EpicDotCom.com
If I was to start a dating site, which I promise, I never will, it would be called Epicdotcom.com. Fuck the confused masses. This is for the enlightened. Those who’ve read “The D-Word” and are frightened. For to be a member of this dating site, you’d know there was one rule – use the “D-word” sparingly, and only when you want to cause the other member of the adventure severe anxiety. The other, we’ll say hope, is that you’ll have a balls-to-the-wall great time.
And, most events would go something like this:
I pulled into the Silver Lake area around 9:30PM. It was Easter Night. Jesus had risen, and with any luck, so too would my alcohol to blood level, as well as my hormones. I sat at the bar. My lady friend was behind schedule, or I was ahead of schedule. It didn’t really matter either way.
She had suggested “Cantino Malo” a quaint Mexican restaurant with “the best chips and guacamole, and good margaritas.” I was so full from Easter dinner / lunch with my friends that I was interested in the latter. I had no room for the former. I wasn’t sure if this was a “date.” It’s 2010. I don’t think you’re ever supposed to be sure, but it was feeling “date-like.” The place was small, cozy, darkly lit. It had a long wooden bar with a ton of tequila behind it. The bartender was a robust woman, and would be of not a distraction to me as I focused on my lady friend. And, lastly, I was alone. This was how most of my dates had been spent the past four years. Namely, I don’t think I’ve been on a date in four years, and if my lady friend is reading this, I may still not have been on a date in four-plus years.
Something about the word “date” is scary. It implies something bigger. If you’re hanging out it’s simple. You say the word date and it’s like shit, do I have to bring my questionnaire to find out if this person is worth marrying? What? Nah. I just like to have fun. I’m going to play this evening by ear.
I send my lady friend a text and let her know I’m at the bar. Last time she showed up early and waited for me in her car in the parking lot. I didn’t want her to wait in the car this time. She calls shortly thereafter and lets me know that she hasn’t left yet. She apologizes. She didn’t realize I’d get there so fast. I say no worry. I didn’t’ know I’d get there that fast either.
I wait.
I hold out for a bit. I tell the bartender I’m waiting for my friend to get there before I’m going to drink, but I’ll have some water.
I wait.
I get a tequila and ginger ale. She shows up shortly thereafter. It was only a matter of ten or fifteen minutes. It was perfect.
She walks in looking tall and beautiful, and is cool, calm and collected.
We pick up right where we left off the last time we hung out. Talking. I don’t recall anything we talked about specifically. I know we talked about Geology and African studies and what possessed me to major in that. I told her it was for the look that people give me when I tell them my major. Worth every cent of the $150,000+ spent on my education. No regrets.
We talk about global warming. We talk about the earthquake that happened in Mexico but was felt all the way in LA. I, thankfully, did not feel it in Malibu. She did feel it at Easter with her parents. We talk about Easter with her parents. We talk about things that people talk about when they’re getting to know each other.
After about two drinks, the bar closes on us. We move on. We bitch about how it’s only 11:30pm. C’mon. I guess people don’t celebrate Jesus’ rise as much as we do.
We put together a plan. I’ve already revealed to her that I don’t think I’m going to work on Monday. Upon hearing this, she perks up, and mentions a bar she knows to be open quite late in the area. I’m a go.
However, it’s closed.
As she instructs me to pull a 180-degree turn, I see a place that’s open. In mid-turn, I say, “Hey, we could go there.” And as the words leave my mouth, I notice the sign “Gils, Girls.” “Oh, wait,” I say. “Is that a strip club?”
She informs me that it is.
No go on this strip club, but there is a strip club she suggests we go to: “Jumbo’s Clown House.” It’s not like a strip club I’ve even been she tells me. They keep their clothes on. It's a cabaret. I’m game. I hate strip clubs normally. I find them to be a big tease and a bigger waste of money. A place I can use my imagination and be next to a cool, beautiful woman while this is going on, well, that sounds perfect.
Having learned our lesson, we decide to call first. She gets the number from her fancy phone. I wait. I call the digits. No answer.
We’re unsure.
I suggest that we go to a convenience store and pick up some liquor just in case it’s close, and then we can go pack to her apartment and have some drinks if the place is closed.
She sees this for what it is – brilliant. All our bases are covered.
At the convenience store, we pick up a twelve pack of PBR and four pack of Sparks, an energy drink with beer.
We pay the tab. We move on.
As we pull past Jumbo’s, we see it’s open. This should be interesting. We park. She smokes a cigarette. We take a few swills of the Sparks and we get moving.
Dancing through the falling rain drops like a stripper we make it to the door in no time.
Jumbo’s looks like a strip club on the inside. Not so much on the outside. Inside it’s got a small crowd, a small bar, and dim lighting.
On the stage, is a surprisingly beautiful girl doing a surprisingly nimble dance in her underwear.
We get a drink and settle in front row and center. We’re actually the only ones sitting at the stage.
I turn to my lady friend and say, “I thought you were cool, but you just got cooler.”
She smiles and laughs.
We are both shocked at how pretty the girls are. There is a rotation of six girls who all come out one by one and do a dance for a song and then go to the back room. Sometimes, when not dancing, they come and mingle.
Me and the lady are sitting ducks. If a dancer makes eye contact with us, we put a dollar on the stage. When the dance is over, we put a dollar on stage. We pretty much are hemorrhaging money, but we’re having a great time. The dancers are pulling us in. We’re talking in between. We’re handing each other money when the other runs out. It’s quite a show that the two of us are running.
