively happened, having happened and then un-happened a half dozen times before that, over a course of years. That had been a tumultous relationship, full of passion and first love and SO MUCH ANGER.
College boyfriend was a man who was charming and funny and wonderful - and rascist and selfish and greedy with the quickest temper ever known and horrible. During the time when we lived in different cities, he broke 4 phones in 6 months, all from getting angry with me during conversations and chucking his cell out the window. He also occassionally and unintentionally drank his own urine out of old Coke cans. That is a story for another time, but also a very, very good way to win a fight.
During this time, I was on a real high. The break-up had been an emotional jail-break, freeing me from a viscious cycle of love and misery. It also wonderfully coincided with the period in which I realized that law school was not nearly as difficult as lawyers pretended that it was. I decided to embrace the time period and date like it was my job. That is how, in a span of a few months, I had the four worst dates in the history of dating.
Date #1: Wherein I am a Whore
After a few lackluster ventures onto the dating scene in which nothing either remarkable or amusing happened, I ended up on a blind date with the college friend of a law school friend. She exclaimed that we were both political and funny and smart, that we both had a particular predliction for brunch (the best time of day to eat, although arguably not the sexiest date), and that she was pretty sure we would have beautiful babies. Or something like that. The only reason that she wasn't dating him was that her very Asian parents would have not done well with her dating a very Jewish boy. (She later ended up engaged to a very tall, white, Midwestern boy, which was just as off-putting to her folks, but love is love.)
True to our shared nature, we met for brunch at a very lovely West Village brunch place. The kind where everything is delicious and you feel compelled to order the Eggs Florentine (no matter how much you want french toast) and there is not nearly a high enough volume of carbs to satisfy me. But the perfect first-date brunch spot. We ordered mimosas, chatted, traded quips about our lovely shared friend.
We were onto the topic of college. He was an Economics major. I had an interdisciplinary social sciences major with a froofy name that covered up the surprising number of graduate classes I had actually taken. He played Alto Sax in the band. I was Vice President of my sorotity---- WHORE!
Suddenly, this seemingly sweetly nerdy boy was on his feet, shouting at the top of his lungs, upsetting mimosa glasses and perturbing our table neighbors. It took me longer than it should have to process what was happening: he shouted "whore" at the top of his lungs in the middle of a quiet brunch spot, and it sounded like it was directed at me.
"Excuse me, what are you doing?" (If a sorority teaches you only one thing, it is likely to be how to continue to make polite conversation with people who apall you, a wonderful skill learned in the hours and hours of rush.)
"Whore! You are a whore! You and your sorority whore friend, going out and being whores, mean whores. Whores who laugh at people and have whore sex with your whore friends. You're all whores."
It became painfully apparent that some very mean sorority girls had attended this boy's college and treated him unkindly. Still, the wheels of my brain were slowly turning and I was getting more and more embarrassed.
"Don't you have any manners? I didn't know anyone in the Greek system nearly as mean as you're being right now. If you'll excuse me..." I started to gather my things, attempting to make as graceful an exit as a whore possibly could.
"Wait, um, did you want to do this again? Also, um, how are we going to do the check?
I tried to muster all the grace I could, said no thank you, and put $30 on the table. I generally thought whores got paid better.
Date #2: Wherein I Do Not Have Sex
Shortly after this tragedy of a date, I conned myself into going out on another blind date. With another college friend of a law school friend. The law school friend didn't date this guy because they were both dudes.
This date ended up being mostly likely to be the most romantic first date I'd ever been on. He gave me a street corner to meet him on, and then whisked me into a cave-like wine bar with no sign, a secret known only to very cool Upper West Siders. It was entirely lit by candles, and we split a bottle of white wine, and talked and laughed and flirted.
He was leaving to go skiing early the next morning, and I had a paper due, so we cut the flirting short, and we slipped outside to hail cabs. He held the door opened for me, and then we had the perfect romantic first kiss, the kind you feel in your knees, charged with electricity.
Then, he looked deep in my eyes and said, "Let's go back to my place and have sex."
<Insert the sound of a record scratching here.>
"Umm, you have to go skiing.... and pack... and also we just met. But thanks."
Then came the real shocker. (I know that you thought the shocker was the last thing that he said.)
"Well, I mean, I guess you should know that I'm not going to call you again unless you have sex with me. It doesn't have to take very long. I do have to pack."
My loss I suppose. I thanked him for the wine (and for showing me the awesome bar!), and got into the cab. I pulled the door closed very firmly. So much for being a whore.
To be continued...
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