This swanky little downtown art bar was my date's idea. It's got cushy couches in the back, tables too tiny to perch anything more than one wineglass on, and canvases of art covering each of the red walls. We literally had to walk through a velvet curtain to find a spot back here and I can't recognize any of the music playing. If I was cooler, hipper, groovier, this would be exactly my kind of scene. Sadly, I'm still a suburban girl desperately trying to fit into the city crowd which means I'm out of my element here yet unrelenting in my attempts to hide the fact. No one has seemed to notice that I have neither purple hair nor a nose ring, or at least, they aren't pointing and laughing out loud. This bar is the kind of place where anything goes and judging by how many pairs of leather pants I've already counted (seven), I don't think it's the sort of environment where people pass judgement easily. Que sera, sera, my friends.
My "cup" is a thin guy, so skinny that I worry upon impact of our initial hug, he may snap in half. He's my height but I'd wager he's 100 pounds soaking wet, if that. It's a little disconcerting because I like my men to be men. He just looks like a very tall boy.
Still, he's pleasant enough to be around and he was thoughtful in his choice of locations. I ask him why he wanted to come to this particular bar (other than the dreamy $8 martini selection, of course). He tells me it was a frequent spot of his with his ex and he wants to make new memories here.
Wait. It gets better.
He pulls out a piece of paper and shows me his latest STD test results from the doctor. Says that when we started talking more, he went and got checked out, you know, just in case. That he's had a lot of partners but he's got a clean bill of health and wants to know when my last AIDS scan was. Excuse me?!?!
I'm really sorry but I haven't had one. Cause, you know, I'm not a whore. (Hey, dating 100 guys does not equal sleeping with 100 guys!!!)
He says that it's fine I haven't had any tests but instead, he asks me to share my entire sexual history with him. On the first date. I am sooooo not drunk enough for this.
He offers to go first and I sit there in stunned silence. I can't bring myself to eat or drink anything else as I wonder if I am truly in a daze or is this man really giving me the most intimate details of his private encounters over the past 10 years?!?! There are dates he's forgotten, names he can't remember, amounts of time that have slipped away somehow. All he can recall for some of the trysts are positions, parties, or in some cases, accessories. Of course, there was the occasional relationship which lasted a while and he would only throw in details if other partners were involved. Threesomes etc.
Once again, I am left feeling so naive that you might as well call me Ellie Mae. Toys? Threesomes? In the bathroom / closet / pile of coats? I admit to enjoying sex as much as the next girl but does anyone else think that this is too much information to absorb all at once?!?! I mean, my version of sex is G rated compared to the stories he regales me with for over half an hour. I know that you're wondering why I let him go on for so long but it was like watching a car crash in slow motion. You know that it's going to end disastrously but you just can't tear your eyes away. I was speechless for most of it (and I am NEVER speechless) to the point that when he finished, I had to down the rest of my drink just to get my mouth used to moving again. Just as he then turned the question back on me, his phone rang. He apologized and said he had to answer. I excused myself and walked past the velvet curtain to the ladies room.
I never went back.
There are some tests in a relationship that are pass / fail. There are others that involve cotton swabs.
Fail. Major Fail.