I have the best, worst dating stories. I may share some of the harmless, more amusing ones about relative strangers from time to time. Names will be changed to protect the innocent and not-so-innocent alike. And I will employ gifs to illustrate as much as possible. Enjoy.
The other night I went out with a colleague whose last day at work is fast approaching so we were going to celebrate. We met up with another colleague and random friends of her friends and went to reggae night at a joint I have never been to before. I HAD SO MUCH FUN. The music was amazing – I was in my zone and just grooving.
And there were SOOOOOO MANY HANDSOME MEN THERE. Soooo many. Like. A distracting amount. At 10pm on a Wednesday night. WHO KNEW THIS WAS A THING?!?! I certainly did not. Which is why I was wearing a dress befitting a toddler and my rhinestone cowgirl boots from Limited Too – I do not kid you and I don’t know why they fit me, but they do.
Anyway – handsome men.
I was in my neo-hippie-dance-zone and thinking I looked like a baby, so was not trying to do that whole flirting thing…but a fancy French man who we’ll call Pierre approached me. Now when I say French, I mean that he just moved to the States and this city somewhat recently. He chatted me up on the dance floor and after 20 minutes or so, asked if he could buy me a drink. Which apparently meant champagne.
Honestly, Pierre’s personality was such that half the time we were talking and dancing, I felt like I was hanging out with this guy…
… which – while slightly confusing because he was obviously interested – put me off my guard in a good way. I was relaxed and just existing and enjoying chatting with a new person without stressing about him hitting on me; plus I love meeting new people and Pierre leads a fascinating life while being very relatable.
My colleague and her friends eventually headed out for the night but I was having a blast and music was still going strong, so I decided to stay behind. Pierre and I broke it down on the dance floor for a bit longer.
Towards the end of the night when I said I was going to leave, Pierre kissed me.
This is where I should say that I am typically unfazed by kissing. Don’t get me wrong, it’s nice, but I have had to kiss so many people in my life because of theatre that kissing isn’t often a big deal – and when it is a big deal, that’s when I know I’m in trouble. For example, in the recent past I was hanging out with three of my friends after a show; when my scene partner for the current show said something about my lips, the other two jumped in with their comments BECAUSE I HAD KISSED ALL THREE OF THEM IN SHOWS AT SOME POINT… which I had completely forgotten. My unfazed-ness also means that in adult scavenger hunts with my non-theatre friends, I’ve always been the one to check the “kiss a stranger”/”kiss a bartender” box off my team’s list. Because if I don’t care – then why not?
2010 Scavenger Hunt: Complete Stranger; All The Points.
So … getting back to Pierre, he kissed me and I was all unfazed and like “OK! Nice to meet you! It’s 1:30am so I have to go home and feed my cat now! But you have my number if you want to see me again!” (this is not verbatim but is pretty close…God help me).
And then Pierre said he was going to kiss me “in ze French way”….
And he licked my face around my mouth. Brad The Bad Kisser style. 100%. And I was shocked and appalled and started laughing so hard because IT WAS SO WEIRD. If I had myself together more, maybe I would have been somewhat tactful or kinder. But I literally laughed “BAHAHAHAHA!”-style *into his mouth* and backed up. Because WHAT?!
I think he was insulted. Understandably. And I did feel slightly bad. But also it was 1:30am and I was too tired to try to mask my feelings on the matter. AND SERIOUSLY. WHO TOLD YOU THAT WAS OK, SIR?!?!
I recovered and reiterated that I was going home to feed my cat (not kidding); he said he was leaving, too, and suggested we share a cab. I said OK. Because while I’m awkward, I’m not a monster and I did enjoy his company for the bulk of the night. And it’s just sharing a cab. As we were getting in the cab, Pierre said he had a “surprise” he wanted to show me and that it was on the route back to where my car was parked. Now a red flag presents because I am no dummy and I know that often when a man tells you he has a “surprise” to show you in the wee hours of the morning, it relates back to one thing…
I cut that short right quick and told Pierre that under no circumstances was I doing anything but going right to my car and to my home by myself. He assured me that he was *not* trying to take me back to his place and that the detour would only take 3 minutes. So, ever the optimist, I said (like the dummy I am not) “OK – then show me the surprise.”
He gives the address to the cab driver and it is absolutely on the way to my car – that checks out. Now I figure it’s going to be a statue or fountain – something very specific to the city, something that he likes or relates to and wants to show me. Which – cool, right? I mean I’ve lived here for 11 years, so I bet I’ve seen it before – but I’m game. HOWEVER I ask the driver if when we get to the location he can wait so I can hop right back in the cab and zip to my car post-3-minute-surprise. The cab driver says “Yes,” as we pull up to an apartment building. To Pierre’s apartment building.
“DUDE. PIERRE. No. Absolutely not. I told you I was not going to your place.” And he gives me a song and dance about wanting to show me his “rooftop deck”. So I give him a song and dance about how at close to 2am on a Thursday morning, I don’t need to see a relative stranger’s “rooftop deck”. Also I’m not that stupid and there is a good chance that he is substituting the words “rooftop deck” for
He kept trying to get me to let the driver leave saying that it would be too expensive to have the cab wait and that I should Uber after I see the “rooftop deck”. And I was not having it.
As we parted ways, something was mumbled about inviting me to a French dinner but that he wasn’t going to contact me because American girls always play him, so I’d need to reach out for the invitation…
I hopped back in the cab. The driver was shaking his head and said “He was being very pushy.” And I agreed. Which is sad because it was a fun night otherwise. But Pierre got shady. He took me to his apartment building and tried to get me in an isolated spot when I told him I wasn’t going for that. Not cool, yo. Add to that the mouth-licking….? So I think I’m good on the French dinner front. I’ve got me some morning star farms chick’n nuggets and frozen pasta meals at home. Plus I’m not really into foie gras so much.
I picked up my car, drove home, called my biffle to recap the night, then went to bed at 4am on a Thursday morning. Like the 21 year old I’m apparently aspiring to be. This is fauxdulthood at its finest.
#thisis29
(special shout-out to my lady CGriff for being an editor on this post and an encourager on the share-your-weird-stories front)
FAUXDULTHOOD 