95 \ Batty For Lashes.

August 2016

We met via OKCupid. She appeared to be attractive, interesting, and funny. We chatted online for a bit, and then I asked her to meet. She wasn’t sure. She had to fit it into her schedule. Finally, she did sort it out, and we met.

It was a Sunday night, and we met at a dive bar. She was late, but that was okay. She looked different from her photos, still cute, but there was something else. Wound pretty tight. She ordered a tequila, and we began to chat. Not super easy, but we muddled through.

At some point, she talked about her OCD, how she manages and balances her obsessions and compulsions, with working and being a mother. She was smart, and quirky, and not certain that the OCD had anything to do with either (I’m by no means an expert).

It was an interesting date. We texted a few more times, but never met up again.

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27 \ Kundalini Express.

April 2014

We matched on Tinder and soon got to chatting. We arranged to meet for a happy hour drink. She was tall, attractive, well-dressed. We sat and ordered a drink and the chat came easy. She was young, fun, and had a great smile. She was a successful yogi, slender and powerful. Sexy. We soon ordered another drink, and something to eat. Time evaporated – before we knew it we had to go – I had completely blown off another engagement to spend time with her. We walked to her car. We kissed. We would see each other soon.

We arranged to have dinner and I would pick her up from her place. It was a warm spring night, and she walked out to the car, still flush and glowing from her recent shower. She slipped into my car and we kissed. After a few moments, we left for dinner. We chatted easily, flirting, touching. The night was getting warmer, and it was only just getting started.

I took her back to her place, and she invited me in. She showed me around, and then we sat on her couch, chatting, electricity starting to build up between and around us. The windows were open and the warm breeze circulated around the old home, wisps of curtains billowing and beckoning. We made out. And we made out some more as we danced in her living room. Soon, too soon, it was time to go.

She asked me if I wanted to sleep over. But sleep only. As soon as she said it I’m pretty sure we both knew what would happen. I said yes.

Her bed was in the center of the large bedroom. All of the many windows were up and open, the curtains gently swaying, one after the other, as if in sequence. We were nearly naked, making out in her bed, the room aglow from the street lamps outside. It continued to heat up, clothes were shed, and not much sleep was had.

I woke up to birdsong and a cool breeze as the windows were still open, and it was morning. We both had our days to get to. We said our goodbyes, no regrets on the rollicking good time, and that was that. We didn’t end up seeing each other again. Whatever attraction we had for each other was fleeting. We exchanged a few texts, life and busy schedules resumed, and a final ‘all the best’ message, and we went on.

About 3 years later, I saw her at the farmer’s market, with what appeared to be her newly born (she already had two kids). I didn’t know this was in the cards for her. It certainly wasn’t for me. I didn’t say hello – no reason to – and I was happy for her – she looked happy, and as I remembered.

 

 

 

107 \ Waterloo.

June 2017.

We matched on Bumble and quickly started chatting. She was funny and the exchanges were quick and clever. My sapio side was sated, and she appeared to be attractive. We soon arranged to meet.

We met up. She was a good bit different from the pictures, and significantly different from what I had built up in my head. Most of what had seemed promising had vanished. Even though we quickly met in person I had built up some expectation. My mistake. Not the first time. And won’t be the last.

 

26 \ Living Doll.

April 2014

We met via Tinder. A few exchanges, and we soon met for lunch. Tall, blonde, attractive – but somehow off. She was doll-like – hair up, dressed up, made up, and lots of it. The lunch convo was strained and laborious. She was in ‘real estate and interior design’ but hard to pin down what she did within either one of those. A bit of a bust, I got the check and goodbye’s were said.

25 \ Road Warrior

April 2014

We met for a beer one afternoon. She was a sales person, on the road.  A lot. Fit. Tan. Maybe a bit leathery. Texan. Very nice. I imagine this was a swipe right to meet cool people because there was little physical attraction, and little to actually connect on.