I get up and get us another round of PBRs. I come back to find her a few dollars lighter than when I left. She was all by herself and took the brunt of the attention.
At some point, she wants to go out and smoke a cigarette. I go out to join her. I’m there to be with her – not to see the strippers. We head back to my car. She pulls out a cigarette and smoke it. We pass a Spark between us. We both pick out top three dancers, which is hard because four of the six are smoking hot.
It’s at this point, that we decide it’s time to leave.
Let’s save some money we think and head back to her house.
We drive to her apartment complex and go inside. She pulls out a guitar she has and hands it to me. She asks that I play a song I wrote about a silly text message even that we had between the two of us – really just some anxiety I had when I thought she may misinterpret what I meant by a text message. It was supposed to be a nice text message, and I was overcome by fear that she would be offended by it, thinking I was saying she was dumb and hot, when I was really saying she was smart and hot. Long story. I’m not going to get into it.
I agree to play the song. I preface that it’s still evolving. I don’t know why I’m playing the song as I start it, but it gets her to laugh, and I like making girls laugh. So, it had it’s purpose.
For the next hour or so, we pass the guitar back and forth and play songs we know. Some are originals. Some are covers. Together, we play a version of Radiohead’s “Fake Plastic Trees.” I play guitar, she sings.
At some point, we move into her living room and continue the jam session. She jumps on piano and plays some piano tunes she knows and sings. I play some more originals.
After I play an original song called “Savior,” she suggest we head to her bedroom.
I will forever love the song “Savior.”
Her bedroom is small and cute. She has a single bed there. Nothing crazy happens.
We sit on the bed and talk.
At some point around one we decide to split a medicinal brownie that a friend had given me earlier that day. It’s no more than an inch by two inches. We split it in half. I gave her the bigger half – chivalry is not dead. I’m not expecting much to happen because a girl at the party said it did nothing for her. I’m thinking half of nothing is nothing, so, no big deal.
Maybe it will help us sleep.
We start talking about YouTube and we start watching some funny ones that we know. At first, like with the guitar, we pass it back and forth showing ones we know of.
She knows way more than I do, so after about ten minutes she’s showing me tons of them. Some of the funnier ones are “The News Autotuned” and “Taretdad.” Autotune the News” is a brilliant mix of music, the news and technology. Taret Dad is crazy. Sad and hysterical. It’s during the teret videos that I notice that she and I are laughing hysterically, and it gets to the point where I’m laughing so hard I think I’m going to vomit. I actually have to excuse myself and go to the bathroom to calm down. I put some water on my face. I slow my breathing down. I realize the brownie is working.
I come back. She’s had the same realization. We continue to watch videos until we can’t watch them anymore.
She then takes me thorugh some of her acting work, which is cool to see. I’ve never seen her work before and now I have the ability to appreciate what she does.
I show her my appearance on the “Real World,” which she knew about. She sums it up by saying, “Wow, they really took advantage of you.” I agree and laugh.
We shut the computer and lie down. We’re fully clothed. We’re high. We’re snuggled on a single bed. It’s like I’m a freshman in college all over again. It’s nice. It’s innocent. It’s pure.
It turns out that for the 5’9” frame, the bigger half may have been too much. I reassure her that it’ll be fine. I get her water, and try to get her to focus on other things. She’s appreciative, and together we’ll be fine.
After a while of spooning we doze off for a bit. I wake up after an unknown amount of time and have to go to the bathroom.
When I come back, she wakes up, and is thankfully no longer high anymore. She’s glad to be back down again. I agree.
We lie there in silence. I’m overwhelmed by how good it feels to be lying next to her. My chest becomes a knot. I want to kiss her. I don’t know how. We’re spooning and she’s facing the wall. How can I make a move? I’m going to have to be super aggressive, but does she want to kiss me? Oh shit. I lie there. The knot gets tighter. Tighter. Tighter.
I can’t take it.
I hear myself ask, “Can I kiss you?”
She rolls over, and says “Yes.”
We kiss.
It’s delightful. Slow at first. Uneasy. But then we get into the swing of it. It starts to feel natural and less nervous. We like it.
The kissing goes on for a long time. On and off. We talk in between makeout sessions. I tell her about the knot I was feeling. She says that she had the same feeling.
We kiss some more.
We kiss and hold each other until the sun comes up. Time has flown by. It’s 7:45am. I call into work sick.
We kiss some more.
At around 8:30am, we slip into sleep in each other’s arms.
We’re still in our jeans.
We’ll wake up around noon still in our jeans.
We’ll lie in bed until 2pm in our jeans. Lying in each others arms. Kissing. Talking. Laughing about us residing in “Pantsville.” It’s like we’re back in college. We’re not rushing to do anything.
We’re not rushing to work. We’re not rushing to sleep. We’re not rushing to have sex. We’re not rushing to mess it up. We’re not rushing to get somewhere we’re not. We’re just rushing to stay where we are.
At around 3pm, we decide it’s time to make a move. I’m going to take her to her car, and then I’m going to go home.
When I drop her off, I make the now infamous statement of “This was the second best date (beat) The best second date I’ve ever been on.”
Although this may have caused her some panic at the time, I did mean it.
As I relive the story, I still do mean it.
It may have not been a ‘date’ when we started, but it was when we finished.
Or at least, I hope it was.
I guess it takes two to go on a date.
But, as Ray Charles said, “If it feels right, then it is right.”
This night felt right.
Epic. Dot. Com.
Rock on,
Groundswell.
