THE INTERNET DATE.

Because I have to give background on this situation and feel that the story should be told in detail, this will be a very long blog. My apologies, in advance.

To begin, I’m not exactly a ladies man. I do alright for myself and I think probably the only thing that keeps me rational and happy is that I take a little bit of pride in being patient and selective; in not jumping at every piece of ass that comes my way. Yes, that leads to more “taking care of my own business” than I care to admit, but it also means that sometime it will pay off with a fun, hot wife who is not a whore.

However, recently I decided that maybe I’m not patient. Maybe I’m just not at all proactive. I just wait for girls to fall into my lap. I don’t aggressively pursue girls at the bar. I don’t really go on dates or ask girls out. I just assume that I’ll somehow meet a nice girl and through casual conversation she’ll realize I’m a prize and want to fuck constantly and be my wife. This has not happened. And probably won’t.

To break out of my rut and get back in the game, I did something desperate. I placed a MAN SEEKING WOMAN ad on Craigslist. I figured, hell, I’m already not having sex, what’s the worst that can happen? I wrote out a pretty good personal ad (I am a writer after all. I sell shit for a living and I’m pretty familiar with me, as a product.) And I got some pretty good responses. A few reasonably cute girls who seemed interesting. One of whom had a love of whiskey and was a freelance proof reader. I like whiskey. I’m a freelance writer. After a few e-mails it was apparent that we would get along fine.

The first internet date was set for yesterday evening. I hadn’t really spoken to this girl on the phone and we had only exchanged a few e-mails. But I was working in Connecticut and she lived near a train stop on my way home. So we decided to meet up for a few quick drinks and some conversation.

If you think this is going to be a story about falling in love, let me clear that up for you right now. It’s not. From the beginning, I had a few things working against me. First, I get extremely nervous before dates. We’re talking borderline standing a bitch up and feel like I’m going to throw up nervous. I don’t know why. I’m good at talking and I’m good at drinking, so I should be a wiz on the dating scene. But for some reason before dates I’m a mess. Second, after I got on the train I realized I had to make a #2. Not the best feeling inside when you’re going to meet a new girl.

Anyways, I get off the train at her stop, where she was supposed to meet me on the platform. No sign of her. So I call. No answer. I hang around for a few minutes, thinking, awesome, she’s going to cancel on me and I can go home. I start looking for a bathroom to unload in, but she calls and says she’s running late and gives me directions to “The Ginger Man,” a bar in Greenich. Holding my #2, I start hoofing it to the bar, thinking that if I beat her there I can take care of my business and she’d be none the wiser.

But halfway up the street she calls and I can see her pulling her Volvo station wagon into a parking spot as she talks to me on the phone. I walk over to the car to meet her for the first time and she seems to have some trouble getting out of the seat, which immediately makes me think “oh no, she’s going to be a big fat girl.” However, she emerges and is not large at all, but surprisingly cute. A sweet eastern Europeanish face, a nice little body and soft, warm breasts.

I think we were both relieved to find the other was not a horrid-looking monster and we began walking up the street to the bar. It was during this two-block walk that I noticed she had a strange gait. Her legs seemed to cross one another, causing her to wobble back and forth a bit. At first I dismissed it as uneven pavement or possibly some sort of hobble-leg defect. But as we talked, it began to dawn on me that she may be drunk. As we crossed the street, she stumbled again and I held her arm to help her balance and actually said outloud, “Are you drunk?”

Her response? “No, I’m just clumsy. It’s these boots.”

While I didn’t believe this was the case, I decided to give her the benefit of the doubt and we went to the bar/restaurant. The place she had chosen had a warm, cozy, expensive atmosphere. She insisted we get a table, which I knew was going to be a problem since we were only having drinks. We ordered beers and started talking and I was beginning to relax. But I was also beginning to notice how supremely drunk this girl was. During conversation she would sometimes forget to talk, instead choosing to put her feet on mine under the table and gaze at me with her best “fuck-me” eyes. Mind you, I’m stone-cold sober at this point, so it’s not sexy, it’s awkward.

Things slowly get worse, as the waitress asks for our order and I have to tell her we’re just having drinks. Normally, at a pub, this wouldn’t be a problem. But when I said this bar had an “expensive feel,” what I mean was that it was a fancy dinner restaurant with a bar inside it. The waitress was dumb-founded, as if she’d never heard of people just having drinks. And even though my shit-canned date assured her that we would “order more than one drink,” the waitress returned and said the owner said we had to order food or go sit at the bar.

Well, I had no intention of ordering food at this point. My new goal was to tactfully remove myself from the situation. Luckily, Drunk Date had to have dinner with her mom and I was scheduled to be on an 8:30 train. I was looking at an 8:15 finish-line and it was around 7:15, so I only had to make it one more hour and I’d be out.

