Anyone Up for a Threesome?

If you ever find yourself at Lion Pub in San Francisco: DO order the spectacularly fresh ‘n pulpy greyhound. DON’T stay for the conversation.

Creeper: You should come back with Mitch* and I.

Me: Why?

Creeper: Because we could offer an experience you’ve never had?

Me: Oh really. What kind of experience could you offer?

Creeper: Whatever fantasy you wanted. We just wouldn’t do each other in the butt.

…

Welp. There goes that dream.

Spoiler Alert: I don’t go home with them in the end.

*Names have been changed to keep things less confusing. Except Creeper. That one’s real.

Hibernation Inspiration

ithinkironyisSOfunny and I decided to go to The Den on Sunset last night to grab a couple drinks and a bite to eat. A nice mellow, casual place for a girl-talk-catch-up-sesh.

Enter Keith. Name has been changed to protect the ego of the offender.

Keith was our waiter. Keith decided to sit down at our table with us.

Ok. First of all, I sort of have this thing about personal space, where I cherish it and do not appreciate when its existence is completely and totally disregarded.  Initially, his awkward level of immediate comfort  was fascinating enough to render it amusing.  I was even willing to crack a smile at his layman banter about the three of us dating. (What? I had just moved back to LA at the time.  I was both hard up for humor and hesitant to turn my back on any potential neighborhood-bar-friendship. Momentarily.)

5 minutes later, he was still sitting there, my cracked smile had realigned into polite, obscured annoyance and ithinkironyisSOfunny and I made unobscured eye contact of the whenishegoingtogetupandtakeourorder variety. 

The answer was not any time soon. Keith launched into a less than scintillating autobiography.  I half-listened, awestruck at his inability to discern that ithinkironyisSOfunnyand I possess individually supreme senses of narcissism and were apathetic about both his career choice (actor) and training center (Beverly Hills Playhouse).

At the end of his diatribe, he stared at me, expectantly. Oh, right.  This is where I respond with signs of interest.

"Ooh."

"What does ‘ooh’ mean?"

"It means I’ve never heard of that and know nothing about it, but I’m not judging you."

…  

Things started off well.

We finally coerced Keith into taking our order and leaving our general area for a peaceful moment. Our catch-up convo took a turn for the serious, when guess who socially-ineptly chose to slide right back into our booth.

Pregnant pause. Awkward expressions clearly broadcasting the silent version of dude-are-you-serious.

Ignored. Keith was back and ready to chat.  This time about the relationship he and I were allegedly about to begin.

Deep breath. Where the F is our food?

Oh. There it is. Being brought out to us by the chef. It had apparently been sitting there for awhile, dropping drastically in temperature. We sent Keith away to procure us some utensils.

He came back with more than silverware.

"Are you a famous actress and should I not be hitting on you right now?"

"Is that a two-part question?"

We then learned that he once told Jon Hamm he should be an actor because he was such a charming man.

…

Swoon?

Somehow, we got him to leave again and picked up our heart-to-heart chat-sesh, ignorantly believing we would finally be granted a little bestie alone time. When Keith sauntered over again, he was a man with a purpose. 

"You guys should come to our karaoke night." Turns to face me. "Actually, you and I should go to karaoke somewhere else. When I’m not working."

*crickets*

Now, I love the sh*t out of karaoke, but even my microphone mania has its limits.

"Your boyfriend would probably be upset."

I nod.

"You have a boyfriend?"

I nod. “He’s mildly protective.”

…

Attempt at humor. Awkward linger. Uncomfortable shifting.

…

…

…

Eyes down. Pay bill. Exit Quickly.

Chasing the Passion

In response to a friend’s shocked/appalled/aghast/bewildered reaction to the intense level of inactivity in my dating life, I vowed to liven it it up a bit. Two nights later, a tall Australian entered the scene. He had flown into NY that Thursday for his best mate’s birthday party, and was scheduled to depart on a business trip Saturday morning. His one free night was Friday and he would love to take me to dinner. 

I ran through my mental checklist: 
6’2” or above: Check.
Sense of humor: Check. (Though dangerously close to the cheesy side, not so near as to dismiss immediately.)
Broad-shouldered, athletic & attractive: Check, Check, & Check.
Easy conversationalist: Check.
Has a real job: Check.

Looks like I was saying yes. 

My initial concerns:

1. He appeared to be slightly older than I am generally comfortable with dating. Perhaps he had over-indulged a touch in all that Australian fun-in-the-sun?

2. I was still worried about the cheese factor, due to a couple fleeting moments in conversation - and also due to his shirt, of which I was not particularly fond.

Early afternoon on Friday, he calls to say he has made 8pm dinner reservations, and perhaps we can meet at 7p to walk along the westside a bit first. I say fine. Around 4p, he texts to confirm 7p at his apartment in SoHo. I respond that this should be fine, as I am currently frolicking around the West Village with friends. He replies back that I can come around 6:30 instead, if I would like. I’m not entirely certain what it was about, “frolicking around the West Village with friends” that led him to believe I would want to meet up earlier; regardless, I choose to ignore the text.

I arrive in SoHo around 7:15. (West Village antics may have segued into vegan ice cream bars and margaritas with mylifeissonotironic. Oops.) We thankfully skip the previously planned hour and a half pre-dinner stroll due to my delayed appearance. I mean, it’s a first date. Let’s not kill all conversation topics before we even get to the restaurant. 

We walk through SoHo and over to the Flatiron district to Pure Food & Wine. The walk was actually quite lovely and entertaining, and dinner proceeded to be both lively and delicious. I found myself remembering why I like dating. Fun, flirting, White Light Tinis…I really should do this more often.

As he handles the check, I reach to check the time on my BlackBerry. F. Dinner had spanned more than three hours. It was currently pushing midnight. So much for going home to change before meeting up with my friends. (Yes, I had post-date plans. And no, I don’t think there’s anything wrong with that.)

I assumed we would do the whole hug-goodnight-I-get-in-a-cab-in-front-of-the-restaurant thing, and I’d be with my BFF’s in less than twenty.

This is where things began to unravel. As I’m trying to politely extricate myself from the situation, Aussie has turned his game on, angling to get laid. This is not a stellar combination.

He wants to walk. Curbside, of course, as his grandmother instructed him to do when walking with a lady. Ok, fine. I can saunter through the park with him and hail a taxi on the other side. I message my friends, giving them an ETA of 30 minutes. 30 minutes later, Man-From-Down-Under is still ignoring every semi-cordial attempt of mine to end the date. I’m making a concerted effort to not be rude slash abrupt, but my companion has made the full transition from amusing and charming to annoying and cheesy. I KNEW IT WAS IN THERE.

As our meandering path veers suddenly and suspiciously toward his flat, I am rescued by back to back phone calls from my besties. (Said phone calls may or may not have been precluded by SOS alerts.) Hi! Yes! I’m coming right now, I swear! Sorry! Literally getting in a cab right now!!

"Are you sure you have to go?" 

Is he serious?

"Yep! Oh! There’s a cab! HadagreattimethankyoufordinnerBYE!"

His reply?

"Oh man, you’re totally running. I wish you wanted to stay and chase the passion with me." 

CHASE. THE. PASSION.

…


"Yeah, ok. I’m going to chase that cab."

This is why I don’t date.

Hi, cats.