His profile was funny too. And his pics… well, they were muscle-y. While I’m not normally attracted to the body-builder type, I recognize that I’m not blind, and this dude was good-looking. We emailed back and forth for a couple of days. I wondered if he was ever going to take a step and ask me out. When he finally asked for my number, I knew we were making progress, and I was excited to dive into this portion of my dating experiment.
We texted back and forth and he was perplexed at the fact that my schedule is crazy. It’s interesting – when you’re “fake-dating” (as I’ve taken to calling it), priorities lie with work, friends, summer sun, and the boys you’re actually into in real life outside of the blogosphere. To cancel happy hour with a friend from out of town would never occur to me anyway, but certainly not for The Unconvertible Muscle. We finally found a night that worked for both of us, picked a location, and were all set. Drinks in my hood.
The morning of the date I we had a text-convo that read something like this:
“I can’t lie. I had a match date from hell last night and now I’m nervous. Let’s just say she was different in person (read: mushy large).” Really? You’re just going to say that to the girl you’re trying to woo, sir? My response: “Well, we can’t all be supermodels. Don’t be nervous. My smile makes up for my 300 pounds, limp, and lazy eye.” I happen not to sport any of those, but I was trying to shame him in some sort of sarcastic way. It didn’t read though. He just thought I was even funnier… fail.
As I left the ATM (I always take cash on a date so they don’t have to see my full name on my credit card in case I choose not to divulge it… lesson learned from The Suzz that google-stalking is EXTRAORDINARILY easy), my phone rang.
“Hello,” in my best chipper awesome-girl voice.
“Eh, uh, so where is this place?” in his best Queens-lifer voice.
“31st Street under the subway at the 30th Avenue stop”
“Hmm. I don’t do trains, and I can’t find parking”
“Who drives in NYC?”
“I gotta have my car, babe. So where is it?"
"31st Street under the subway at 30th Avenue” (note the repeat)
Clearly driving and trying to navigate an area of Queens not exactly known for its extensive parking options, he continued to get me to provide directions. This was not going well. I approached the bar and found an empty meter spot directly out front. I told him I’d hold it for him. He rounded the corner in a navy blue, super shiny Lexus convertible.
Let’s be clear. Cars don’t impress me. I’m a New Yorker. We take the subway. We take buses. We hail cabs. We occasionally take the LIRR or Metro-North. And some of us have Zipcar memberships for apple-picking and Target trips. If you do have a car, it’s because you need it for work, you never got around to selling it when you moved here because it was already paid off, or you live in a remote part of the city where the trains are hellacious on weekends. Ok. Maybe I don’t really feel that way. And maybe part of me actually wants a car of my own sometimes. Maybe with a non-toolbag I wouldn’t think twice about his sporty little ride.
He exited the car.
He’s shorter than he said. He’s older than he said. He’s a C-cup. He didn’t know how/what to order because this pub doesn’t serve Budweiser (I’m serious). He’s wearing a shirt reminiscent of this:
Also though… he’s really nice. He’s really funny. And he’s totally diggin’ me. He thinks I’m pretty. He thinks I’m funny. He thinks I’m smart.
As we continued our conversation (which is surprisingly engaging) I realized he’s in it to win it. This guy actually wants a relationship. He wants a match (imagine that coming from match.com). I’m so unfamiliar with guys who aren’t just looking for a good time (sexual or otherwise), that this threw me. The conversation got deeper, and then like that he blew it.
“So with your gay guy friends do you ever try to convert them straight?”
Syntax error. Is he being funny here?? Or is he just that ignorant?
“Well, it doesn’t exactly work that way. If they’re gay, they aren’t convertible."
“Ehhhhn… I’m not convinced of that. I think at least half the time it’s environmental or a choice."
My ears redden, “I give people the benefit of the doubt a lot, but you’re just dead wrong on this."
He went on to tell me how he only has one gay friend, he doesn’t believe homosexuals are more than maybe 1% of the population, and that I could probably convert one if I wanted to. I tried to argue for a hot second, and then I realized he’s probably the most unconvertible one of all. He excused himself to the men’s room and went in for a kiss. I politely dodged it which he took as me being coy or something else silly girls do.
The check came, and I pulled out my wallet. He’s instantly offended. He thinks I think he can’t afford it. Whatever, dude. I always offer to pay. I don’t need to owe anyone anything after a first date. Also, it’s just the nice thing to do. I’d like to make the same as a man at work, I’d like my vote to count the same as a man’s, I’d like to be taken as seriously, and in turn, I can pay my equal part for our drinks without expecting more. I’m also human, and I’m flattered that you’d like to pay. So he did.
Before we parted ways he said, “So when can I see you again?” Screeching halt. While I appreciated the enthusiasm, being put on the spot has never been my favorite thing. I instantly turned into some sort of pretentious she-devil, “Let me check my calendar and I’ll get back to you.” Who says that?! Apparently this girl when backed into a corner. And to be honest, I wasn’t sure if maybe I DID want to see him again. Having attention lavished on you by a completely attractive, fit, moderately wealthy (I know this because he told me his salary… did I fail to mention that above?), independent guy is never a bad thing.
His response to my pretention, “Listen. Anything is possible if you want it badly enough. Change your plans for Friday night. I’ll pick you up at 8.” Pick me up? Do I need to remind him again where we live? We meet. We don’t pick up in our cars for second dates… unless we like the guy. Which at this point, I’m guessing I don’t.
To The Unconvertible Muscle, thank you for giving me a different perspective. For writing. For life. Everything is a learning experience, and I now know that I don’t like guys who flaunt. I don’t like guys who actually believe homosexuality is a choice. And I don’t like guys who make fun of their dates from the night before to someone they haven’t even met. But thank you for the attention, the two drinks, and the laughs while watching the All-Star Game.
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