It had been seven weeks since my last date, and I was admittedly excited to get back in the game. I was determined, in a way that eclipsed every prior determination, to have a good time with a man. Three months without any physical intimacy in the darkest, loneliest days of the year weighed upon me and I wanted love- or as close as I could get to it- if only for a night.
This man, I knew intuitively, would be able to deliver on a not-shitty evening. His profile said he drank alcohol often and did drugs occasionally, which is exactly what I would say in my profile if I didn't have a job that could potentially fire me for it. He was a 35 year old working in the kitchen of a grocery store, from which I extrapolated that he was humble and not a pompous dick; minimum wage doesn't exactly win you bragging rights.
So I was a little surprised when he suggested we meet at Canon, a whiskey bar that has ranked on the "world's best bars" list and has prices to match. Three craft cocktails in I realized this man has his priorities. Enjoying life is clearly one of them, while finances are not. I would never have to run out of his apartment after sex saying I didn't want an engagement ring because he couldn't afford to buy me one anyways.
"Let me get this," he reached for the check that probably amounted to an entire day's pay.
"No, let's split it," I suggested. The feminist inside me cringes when men pay. Often they argue, but he didn't. "Okay, thanks."
He was quiet but not dull. I felt like he had something to offer, I just had to pull it out of him. He dropped out of college but was clearly intelligent, had a reserved, introspective demeanor, and was the type of man who was comfortable with solitude. He train-hopped, riding in freight cars for days by himself. He hitchhiked to Kodiak, Alaska. He, like many of the men on dates before him, had been arrested (trespassing).
I told him how I too value my independence and how I spent Christmas on a solo bar-crawl doing crossword puzzles, stopping at every open liquor establishment from Georgetown through SODO to Chinatown. "I'm Jewish," I offered as an explanation to justify my alcoholic tendencies over the holidays.
"Yeah, me too."
WHOA... The date took a very, very unexpected turn for me. He had not disclosed his religious affiliation online and to be fair (and stereotypical), there are not a lot of Milwaukee-born college dropouts working dead-end minimum wage jobs who are part of The Tribe. But the moment he said it, the heritage was obvious: we both had huge mops of dark, curly hair.
It was 9:30 on a Thursday, and we were drunk. The evening would have ended prematurely at that point, so we meandered to Café Pettiroso, drank again, and then found our way to Havana for Soul Night. We danced to Higher and Higher, and I felt his toned arms and shoulders through his plaid shirt while he put his hands around my waist. It was the first physical contact I'd had with a man in three months, and it felt amazing.
I let him walk me home, and we hugged (but did not kiss) outside my apartment building. The next day, sober, I reassessed the situation.
There is no doubt in my mind that I had fun that evening and that it easily ranks in the upper 10% of times I've had with men, but was it good enough? He was no Crazy Chinatown Man, no Engineer with the Houseboat, no Brooklyn Cinematographer. I had the familiar feeling of apathy, that I would see him again if he contacted me but I wouldn't care if he didn't. Historically, this gray zone is a bad position to be in for men who want to date me; no man who has started in lukewarm territory has ever escaped. My friends who are in relationships tell me to give more chances to the ones I'm iffy on. I always do, but every time it follows the same pattern: We go on a few more dates. We have sex. I have to say I'm not interested. He is upset... I may talk tough, but I don't like hurting people.
So here I am, committed to a second date with this man who appropriately followed up within 48 hours and asked to see me again. Will my friends' advice prove my intuition wrong?
This man, I knew intuitively, would be able to deliver on a not-shitty evening. His profile said he drank alcohol often and did drugs occasionally, which is exactly what I would say in my profile if I didn't have a job that could potentially fire me for it. He was a 35 year old working in the kitchen of a grocery store, from which I extrapolated that he was humble and not a pompous dick; minimum wage doesn't exactly win you bragging rights.
So I was a little surprised when he suggested we meet at Canon, a whiskey bar that has ranked on the "world's best bars" list and has prices to match. Three craft cocktails in I realized this man has his priorities. Enjoying life is clearly one of them, while finances are not. I would never have to run out of his apartment after sex saying I didn't want an engagement ring because he couldn't afford to buy me one anyways.
"Let me get this," he reached for the check that probably amounted to an entire day's pay.
"No, let's split it," I suggested. The feminist inside me cringes when men pay. Often they argue, but he didn't. "Okay, thanks."
He was quiet but not dull. I felt like he had something to offer, I just had to pull it out of him. He dropped out of college but was clearly intelligent, had a reserved, introspective demeanor, and was the type of man who was comfortable with solitude. He train-hopped, riding in freight cars for days by himself. He hitchhiked to Kodiak, Alaska. He, like many of the men on dates before him, had been arrested (trespassing).
I told him how I too value my independence and how I spent Christmas on a solo bar-crawl doing crossword puzzles, stopping at every open liquor establishment from Georgetown through SODO to Chinatown. "I'm Jewish," I offered as an explanation to justify my alcoholic tendencies over the holidays.
"Yeah, me too."
WHOA... The date took a very, very unexpected turn for me. He had not disclosed his religious affiliation online and to be fair (and stereotypical), there are not a lot of Milwaukee-born college dropouts working dead-end minimum wage jobs who are part of The Tribe. But the moment he said it, the heritage was obvious: we both had huge mops of dark, curly hair.
It was 9:30 on a Thursday, and we were drunk. The evening would have ended prematurely at that point, so we meandered to Café Pettiroso, drank again, and then found our way to Havana for Soul Night. We danced to Higher and Higher, and I felt his toned arms and shoulders through his plaid shirt while he put his hands around my waist. It was the first physical contact I'd had with a man in three months, and it felt amazing.
I let him walk me home, and we hugged (but did not kiss) outside my apartment building. The next day, sober, I reassessed the situation.
There is no doubt in my mind that I had fun that evening and that it easily ranks in the upper 10% of times I've had with men, but was it good enough? He was no Crazy Chinatown Man, no Engineer with the Houseboat, no Brooklyn Cinematographer. I had the familiar feeling of apathy, that I would see him again if he contacted me but I wouldn't care if he didn't. Historically, this gray zone is a bad position to be in for men who want to date me; no man who has started in lukewarm territory has ever escaped. My friends who are in relationships tell me to give more chances to the ones I'm iffy on. I always do, but every time it follows the same pattern: We go on a few more dates. We have sex. I have to say I'm not interested. He is upset... I may talk tough, but I don't like hurting people.
So here I am, committed to a second date with this man who appropriately followed up within 48 hours and asked to see me again. Will my friends' advice prove my intuition wrong?
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