I just left one of the worst dates I’ve had in a while. I had a feeling it wasn’t going to go well before I even left home, but I thought I was just not giving the guy a chance.
In case you haven’t been following along, I was seeing a guy (the Artist), one whom I liked quite a bit, but about whom I had my own worries, and who likes to remind me he doesn’t find me attractive “in that way” (whatever that means). He and I have entered into a friends situation. Just friends. The parallels with the boy are also somewhat troublesome, but I’ve learned from that debacle and know that just friends means just friends…
We’ve also entered into a completely 100% honesty situation, which I find very refreshing!
But, we are NOT dating, much to the chagrin of my mother, who I know is ready for me to settle down and start popping out grandbabies.
Enter the Sudanese architect who told me I was beautiful when he saw me at the museum. He approached me twice, which shows quite a bit of chutzpah, given that I pretty much gave him the brush off the first time. Since twice in a row I’ve had a man tell me that he liked my brain but that I wasn’t quite pretty enough to date, being told I was beautiful was very nice to hear, and got the guy the necessary pass to get to the first date.
I say pass because there was no way for him to pass the conversation test in order to warrant a first date. I need a guy to keep my attention for at least an hour before he gets a chance for anything more, and as I was meeting the Artist at the museum, there was no opportunity for him to talk to me for an hour.
Also, English is not his first language, so the communication is a little stressed.
But proclaiming I am very beautiful gets him the chance to prove he can keep my attention.
One week and about 20 (grammatically incorrect) texts later, and we were meeting at a cheap Mexican food restaurant… for coffee. It didn’t make sense to me either. But I got there early anyway to make sure everything was the way it needed to be: makeup applied, skirt straight, hair not crazy, and various other girly adjustments. I called my brother though because I was having a bad feeling about this date. I’d told several of my girl friends that I wasn’t feeling so great about it, and even called the Artist to ask him to meet me afterwards.
But I was feeling guilty because I’d had no real reason to feel uneasy. I thought perhaps I was being some sort of nationalist snob, as in since he was Sudanese, and English wasn’t his first language, maybe I wasn’t willing to give him a shot. But that wasn’t really the case. If anything, I think I didn’t listen to my instincts because I didn’t want to be that person.
He texted to tell me he was about 5 minutes away. I told him I was there already, but sitting in the car talking to my brother, so “call or text when you get here.”
Twenty five minutes later he called to ask if I was in the restaurant. I told him I was out in my car, like I’d told him earlier. This was met with “What?”
Not the incredulous “what?” like he couldn’t believe that I’d sat in my car for half an hour or more, but the “what?” of incomprehension. And so my concerns about the language barrier were confirmed…
Once in the restaurant, instead of ordering food or drink (it was a very cheap Mexican food restaurant where you order at the front like a fast food joint), he ushered me to a seat in the corner, so we could talk. He attempted to hold the chair out like a gentleman, but there wasn’t room to do that. But he gets points for trying.
After 10 minutes of strained communication, I asked him if he was waiting for a waiter, because I didn’t think this was that kind of place. He said he didn’t really know anything about the food here, but asked if I wanted we could get a soft drink…
A soft drink? Why did we meet a restaurant instead of the nice coffee places that I had suggested if we weren’t going to eat dinner? I tried to find a polite way to ask just that question, but it was met with weird eyebrow twitches. More communication problems. *Sigh*
We finally got drinks. I was able to talk him into trying a margarita. He liked it, but I couldn’t get him to understand that he’d spent way too much getting the small one, when an extra fifty cents or so would have gotten him a worthwhile sized drink.
An hour later, we were still sitting there. No food, the conversation was stuck in a loop of him asking me questions either about education or about what I wanted in a house and family. He seemed to be interviewing me for the position of wife:
- “What kind of home do you want to raise your children in?”
- “What sort of things do you like to cook?”
- “How many children do you want to have?”
Seriously, dude? This is a first date. I have not thought about my dream home because I haven’t found the man with whom I want to share my future, and any home would have to be the right fit for both of us. I like to cook lots of things, but this is not the way to get you invited to a dinner at my place. And I have names picked out for three children, but that doesn’t mean I want three children, just that I like three sets of names…
When I asked what was the plan now, since we’d been there for an hour and a half and my tummy was about to start grumbling about the lack of sustenance, he suggested a movie, but it didn’t matter which one because he wouldn’t be looking at the movie. Instead he’d be staring at me because I was so beautiful. And he didn’t know where to go for the movie because it would the first movie he’d seen since he’d moved to Houston. He “wanted all [his] firsts to be with [me]…”
Ok… let’s change the topic. “Tell me about your native language.” I thought that was a safe topic. He gave me a brief lecture on Swahili that sounded like it was verbatim from the Wikipedia article I had already read on the language, since he told me in text that was his native tongue, and when I asked him to say something in that language, what did he choose?
“I love you.”
Gentlemen, a word of advice, do NOT drop the L-word on a first date. Ever. I don’t care what language you are saying it in. Just don’t do it!
About then I decided it was time to call it an evening. I tried to make a quick exit without being rude… which is remarkably hard to do after a man has said “I love you.”
I went for the handshake to say good evening, he pulled me in for a kiss. I tried to counter with a hug, he would not relent. I offered my cheek, he swerved to go for the lips, and as I was not trying to kiss him, he wrapped his mouth around my lips as if they were a lollipop before forcing his tongue between them. Even after I finally gave in and tried to french kiss him, it was not a good kiss.
There are few things that are as bad a turn off as a bad kiss.
In that regard, the Artist has spoiled me. Before we went to this just friends place we’ve entered into, kissing him was probably one of the highlights of my time with him. Second only to the conversation. He is an amazing kisser.
But the Sudanese architect… Well, he needs lessons or something. Not only can he not take a hint, but he kisses poorly. It wasn’t the hungry kiss of true desire. It was the desperate kiss of someone who just doesn’t know any better. No technique, just random thrusts into my mouth with his tongue.
I’ve never been so thankful to see a beggar in my life. When the little homeless woman trying to get change for a loaf of bread appeared, I was so thankful! It gave me an opportunity to get in my car (for the change), and I just didn’t offer to get back out again. He still leaned down to get another kiss, and tried to grab my breast!
If he’d had a chance before, he just killed it.
As I drove off, I wasn’t out of the parking lot before he sent me a text:
“Take care. I love you.”
Needless to say I won’t be seeing him again.
And next time I get a bad vibe, I’ll listen to it, no matter if turning the person down makes me look like a snob or something.