It was just supposed to be another dead end bumble date. And, it was… Kinda.
I was pleasantly surprised to see that he had arrived earlier than me… Brownie point. He looked similar to the pictures my friends sent me to spot him, but a more tired run down version. When I tapped his shoulder, his eyes widened.
When we sat down he immediately started talking about books, and outlandish (not great) writers. I sat quietly and listened, questioning whether he might have just googled unknown but talented writers of the 20th century on his drive over… I would have liked to leave right then, but my margarita landed in my hand before I could create an escape plan. We were outside, sweat was beading on his forehead and he cracked his knuckles nervously.
“So, what do you do for a living? I think I might be boring you with my nerd talk haha”
“Oh, no I’m not bored! Just tired, long work day.”
His forehead crinkled.
“So, you aren’t going to tell me what you do for work?”
I was left with very low expectations after his dialogue on sub par English literature. So, I took a big swig of my drink and prepared myself to get bombarded with questions teetering on pretentious.
“I’m a writer”
I braced myself for the condescending comment..
“Are you really though, like are you actually making money from that? Girls call themselves writers they’ve written two heart break poems and think they’re pros”
“Er… I mean…..”
“Hm. Yeah, I figured. You’re too attractive to be a writer. And can I just say, way hotter than your pictures… That’s pretty rare darlin’.”
— At this point, I’m about to rip this guys head off. Are you kidding me? Tom (Let’s call him Tom) was a struggling actor who misled (lied to) my friends saying he lived in Miami. He was just visiting from LA. His proudest achievement was being an extra on Outlander… And here he was asking me if my career path was actually legit?
“I’m leaving.”
He looked up in surprise.
“Wait! I’m sorry I’m just nervous. I’m being a dick aren’t I?
Once again, I had found myself in an uncomfortable date with few escape routes. I felt bad actually leaving and in reality, my outburst had been to silence Tom’s ego and give him a chance to settle and regroup. His eyes were on me, waiting for a move on my end. My romantic hopes forgotten, I shrugged back into the seat and looked up at him impatiently.
“Let’s just start fresh, yeah?”
“YES! Nice to meet you, I’m Tom — and I’m NOT a prick, just get nervous around beautiful women.”
I frowned and stayed silent. He was flattering me. I was pretty sure I was still in for a terrible evening.
“That wasn’t cool,” he said quietly as I rolled my eyes, “I’m sorry.” he added.
I raised my gaze to his. His big blue eyes looked back at me seriously. He was silent now. I wondered if he thought eye fucking me would win him a ticket to my good graces.
“Men are always intimidated by women like you,” he continued.
I nodded slowly. His flattery was less obvious now. And I was enjoying it more.
“Do you think that’s what it was?”
He nodded vehemently.
“It does make sense. What doesn’t make sense is trying to bash someone you’re trying to get to know, or acting pretentious about shitty writers”
I talked out loud, processing the recent events of the past few minutes.
Tom raised his eyebrows. “Are you this blunt on all your dates?”
For the first time this evening, his flattery had gone and curiosity had replaced it. We began to talk. Our conversation spanned all topics — jealousy, friendships, alcohol, parents, therapy, the influence of our childhoods in our adult lives. Wow, we covered some ground.
An hour later we were four margaritas in, diving further into vulnerable topics, walking around the beach. I was wearing a leather jacket, and under the tiniest little black dress. I pulled it down and carried on every few minutes.
He sheepishly asked if he could hold my hand, I obliged and we continued to converse happily. Somehow, we had switched. I was now trying to impress him. I was fixing my hair, my dress, hair again, dress again. The sun began to sink, and he looked at me with the blue eyes again. The way he listened to me captured me. We had talked and talked. It felt unusual. I didn’t think we had a connection, but I adored his focus.
As the date wore on, his listening skills started to annoy me. He was too attentive. The evening had become intense. What was I doing here? He was a traveler, not a potential.
After a few hours, we had covered just about every topic of conversation known to first, second, third and fourth dates. Tom was charming, handsome and funny.
The kicker: Tom had a situationship back home. He ran away from his issues to decompress (party). I fiend sympathy at his sob story, internally I was cringing. He was everything I ran away from in my past romantic lives. Suddenly I felt for the girl, sitting at home crying and scrolling social for clues on his whereabouts.
Curfew was approaching… I played a perfect balance between flirting and refusal, which involved saying no to him coming over, but in a nice way. I felt angry at myself. Who gets a cheater confession on a first date? Was this night a flop or could I still salvage it, obstacles be damned? My inebriated brain began to fabricate a story to fulfill, and he fit the bill.
Before I jumped in head first, I NEEDED one answer.
“Did you actually know any of the authors you were name dropping in the beginning?”
“ Oh, no. I acted the part I assumed you wanted.”
Interesting concept… I knew would never see him again, so I figured, screw it. If you can’t beat them, join them. I wanted to experience being the faker, not the fool.
“Can I do that tonight instead? I want you to fall in love with me”
“Try your best”
The truth is, I’m a sucker for attention. Whether I crushed on a guy or not, I couldn’t say no to flattery. I loved it too much. I wanted as much flattery as I could get without having to commit to sex or a date. I was addicted to attention. And it had to be fresh attention with someone new and exciting. I love the unpredictability of it. The rush of getting close to a stranger, of smelling their scent on my skin, watching their eyes fill with emotion. And then after a few hours, the magic wears off. It becomes obvious they had been pretending. They had been faking a connection to have sex. They didn’t want to love me forever.
