Two for Two

I have to admit I’m a bit shy. So, when a friend suggested joining a dating service, well, I suggested she was NOT my friend. Still, the idea stuck in my head. And rather than make that pink bunny richer buying batteries for my “personal” massager, I decided to spend the money on something a little more lasting—“2 dates for $2” was what the posting on the bulletin board read at my local grocery store. What a deal, I thought. Was I wrong! Guess you get what you pay for. Below is how my dates turned out.

John seemed nice enough until we were choosing a movie. I suggested something light. He gave me three options, “Death and Dying 3: the story of real people who kill or are killed,” light because well, John claimed it didn’t show the friends/family weeping at the funeral afterwards; “Men Who Love Men,” this was light because I refused to see any movies that denigrated women to sex symbols, and this movie at the gay porn theatre, well it ONLY denigrated men (guess John figured if he couldn’t get off with me—he could figure out the enemy and pour that energy into anger towards his fellow man!); or the one we went to see, “Kiss of the…”, which was not about kissing so much as it was about being bitten. Well, I could see where this date was headed during the middle of the second hour (after Angelina, the protagonist, pointed her only remaining finger, her thumb at her boyfriend and said, “I’m leaving you.” This immediately solicited John to say, “Stupid bitch, didn’t she know how good she had it.” Then John smiled at me. At the end, I insisted that I needed to used the bathroom—then snuck out the backdoor. Thankfully, I’d given John my ex-roommate’s number—they have a lot to discuss—John and Lisa may just get each other—I hope so—it’s a marriage made in hell! She ditched our friendship for the rent---and I ditched John so I could keep all my body parts. Good luck Lisa! And remember John—more than a mouthful is wasteful!

Speaking of wastes, Derek looked nice. He smelled nice. He drove a nice car. Three signs he was gay. I even asked him if he was gay—but he said, “Because I think Madonna and Cher are just fabulous, and I watch Ellen every day, everyone thinks I’m gay. I’ve been with LOTS of women.” Then he snapped his fingers in a limp wrested way. Still he never said “No.” And I started to like the way he always knew what forks to use at dinner, what colors went with my makeup, how to make my hair curl without harsh chemicals, and how to get blood out of a pair of pants. Unfortunately, what I came to realize was that “being with women” was not like having sex with them. Not that he ever got the chance. When he saw some of his “buddies” in front of what I can only assume was a gay bar (naked men dancing on bar tables in front of other naked men is NOT a “fraternity ceremony” as he claimed—okay, so the audience wasn’t naked, but I could tell they wanted to be) and started vogueing with them—I  knew. Oddly enough, I was pissed. I’d wasted a very nice Friday night with him. Damn, I could have been watching Debbie Does Dallas and playing with my pink bunny batteries—but NO—he wasn’t gay, he said, even though his swaying, too small, too belly-dancer like ass said he was). Still after his little dance with his buddies, he asked me for my phone number. Instead of outing him, I just gave him John’s number. Hope they have lots to talk about, too.

Now when anyone asks me if I’m lonely, I say I’m two for two. They just think it mean’s I’ve lost two great loves or been married twice, and I never correct them.