I procured a couch for us in the bar area and we sat and talked for a bit more. There was some more awkward staring and I was struggling to keep the date from turning into me sitting in uncomfortable silence as Drunk Date looked at me, slowly drunk-blinking from time to time. ( a drunk-blink is like a normal blink, but much slower and causes the drunkard’s head to bob down slightly)

During all this time, my #2 problem was still lurking. So I said I’d get us drinks and then use the bathroom. I took my time ordering the drinks at the bar, milking the clock. I went back to the table, gave her the drink and was going to take care of #2 when a man approached me. This conversation then took place:

“Are you with that girl?”
“Yes.”
“I’m the owner of the bar. She can’t have that drink.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah. She fell off the couch while you were getting those drinks.”
“Oh god.”
“And I can’t let her drive home.”
“Shit. I figured she was drunk, but I didn’t know she was that drunk.”
“Yeah man, she’s fucking smashed. You need to take that drink away from her and get her a cab.”

This conversation actually came as quite a relief to me. Now I was no longer entirely responsible for taking care of my hammered date. I had a partner. The owner of the bar. And this situation would likely bring an abrupt end to the evening. So I returned to my smashed date and proceeded to have this conversation:

“I have good news and bad news.”
“Okay.”
“The bad news is that was the owner of the bar and you can’t have that drink. The other bad news is you can’t drive home.”
“Oh.”
“Well, I guess there’s not really good news. That was all bad.”
“But I’m not drunk.”
“No? He said you fell off the couch while I was getting these drinks.”
“I’m not drunk.”
“Really? Because you could barely walk on the way here.”
“I’m not drunk, I’m just clumsy.”
“Well, I can’t possibly believe you’re that clumsy. I bet normally you’re pretty good at walking and sitting.”

So I took her drink back to the bar, went back and excused myself to go use the restroom. Worried that she would bolt while I was gone (I really was concerned at this point about her driving, because she clearly intended to get in her car and go), I was doing a rush job on my #2. But I somehow situated myself strangely when I sat down, because as I started to go I could feel splashing. Splashing, due to pissing hard against and out of the toilet, all over my leg and pants. Perfect. Absolutely perfect. I cleaned up, feeling that the back of my pants, in the high ass area, was very wet. But the bar was dark and I was in the red zone. Only a few more minutes and I could go sit, sober, in my own urine on a train back to the city.

When I got back downstairs, we resumed talking, now about the situation at hand. She was supposed to go to her parents for dinner and she felt strongly that it would look bad if she showed up in a cab. Her new plan was to sit there until she was sober enough to drive. While I explained to her that it could be quite some time before that would be true, she seemed to be planning a dash for the door. She put on her scarf and gathered her purse and got up to leave, but her cell phone, which apparently is made of soap, slipped out of her hand. I picked it up and told her she couldn’t leave unless I called her a cab. She then claimed she was just going to the bathroom, which of course she needed her scarf for.

While she’s gone I conference with the owner and we actually have a good laugh about the whole situation and he agrees to pull her aside when she comes back from the bathroom. He does this and she returns to me, eyes welling with tears. There’s some more talking and then I tell her I’m leaving for my train. And she claims she’s coming with me, to take a train home. Which is obviously a lie, because when I ask what her stop is she says “same as yours.” Nope. I live in Manhattan. You live in Connecticut. But as the bar owner said, we can’t tie her down, so she leaves with me and thankfully calls a friend to pick her up from the train station.

As she’s talking to her friend on the soap phone, which slips from her hand twice during the walk, I notice she’s walking funny. Why, you ask? Because her stockings have fallen down and are now wrapped around her knees. At this point I can’t take it anymore. I start laughing and can’t stop. The situation had reached maximum absurdity. Through my tears, I explain to her that she needs to resolve the panty-hose problem or she’s going to fall. We stop and I hold her up, as she removes her boots to take off the stockings.

She stumbles with me back to the train station. I’ve missed my train, due to not walking fast, due to my drunk date’s balance problems. For the next fifteen minutes I sit with her, waiting for her friend, trying to make conversation. During this time she becomes confrontational, thinking that I’m talking down to her because I “think” she’s drunk. After a few minutes of sitting as she slurs some words, I tell her I’m going to wait for the train and we say goodbye. The only thing left is a cold wait for the train, a long ride home and a lot of shaking my head in disbelief.

I know you’re thinking, will we go out again? Maybe. I believe in second chances. Plus, she was pretty cute and said several times to me “you’re much cuter in person.” That makes me feel good, even coming from a hammered girl. Plus, we already have a funny story to tell. Well, funny to me.