The Classic Overshare

May 24, 2017

 

 

I'm not the kind of person who likes to post the gory details of their latest breakup on Facebook or tweets things like, "had awkward threesome with BF + BFF yesterday. Have been dumped and ghosted today #messyAF #sadAF."

 

Outwardly, I'm kind of a prude, so I lift my leg on that kind of virtual assault on good manners and common decency.

 

However, once the shades are discreetly drawn, I pour myself a glass of wine and devour every line of socially shared insanity AND all the comments. It's rubbernecking, plain and simple, but I can't help it. I don't want to help it. I want to roll in it and let it wash all over me like Dove cucumber body wash...too much?

 

In any case, when it comes to my personal drama, which is thankfully minimal, I keep things very close to the vest. However, recent events have left me too traumatized to stay silent any longer.

 

I'll pause so you can pour yourself a glass of wine.

 

So, I went on this date with a guy I met on a dating website. I'm entirely too civil to name the site, but let's just say that it rhymes with fleesharmony. The picture this guy, let's call him Khing (his name isn't Khing and doesn't rhyme with Khing, but is the kind of name that makes you think, why the fuck would you do that to someone you love? And why do you think spelling it in that stupid way makes it any better?), posted depicted an attractive, shirtless man with long dreads holding a guitar.

 

His profile declared him gainfully employed and an eye-opening six feet, five inches tall. An entire foot taller than my own average height. We emailed via Fleesharmony and I was thrilled to note how well he strung two sentences together. I try to be forgiving about the way folks write these days, but it's really hard and sentences like, "R U Okay?" and "C U 2nite" I find intolerable. In any case, he seemed smart and funny, so I allowed myself to entertain the hope that I'd met a decent, normal, sane man.

 

He asked for my phone number and I gave it to him. He called as soon as I sent my digits via email, which was flattering, I suppose, and when I heard his voice, with his nearly unintelligible Brooklyn accent, I thought, Oh... oh dear, but persevered because it's just a voice, right? Khing was from Brooklyn so I guess I shouldn't be too surprised, but damn.

 

That accent was not endearing like that guy's from that Broolyn (2015) movie. It was cringe-inducing. It didn't help, I suppose, that he kept calling me baby and, sort of, crooned all the gentlemanly things he wanted to do for me. "I'll bring you flowers everyday, baby. Would daddy's baby like that?"

 

Um...

 

Then, while I tried to formulate a response to that tomfoolery, and while he told me how he couldn't really play the guitar, but just used the picture for dating sites, I heard a sound in the background like a fountain or water being poured or Seabiscuit taking a long, looooong, much-needed, been-holding-it-all-day, drank-a-gallon-of-water piss. Then the toilet flushed. Actually he sighed loudly (Khing, not Seabiscuit) in apparent relief first, then he flushed the toilet.

 

Sexy.

 

Naturally, I made plans to meet him in person. One date, just to assure myself that he and I were for sure incompatible. You're probably thinking to yourself, why bother making a date at all? After that nearly indistinguishable Seabiscuit imitation I would've been Audi 5000.

 

Yes, yes, you're entirely correct, of course, BUT frogs, princes, etc. You get what I'm saying.

 

And so I suggested we meet up in New York. I was going to be in the City anyway to visit a couple of friends and go to a high-end strip club (for research purposes).

 

I'm going to skip the part where my friends were all, "Dude, who is this guy?" and go straight to that first meeting.

 

I was struck, almost immediately, by the painful knowledge that the picture he'd posted on the dating site was at least 15 years younger than the gentleman standing before me. Dreads that were once long, thin and plentiful now dotted his mostly bald head like the head of the Raggedy Ann doll I'd all but denuded as a child. If I'm being generous, there were in total 8 dreads on his head. Are you picturing a Raggedy Ann doll with 8 sad strands of yarn coming out of her head? Because if you aren't, you should be.

 

I'd hardly recovered from the shock of his hair when I noticed his shirt. Puffy, pale yellow. A poet's shirt. I quickly looked away. I peeked at his shoes. Yellow, ostrich leather, opened-toe mules. Sort of like athletic slippers if they came in blue, black and pocked yellow leather. He'd adorned his wrists and fingers in large copper jewelry and wore a huge copper Ankh on a copper chain around his neck. Were he of a mind, he could've played minor mummy royalty in those Brendan Fraser Mummy movies.

 

He opened the car door for me and, I don't know why, but I looked up at my friends' building and saw both of them staring at me through the window of their fifth floor apartment. I've since learned that both of them wondered if I was getting into the car of a murderer and being taken to the second location. A musing, I'm told, that was quickly supplanted by thoughts of lunch.

 

Determined to see this thing through, I got in the car, a late model Lexus if you're interested in such things, and was immediately assaulted by one of those Little Tree air fresheners. This one kinda smelled like vanilla, but also kinda smelled like vomit.

 

He hopped in and flicked on the heat despite the fact that it was a rare and balmy 70 degrees in April. He put the car in gear and off we went to City Island for seafood. Unfortunately, he was an extremely timid driver, slamming on the brakes for little to no reason at all. Between that and the Little Tree, I was horribly car sick 15 minutes in.

 

17 minutes in, he gave me a significant look and turned on some music. A mixed tape, if you will, the title of which scrolled across the radio's touch screen, "Red hot baby making mix."

 

18 minutes in, the temperature in the car was easily 90 degrees and the stale air blowing from the car's vents smelled like warm, vanilla vomit. Desperate for fresh air, I cracked my window.

 

18 minutes, 5 seconds in, he closed my window before slamming on the breaks, on the highway, so he could point to a bird in the sky.

 

"My totem!" he cried happily.

 

Thus we made our jerking way to City Island. As we rolled into the restaurant's parking lot, I opened the door of the still-moving car and plunged out, lurching to a large trash bin. However, my fervent prayers to not throw up were answered and I did not throw up. I did dry heave a bit, which frightened the couple sitting at an outdoor table across from the bin.

 

I went to the bathroom, hoping to score a couple of tabs of Dramamine, I nodded at a woman in a sundress as she exited one stall. A hushed transaction was made, one that included ginger gum, and I returned to my date.

 

I washed the Dramamine down with a beer and attempted to make polite conversation. Khing noticed the tattoo of a lotus flower I have on my hand and spent the rest of our lunch speaking affectionately about his own "green stalk."

 

I discreetly opened the Uber app on my phone. A car was 3 minutes away. I excused myself.

 

"Hurry back, baby. Daddy loves your ass," said Khing. "Makes his love stalk stand at attention."

 

Oh, for fuck's sake. Really?

 

I exeunted, nodding at my Dramamine dealer as I walked towards my Uber driver. During the 3 hours it took for me to get back home (Uber to train to cab to doorstep), I analyzed the entire day and have one pearl of wisdom to impart: your phone does not muffle sound as well as you think it does. Piss if you must, but know that we can hear every drop and every splash. Know that tile amplifies every sound, including the sound of you not washing your hands. Know that you've been judged.

 

Frogs: oh, thousands; Princes: zip. Your ball, princes.

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