Journal: Date Review

As some kind of a writer, I’m keenly aware that dating a person who shares my vocational affliction is a terrible idea, mostly because writers fucking write about everything. They especially write about everything if something horrific and embarrassing happens, which is universally true where my penis is involved. I have made a point in the past to not date people who would described themselves as writers.

But I might have slipped up and fallen haphazardly into the bed of one such degenerate, and predictably, she published an account of our meeting online, and to my absolute shock I come across like some kind of a sex god and it’s hilarious to me.

Release the Kraken

I have a sunny disposition. If you met me in the street, you’d think me a happy-go-lucky, vivacious kind of girl who likes kitty cats and rainbows and hugs (and to be fair, I do like those things more than is probably reasonable). There is a dark streak that runs deep, however. I appreciate those shadows in others – and I am attracted to a dark sense of humour like nobody’s business. So when I came across a grumbly, out-of-sorts, curmudgeonly man who seemed intent on appearing to be participating begrudgingly in the dating world – well, I found the grumpiness adorable. And told him so.

So this guy (I’ll call him the Disruptor) and I commenced a bizarre (but delightful – to me) conversation immediately that devolved, within minutes, to talking about bus stop rapists. A real-life encounter at a bus stop was described by him as:

It wasn’t very rapey.

It was a little rapey, but it wasn’t really very rapey.

As a writer, I kind of love the use of the hard return. It just provides a delicious little pause for reflection on the absurdity of what you’ve just said. So yeah, the Disruptor kinda had me by the hard return. The Disruptor was a writer himself, he told me. I immediately knew he spoke my language, and I his. I’ve had a little experience with the writing myself.

A few more drinks passed, and we seemed to be connecting. A few times during the conversation, I told the Disruptor that I would like to invite him up to my apartment. He mentioned that if he were to come over, in a tone that was unmistakably deadpan, “It would have to be a bad idea. If we’re doing that, we’ll have to do it all wrong.”

Well, that sealed the deal for me. Bad ideas, things done wrong – well, I’m all about that (Clearly, if you’re a regular reader). One thing that surprised me though is that he added a disclaimer after I got him to agree to come home with me.

“I’m not going to have sex with you. I’ll probably blow you, but that’s about all I’ve got right now.”

Only ten minutes later a quite tall and sulky man was carrying a bottle of Kraken spiced rum through my doorway. He was only more interesting to inspect in a properly lit room, with a handsome face and quirky features that I found sexy and mysterious. We drank, smoked cigarettes while perched out my window watching the people below, and talked. I loved the sound of the Disruptor’s voice. It was deep, melodic. He was articulate, self-deprecating, and complimentary in the most earnest way. He would say things in such an offbeat way that I had to believe he was sincere. It was either his delivery, or his smiling eyes, or the Kraken I was drinking on the rocks out of a tumbler, but I was buying whatever he was selling. I clutched that tumbler like a safety blanket or a shield – not sure which, and nonchalantly said that, no, I did not need to fuck him, so it didn’t matter that he said we wouldn’t. We could just talk. So there.

We soon ran out of the Kraken, and wandered down the street to the liquor store for more refreshments. We stood in the aisle, staring at rows of glowing bottles. “Your choice then,” the Disruptor told me gravely, looking down at me. The choice for me was clear – when it comes to spirits, nothing, nothing beats tequila.

Having come relatively late in life to this wonderful elixir, I steered clear of many of those terrifying teenage tequila horror stories. There was one embarrassing party a few years ago where a Texan friend made way-too-strong margaritas. After all ten of us splashed for hours in my rooftop hot tub in some bizarre Esther Williams water ballet tribute, we all (men and women) tried on everything in my wardrobe, at which point this Hostess-with-the-Mostest decided it was a good idea to take a nap on the bathroom floor. I woke up the next morning on the cold tile, a glass of water put there by a kindly friend before they backed slowly out of the apartment to leave me to my misery. Other than this incident, however, tequila and I have had, thus far, good chemistry (don’t ask about my tumultuous relationship with vodka). So I didn’t hesitate. Tequila it was.

The Disruptor was game. After I produced some shot glasses and sliced the limes, we got down to the serious Business of Tequila. Within minutes, the Disruptor was feeling it. “This is swill,” he said wonderingly, holding up his glass in delight. “Pour me another.”

Within what seemed like minutes, the tequila had done its work. Inhibitions carelessly thrown aside, I sang him a song, he read me a story. And I kissed him, and he tasted of beard and liquor and cigarettes. My work in the morning forgotten, we giggled and talked a lot of nonsense. I smiled into his lips. We kissed again. I sat in his lap. At one point the Disruptor pulled up, very serious. He stared at me, hands on my shoulders.

“I want to touch you, but I also remember wanting not to touch you,” he said (surprisingly) soberly. “So I’ll just look.” He pushed my dress down off my shoulders.

I have never had anyone look at my body like that before. The Disruptor’s gaze felt comforting though, and I wasn’t nervous. I could feel where his eyes fell and I began to follow them with my hands. He slowly paced around me and said, “You are really very beautiful. I was afraid of that.”

We wound up on the floor. He couldn’t resist the tequila haze. The Disruptor had a delightful way of turning questions into compliments. His hands grabbed my ass. “Have you had your own ass like this before? Can you reach like that?” he asked me. His hands were on my breasts. “Who supplies your lotions?”

I had no good reply at all, for any of it, but soon I was standing naked, staring down the hallway at the Disruptor, standing at the window with a cigarette, also naked. And then not only was I very much enjoying the tequila haze, but also enthusiastically endorsing the consolation cunnilingus I had scoffed at before. Then I was coming, hard. How did that happen?

I woke up the next morning, not sure how or when the Disruptor had left, or how I had found my bed. I can’t help but hope he’ll be back to help me finish the bottle we started. Who needs to release the Kraken – we seemed to find release just fine on our own.

Irreversible Mistakes