It was 10 pm this past Friday. I was in bed in my pajamas, exhausted from the work week, going to sleep early to climb a mountain the next day, when I got an OkCupid message from a man I'd gone out with once in June of 2013.
He said he was embarrassed but in "last summer's weirdness," was it possible that we hung out and he couldn't remember?
Yesssss, here was a man who was completely drugged out during our first date. Dealbreaker? Hardly. I remembered the date and thought he was attractive and interesting, albeit slightly odd and zonked out. I would have seen him again, but he didn't contact me. Until tonight! What was I doing? Would I like to meet him in half an hour at his favorite secret bar in Chinatown?
"Don't worry, I realize I'm coming across insane, so totally buddy homie yo bro platonic drinks is cool." My thoughts as well.
I weighed the two options in front of me:
1) Be normal.
2) Put on a dress and makeup and drive to a seedy Chinatown bar to meet a man with an admitted drug and/or psychiatric history for a second date, 15 months after the first.
Any guesses as to my move?
We met up in the back room of the Four Seas and needed to reintroduce ourselves. I noted immediately that he seemed like a different person than from our first date. He was more energetic and witty, less in a Xanax-or-perhaps-Seroquel induced state. I liked that he was a lawyer and was comfortable working with people from different backgrounds in our community. I also liked that he wore corduroy pants and let his hair fall into his eyes. He had lived in Seattle for twenty years, and we reminisced about when Capitol Hill was gay and artsy, before brogrammers born in 1990 invaded the coffee shops with Google Glass and messenger bags, driving up the rents and pricing the long-time residents out. He reminded me of the Seattle of my youth: quirky, conscious, and independent.
"I must have been really out of it when we went out before if I didn't contact you again," he said, "because you're actually quite pretty and charming."
He was smooth, and I had to ask the question even though I already knew the answer: "Have you ever been arrested?"
The answer was yes. By now, it's a given. I have a type, and the type is "possible criminal."
I was having too much fun, I ignored that he started out the evening by ordering himself a Corona AND a double shot of Jameson. Then another Corona. And another. And a hydrocodone or two or three. By 1 am he was smoking a cigarette in the parking lot, holding my hand, suggesting that we go back to his rooftop to try and see the Aurora Borealis.
The evening had sucked me in too much to say no, even though I was waking up in six hours to hike. I was along for the ride, and I was ready to see where my bad decisions would take me. By the time we got back to his apartment he was dancing to Lady Gaga, slurring his speech, and inviting me to celebrate his 40th birthday with him in a week.
"You can spend the night if you want," he offered. "I mean, there are the men that put their hands on women and there are the men that keep their hands to themselves. My hands are mine."
Spoken like a true mix of seven drinks and opiates.
I was sober enough to make a good- although less interesting- decision and told him I would be sleeping at home.
"Okay." His face fell for a moment, then he jumped up and shrieked. "I have to pee! Which plant do you want me to pee on?"
I told him the sunflower. He peed nowhere near the sunflower.
It was 3 am, and I needed to leave. He held my hand, walked me to my car, and never kissed me.
He said he was embarrassed but in "last summer's weirdness," was it possible that we hung out and he couldn't remember?
Yesssss, here was a man who was completely drugged out during our first date. Dealbreaker? Hardly. I remembered the date and thought he was attractive and interesting, albeit slightly odd and zonked out. I would have seen him again, but he didn't contact me. Until tonight! What was I doing? Would I like to meet him in half an hour at his favorite secret bar in Chinatown?
"Don't worry, I realize I'm coming across insane, so totally buddy homie yo bro platonic drinks is cool." My thoughts as well.
I weighed the two options in front of me:
1) Be normal.
2) Put on a dress and makeup and drive to a seedy Chinatown bar to meet a man with an admitted drug and/or psychiatric history for a second date, 15 months after the first.
Any guesses as to my move?
We met up in the back room of the Four Seas and needed to reintroduce ourselves. I noted immediately that he seemed like a different person than from our first date. He was more energetic and witty, less in a Xanax-or-perhaps-Seroquel induced state. I liked that he was a lawyer and was comfortable working with people from different backgrounds in our community. I also liked that he wore corduroy pants and let his hair fall into his eyes. He had lived in Seattle for twenty years, and we reminisced about when Capitol Hill was gay and artsy, before brogrammers born in 1990 invaded the coffee shops with Google Glass and messenger bags, driving up the rents and pricing the long-time residents out. He reminded me of the Seattle of my youth: quirky, conscious, and independent.
"I must have been really out of it when we went out before if I didn't contact you again," he said, "because you're actually quite pretty and charming."
He was smooth, and I had to ask the question even though I already knew the answer: "Have you ever been arrested?"
The answer was yes. By now, it's a given. I have a type, and the type is "possible criminal."
I was having too much fun, I ignored that he started out the evening by ordering himself a Corona AND a double shot of Jameson. Then another Corona. And another. And a hydrocodone or two or three. By 1 am he was smoking a cigarette in the parking lot, holding my hand, suggesting that we go back to his rooftop to try and see the Aurora Borealis.
The evening had sucked me in too much to say no, even though I was waking up in six hours to hike. I was along for the ride, and I was ready to see where my bad decisions would take me. By the time we got back to his apartment he was dancing to Lady Gaga, slurring his speech, and inviting me to celebrate his 40th birthday with him in a week.
"You can spend the night if you want," he offered. "I mean, there are the men that put their hands on women and there are the men that keep their hands to themselves. My hands are mine."
Spoken like a true mix of seven drinks and opiates.
I was sober enough to make a good- although less interesting- decision and told him I would be sleeping at home.
"Okay." His face fell for a moment, then he jumped up and shrieked. "I have to pee! Which plant do you want me to pee on?"
I told him the sunflower. He peed nowhere near the sunflower.
It was 3 am, and I needed to leave. He held my hand, walked me to my car, and never kissed me.
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