After one drink it was goodbye. Very nice, not much in common.

120 \ Netflix, and Chill.

April 2018

Single again, and, for a moment, back on Tinder. As Chef Ramsey says, “Fuck me”.

She appeared attractive, we matched, and the few lines of bio were entertaining. We messaged a bit in the app, and flags appeared as some of the messages were more like outbursts. Unfiltered. Undeterred, we soon met. “I hate driving, can you pick me up?” Sure, I responded. Bollocks. Here we go.

I arrived at her apartment and she was navigating through the shambles. It was dominated by a king size bed, and boxes and clothes strewn everywhere. A broken couch was waiting to be rescued from the premises, and so was I. But, what was sure to be memorable, I could not break my gaze from the oncoming headlights of a trainwreck of a date. After she slugged the Lonestar she had in a death grip, we took off to get a drink and a bite to eat.

On the quick drive over, and once we arrived, she proceeded to disclose her life story. She was once a professional, made a lot of money, and came from money. She left that job behind, and pursued the life of a creative. She didn’t work for a long while, and, in her words, was not a good person. Drinking and drugs took their toll. She had it all, and basically had lost it all, burning all the bridges along the way. She had stopped drinking, she professed. As much.

She was entertaining, in a tragic fuck-I’m-glad-this-isn’t-me sort of way, and I could imagine the life she once had. Now, she was at the bottom, and climbing her way back up. Lucky me.

She went to the loo, and when she returned, mentioned that she had stopped at the bar and ordered herself another drink. (on my tab) At this point I was along for the ride. Where would this go – how bad of a reminder as to how ridiculous dating can be could this be?

She wanted to see my place. Okay. Why not. We went by mine. We weren’t there long. She wanted to get another drink at the bar down the street. I said I couldn’t – needed to get up early and take care of business. Somewhat true. It was time to take her home. On the way, she asked if we could stop by the store so she could pick up a bottle of wine. Sure. Why not. She grabbed said bottle, and went to her place. She invited me for a glass. Shit, why not, I’ve gone this far.

We went in, and since the couch was out of commission, we sat on her bed/pile of clothes. I noticed red wine was splattered on the wall where a headboard would be. Tunes were played via the computer. Chit chat. She said all she really wanted was to watch Netflix and have someone run their fingers through her hair. She started to cry. This struck me as so incredibly sad. Obviously! I empathized with her situation, even if it appeared to be self inflicted. To have had it all, even if completely shallow, and then to have lost it all. To be alone. This date – holy shit.

She asked me to run my fingers through her hair. I did. The alternative was to say no, and to leave. That seemed incredibly cruel. My wine was empty, and I did leave. She asked me to stay. No. Time to go.

She messaged me a few times in the next day or so. I didn’t respond, and unmatched. Way too much crazy going on there, and I did my due diligence to explore all avenues, some I never even imagined, on this first date.

Fuck me.

24 \ Don’t Lose That Number.

April 2014

We met via OKCupid, and after some quick chat, met up at an Antique mall. She was tall, slender, fit, attractive. New to Austin, she had lived here previously. As we wandered through the aisles, stacks of the past perched for perusal and purchase, the chit chat flowed quite comfortably. We arranged to meet again soon.

And we did. This time for some tex mex, and a margarita. Except she didn’t drink. Anymore. I think this was a first for me, and I politely, awkwardly, ordered a glass of water. The chit chat sputtered and ultimately ground to a halt. Not because alcohol wasn’t involved, but because it was an issue. Underneath the abstinence were likely layers of stories and rationale that got her to this place. Didn’t seem the right time to dig into that, especially when I knew that I enjoy a drink, and would like to be able to enjoy a drink with someone without it being a thing.

There were a few other things that came up – an estranged relationship with her daughter, a few ex-husbands, and respecting her choices, of course, we ate chips and queso awkwardly, and then soon said our goodbyes.