Tuesday, July 20, 2010


We finish dinner and I reach for my wallet, I have no issue with splits or taking turns. But he is quicker on the draw and slaps down his super-sonic Platinum credit card, which outranks my piddly little Citibank Dividends card. Uhm, okay. He can pay.

“I have to work tonight, but would you like to have another drink?” he asks. This is a good sign. He’s busy but not ready to end the night. We pull on our parkas and brave the night chill. As a former Minnesotan, I don’t find 27 degrees Fahrenheit cold, but the wind is brutal, licking its frigid tongue against my cheeks, ears and down my neck. Aiy!

In silence we walk for blocks until he says, “Nothing seems to pop out. I have nice wine at home that does not cause hang-overs.” Tricky. Based on last night’s wardrobe malfunction, this may not be a good idea. And no, I am not opposed to having sex. In my 30s I have found comfort in my sexuality and I forgive my transgressions. But I won’t apologize for thinking I deserve more than a dinner to get me into bed.

And yes, there are times I wish I had past filled with meaningless liaisons, random hook-ups, sex in telephone booths, under desks or on dining room tables. But for some reason sex was more than a physical thing for me, without my consent an emotional bond formed. And after he had me, or didn’t want me anymore I’d feel a devastating awfulness. Leaving me feeling run over and incapable, wondering how to get over someone I got under. While my girlfriends disagree, I think sex is WAY more personal, intimate and destructive than a blow job.

Normally I don’t obsess about this on a second date. And there is the off chance he didn’t mean to expose himself. Which is why I must make my intentions clear, and say, “Well, one drink would be fine...I generally don’t drink that much on a first date. That was embarrassing…” We stop for the traffic light and he nods, looks a little sheepish and says, “Yes, well. I didn’t behave quite well either.”

Thank the strong and mighty goddess DURGA! He DOES remember. At least, he owns his fall from grace. When we reach his house he opens the half-gate. Was that here last night? It is a damn good thing he knows where he lives because I would never have found this place. Sometimes I seriously wonder how I’m alive considering the predicaments I willingly subject upon myself.

Once inside we shed our outerwear. He hangs my Eddie Bauer parka next to his Burberry jacket and says, “Yours is very nice and stylish.” Is he kidding me with this? He’s wearing a Rolex and I am wearing last season’s discounted, way-on-sale cashmere. The contrast in our brands and budgets is almost comical. Having sex or not having sex is now the least of my issues. It has become amazingly clear that my bigger problem is that I am dating WAY outside my league.

And this is a league I have no business in.


Anonymous said...

League shmeague... No such thing.

Anonymous said...

I agree. Once you think you are out of your league, you are. And you are so not out of your league miss I hope you don't sleep with him! (at least not tonight)

101 Bad Desi Dates said...

Dear Anonymous One ... Thanks. And agreed. I know that ... now. Back then I was overwhelmed.

p.s. you and Anonymous Two wrote at EXACTLY at 11:06, but 12 hours apart and I had to do a double take at the time and responder.

101 Bad Desi Dates said...

Dear Anonymous Two ... Thanks. You are right it is mind over matter and your mind and what thots you put in it matter! You'll have to read on for the sexcapades deets ... or not ... :)

p.s. you and Anonymous One wrote at EXACTLY at 11:06, but 12 hours apart and I had to do a double take at the time and responder.