I really am stumped about where to begin, so I’ll start at the beginning. It all started over a coffee with Bachelor #14 last weekend. His extensive knowledge of wine and restaurants, interest in travel and classical architecture, and his sad blue eyes seemed like a winning combination. At the cafe, he seemed a bit overly excited by me, reaching across the table to feel my chest, holding my increasingly sweaty hand, leaning over and kissing me… It scared and fascinated me, like a moth drawn to the flame, this disregard of boundaries and direct assault on my carefully crafted cool public persona, and it was very difficult to simultaneously acknowledge it, redirect it, and maintain my coolness, but I succeeded on all three counts with a great deal of concentration and a nonstop burble of biographical data.
Well, last night he took me out to dinner. To a really nice French restaurant with real French waiters. You know the kind of date I’m talking about, sure to end with one of those noble-gas-colored American Express cards. During dinner, he grabbed my hand, pulled it to and fro across his nether regions, I pulled it away with a pat on the knee, then he reached under the table and grabbed my crotch and asked me if I was a top or a bottom. He told me that he only likes getting fucked by big dicks, squeezed my crotch again to assess the situation, leaned across the table and, yes, FRENCH kissed me, right there in front of everyone while I tried to push him away in a manner that drew the least amount of attention to my plight.
I had been asked out by Beelzebub.
I thought about tossing my wine in his face, but couldn’t bring myself to do that to a nice wine. Plus I was afraid his head would pop off and start spewing green chunks across the table. I think he meant well, it just came out all wrong. I was very sympathetic because Big Chris and I had earlier watched Funny Face at the CocoPlex and I was still under the spell of Dr. Flaustra’s theories about empathicalism.
He asked me what kinds of music I listened to. “Well, I like Arvo Pärt, The Hidden Cameras, Neko Case, counter-tenors…” trying to give him a sense of the diversity of music that interests me. “Dance, I’m into dance,” he said. “Dance?” I couldn’t imagine what he meant. Gay dance music? Empathicalism gave way to exasperation and I finally just corrected him at one point, when, after mentioning only bars all night and “dance” music, he referred to “gay culture.” “You mean ‘bar culture.'” I corrected him. “No, I mean gay culture.” “You’re talking about beer-drinking and beauty contests. That’s not my idea of gay culture,” annoyed that my intellectual brothers and sisters should be encompassed by his myopic notion of culture.
His background is one of privilege, and he seemed to think he was entitled to a big slice of Bunny Coco. Maybe if we had been at Fleur de Lys, I would have settled into my role a little better, but my duck wasn’t worth the molestation. I felt like a prostitute. Like Jane Fonda in Klute, though–you know, neurotic, smart, growing more and more hostile… It was awful, really, feeling so simultaneously disrespected and desired. And having his tongue stuck down my throat and hands all over me under the glare of all these uncomfortable diners and French service people.
He walked me home from the restaurant, and I stopped in front of his car, which was parked across my driveway. Ever the gracious guest and despite wondering if I had just been battered, I gave him a hug and tried to kiss him goodnight, but he turned his head and asked, “Aren’t you going to ask me up?” “No,” I replied firmly, terrified, “Thanks for the dinner, but no, blah blah excuse blah blah”–(“and not with someone whose idea of seduction was to feel me up under the cheese plate,” I wanted to add). I tried again to kiss him goodnight, but he again turned his head, angry, like a child. I kissed him on the cheek and ran up the stairs and called Big Chrissy. “Omigod, he drives a Lexus SUV and says he only gets fucked by guys with big dicks!” I screamed into the mouth piece. “The last three guys you’ve gone out with have driven SUV’s. What’s happening to you?” Big Chrissy asked with deep concern for my fading principles. “At least I got #8 to buy a hybrid instead of the SUV that he was going to buy.” “So you’re saving men AND the ecosphere now?”
I’m cuddled up with my purple teddy bear tonight. He’s got his furry purple back to me, waiting patiently, passively, for me to finish typing and spoon against his soft downy purple teddy bear butt and nuzzle against his fuzzy little purple ears.