Finally curfew came around, it was time to make the decision. And so, I invited him back home with me. Interesting concept, I was intrigued.We walked through the door of my apartment, he was nervous. I could tell he had no idea where I was planning on taking this, we hadn’t even kissed yet.
“Wow, This is not how I expected your place to look.”
“How so?” My dogs were going nuts, warning me against the invader of our sacred space.
“Well, I kinda expected it to be a mess for one, the smartest people I know have the messiest places”
Tom, once again was using flattery to regain the upper hand.
“Well, that means I’m either dumb or a serial killer haha”
“Oh, is that what your game is? Lure men in with your mystery and then turn them to lamp shades?”
“Only the handsome ones”
The guitar hanging on my wall caught his eye, he asked me if I played.
“ I don’t, I have it for my friends to play while I sing along, want to take it for a whirl?”
“Only if you sing for me”
“Deal”
I threw all rational thought out the window when I decided to partake in this night. I opened the can of worms the moment I invited him over. I was in it. What was I supposed to do for the rest of the time we had together? I created a story in my head earlier, I just wanted this guy to feel like I was his one. My go to for making men like me? Writing! Ladies and gents, I dead ass pulled out my poem note book.
Tom and I, spent 3 hours writing, rewriting and *successfully* finishing a melancholic indie song. Those hours were hands down some of the most intimate raw moments I had ever experienced. My walls were down, my voice thick with emotions I hadn’t felt in months. He was eating it up. We finished the song. Tom went on a word vomit spree. He promised to fly back home, end his situationship and fly back to me, because THIS was real. Everything before me was bullshit, and he saw it all with me. He talked about how it would play out if he moved down here. He painted the picture of a future together, leaving miami and raising kids in the midwest on a farm. We planned it all. I began to lose interest in the conversation, and asked if we could just go to bed.
We still hadn’t kissed — Internally, I was being a girls girl. He must have thought I was playing hard to get. We lay in my bed, and I felt discomfort. My head on his chest, his hands tracing the lines of my back… No, this doesn’t feel right at all. I made sleepy eyes, and looked up at Tom.
“I’m really tired, can we go to sleep?”
“Yes — But first… If I say something, will you say it back?
“Uh, that’s open ended.”
“You win. I fell in love with you today, I love you.”
“I can’t say the same Tom.”
“Just say it, you don’t have to feel it. But once you say it, tell me if you felt something”
Tom openly confessed that he was not single, I didn’t agree with 90% of the things he said in the 10 hours we had spent together, he definitely was not in the running for “new boo” as I still felt no connection to him. But there I was, laying in my bed with Tom, an almost perfect stranger. I opened my mouth to say the words — no sound came out. Wow, that’s a trauma response if I’ve ever had one. I looked at him, his blue ‘fuck me’ eyes staring, begging for validation. I tried again.
“I love you too.”
The instant the words left my lips, something inside me broke. I began hysterically crying, and I could not stop. I finally understood what a privilege it is to be genuinely in love. I desperately craved a relational connection, and felt like the worst type of fraud. What did I gain by fucking with Tom’s emotions for the night? Cheater or not — no one deserved that (but he kinda did). I felt sick, and hated myself for willingly playing a role that had caused me so much pain in the past. I apologized to Tom, and kept crying. I asked him to leave, he refused and rocked me as my sobs ripped through my shaking body the entire night.
– – – – –
As we said goodbye the next morning. I revert back to my jaded emotional setting. Tom went in for a kiss. I told him he was a good guy. He cursed himself for not having sex with me when he had the chance.
“Well that wasn’t up to you, was it? You gave it your best shot. But you should probably call your girl now.” I said kindly.
He looked bewildered, like I had threatened to call her myself.
“Wait, so where does that leave us? I really like you, and I do want to move down here…”
“Wrong girl, wrong pitch, Tom. Let’s hold last night in high regard and go on with our lives, yeah?
Before he could answer, I waved him goodbye and closed the door, feeling bemused. How interesting that he blamed himself for not having sex with me. It was as if I was an arcade game and he’d failed to put the right coins in me. He was forgetting I had emotions, my own desires, and a functional moral compass.
Did this night make him a bad person? I hadn’t been any better. He had been a receiver for my never-ending musings and proved to be an excellent listener. He filled a role I needed to work through, and I was a welcome escape from reality to him - at the very least. We were just as bad as each other. We had used each other equally.
I have a lot to learn about my need for attention. I yearn for validation from men and I still don’t know why. That night, I couldn’t settle until I finished my story. I wanted a conquest. I ended up with a lesson.
So, was it the thrill of the chase or just a young girl’s need for acceptance and attention? Ego is a fragile thing at any age. It takes time to feel more settled internally. Achieving a sense of inner peace is a never-ending journey.
As I walked back into my apartment, I smiled. My wall poster read: “do justly, love mercy, walk humbly” The sign kinda worked as a check list in this instance. I had only tacked off “do justly” last night. In all honesty, I hadn’t done right by myself. I took a long stroll down trauma lane in some distorted version of a vendetta. The only person who was treated “fairly” in the equation was the sad girl, thousands of miles away. I looked up, above my doorway is a simple canvas.
“The best is yet to come” Well fuck, I sure hope so.
