So, while it’s true that, “Here, give me a hug,” is better than reaching out his hand to say goodnight, when Butthead Bob leaned forward, arms open wide, I internally cringed: Another bad exit. Pleasant conversation. Check. Flirtatious fun. Check. Nothing overly offensive, obnoxious, nor overtly sexual. Check. Bad exit. I will never see or hear from Butthead Bob again.
And, I hate to say it, but that’s what happens when you’re online dating profile is just too damn good. These fuckers build you up, get excited, erect small temples in your honor, meet you, chat a bit, size you up, and tear you down as if it’s Tiananmen Square. The entire process takes under four hours.
In the case of Butthead Bob, he was giddy with anticipation. As we talked on the phone about where we wanted to go he looked up my small business website. He was oooohing and aaaahing all over the place and I got just a wee bit excited myself: Maybe he will be a ton of fun. Maybe he will turn into something real. Maybe he will love me for who I am.
I was early for our date, so I hunkered down at the bar with a glass of white wine and my phone. Naughty Cowboy and I haven’t had a good go at it in a while, so we got down to business texting back and forth about all of the trouble we were going to get into with my brand new Fuckwater lube. Some people could argue that shamelessly talking to another guy about ass fucking right before a date may not be the best thing to do, but I don’t see a problem with it. It wasn’t like I was double booking for the evening—I was just getting my groove on before meeting my new guy.
When Butthead Bob ambled into the bar he mumbled something about me being pretty, leaned in for a quick hello peck on the cheek, sat down on the barstool I had reserved for him, and promptly crossed his arms. Hmmm? As the conversation wore on, the body language got progressively worse. He squirmed in his seat. Crossing and uncrossing his legs, the poor thing just couldn’t get comfortable in my presence.
Wearing adorable long, brown boots, a denim mini-skirt, copper sequin top, and knitted matching brown shrug that accentuated my breasts, I was feeling pretty dynamite. Who wouldn’t want to hang out with a killer blonde with a knock-out smile and charisma like no one’s business? Knowing from past experience that I can be a bit too dazzling, I toned it down a notch, listened attentively, nodded according to cue, and worked on paying attention without yawning.
Butthead Bob was only moderately fuckable. His shirt was clean but not stylish, his face was pleasant if a bit round, and he was nowhere near the 6’ 2” he claimed to be. I didn’t mind too terribly much about any of that, but I did feel less comfortable when he ordered water. Yep. The asshole didn’t even get a Coke.
It’s one thing if you don’t want to go out and do six rounds of shots on a school night. I get that, but unless you specifically don’t drink EVER, you should order at least one cocktail when on a date in a bar with a new girl. It sets the tone for the evening. It makes her more comfortable. It helps her feel less like a lush.
So, I’m drinking (I have switched to infused vodka) and Butthead Bob is sipping his water telling me all about his four kids (gulp), how his bed is in the living room of his apartment so he can watch TV in bed (double gulp), and that he no longer eats cheese (okay, that is fucking weird). I’ve made up my mind that he’s not the guy I want to date OR go home with OR see again for that matter—BUT I don’t want him to go rejecting my ass either, so I smile and nod and smile and nod.
And, by the time he leans in for his end-of-the-night hug I realize that he doesn’t want to see me again either. Ugh! I don’t know if this guy thinks that Gisele Bundchen is planning on divorcing Tom Brady so she can go out with him or what, but he definitely doesn’t want to add me to his dance card.
As I rack my brain over what could have possibly went wrong, I send Naughty Cowboy another text, pop a sleeping pill, snuggle up to my dog for a long, cold night and wish I knew.