Date #1 – Roger Bigcock
I’m a few minutes early and also several years late, if I’m being honest. And I’m nervous. So I focus on deliberate movements, like spreading the edges of my dress out across the velvet cushion till it’s smooth and symmetrical, like butterfly wings. And I trace the shape of my thighs through the silky material of my dress, because now that I’ve lost fifteen pounds using the highly underrated but inadvisable divorce diet, quadriceps have mysteriously emerged. And I breathe, in and out, long and measured and sequentially, until my pulse abandons its frightened fluttering and falls into rhythm with the slow beat of the jazz music piped from overhead.
I’m centering myself. Being present. My Group therapists would be pleased.
I check my hair in my compact mirror to make sure that my new extensions, dark red to match my actual shade, spill proportionately over my shoulders and down my back. I worry that they look ridiculous, that I do, trying to be young, attractive. But Tasha and Gretchen insisted that my smart bob was more “business” and not enough “bizness,” and therefore counter to my mission.
To be fair, I’m unsure of my mission, exactly. I don’t need a man to validate me or make me whole or tell me my worth. But, and this is at odds with that firmly held belief, I am also seriously lonely.
I check my phone and see that he’s now late, and that probably means something. But I have no idea what. Bad traffic? An attempt to build romantic suspense? Disinterest?
Hell if I know. Dating at thirty-eight is very different from dating at twenty. First of all, at twenty I didn’t have stretch marks and crow’s feet, and a vagina that had spit out an eight-pound baby. But that’s not the only difference.
Guys in college are still boys, barely past the stage of whoopee cushions and fart jokes. Men in their thirties and forties are matured, established. They know who they are. Plus, college guys are primarily looking for sex, like rutting dogs on the prowl, instinctual and led by their lesser appendages. In contrast, these grown men I’m interested in via their on- line dating profiles are looking for meaningful encounters. Relationships.
So maybe his delay is fashionable rather than a portent. I’m going with that. Because in all honesty, I’m as excited as I’m capable of being these days as I await my first internet dating experience, sitting at this posh Nashville table for two, basking in the glow of charmingly mismatched punched metal light fixtures.
I’ve ordered a glass of wine to calm my nerves, and have just taken my first sip when I see him walk in.
Roger.
He’s attractive in an investment banker sort of way, dressed in a starched button-down under a stylish canvas jacket and pressed jeans, trendy, patterned socks and dockside shoes. A bit homogenous, but he’s made an effort to be deliberately adult casual, and I approve.
His face lights up when he sees me, and I stand.
“Claire?” he says, and I nod. He gives me a quick, chaste hug and then we take our seats.
“You look beautiful,” he says once we’re facing each other across the table, and I actually blush. It’s been a long time since a man has said that to me.
“Thank you,” I say, and direct a smile toward my lap. Then I remember what I promised Tasha and Gretchen. He might think it weird, and I’m sure it’s entirely unnecessary, but a promise is a promise.
“I need to ask you for something, and I hope you don’t think it’s too strange. But a single woman can’t be too careful.”
He pauses from looking at the menu and raises one eyebrow. “Okay...” “I need to see your driver’s license,” I tell him.
“Pardon me?”
“To take a picture of it. And verify your information. It’s standard protocol,” I joke, and he almost smiles, but not quite.
He ponders this request, but after a moment he reaches into his pocket and retrieves his wallet, taking out his license handing it to me.
I grin at him again, widely, as though teeth and dimples will distract him from a situation that has become a bit strained. Still, I study his license, pleased to see that his information checks out, though his hair is a little grayer, his eyes a little less vibrant blue now in his present form. Then I take a picture of it and text it to Tasha and Gretchen, along with the name of the restaurant.
By the time I hand the license back to Roger, my phone is buzzing with responses. I glance at them quickly.
‘He’s cute, sweetie! Have fun and be careful! Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!’ says Gretchen, followed by: ‘Don’t over-analyze it! You tend to do that.'
‘What she said,’ says Tasha. Then a second, more “Tasha-esque” message pops up. ‘Also, he’s looks like a sexy accountant. Just your type! Hope you get laid!’
I drop my phone into my purse, suppressing a real smile.
“Okay, now that we’ve dispensed with the formalities, shall we start the date?” I say, trying to sound cavalier, but coming off like the business executive that I normally am, convening a board meeting. I cringe inwardly, feeling awkward and wrong, but he smiles at me.
And then we start to talk. It goes well, for a while. I talk about my job, as if I’m currently working at it, gathering all the energy I can muster to sound enthusiastic and non-depressive. He talks about his. It’s a little less professional than he made it sound on his profile – I’d thought he too was a business executive, and it turns out he’s an “account executive” at a business.
After appetizers and two glasses of wine each, our conversation is growing more relaxed, less reserved. He looks at me over his glass, his eyes heavy-lidded, his lips curving upward. “So tell me something about you that not everyone knows.”
Hmm. That’s an unexpected question. I think about what I could reveal, and the prominent thoughts that come to mind are unspeakable, at least at this stage in a fledgling relationship: I recently got out of a fourteen-year marriage; I suffer from major depressive disorder; I’m unable to work right now because of both of those things.
I settle on telling him something harmless. “I like to sing. ActualIy, back in the day, I was kind of obsessed about it. I had my own stage name at the karaoke place, and I secretly dreamt that someday, I’d get discovered while belting out a Pink song,” I say.
He doesn’t comment on my use of the past tense. And I hope he doesn’t probe much further, doesn’t discover the truth. That was past me. Now I am an illusion. A dry, crackling husk.
He raises an eyebrow at me, and there’s a spark in his eye. “That’s adorable. I bet you’re a wonderful singer.”
I feel the blush again, and I take a sip and a bite to disguise it. “How about you? What’s something that not everyone knows about you?” I ask, after I’ve swallowed and wiped my mouth with the cloth napkin. I lean back as far as I can in my seat, uncomfortable with the unexpected intimacy I feel at his words. And that makes me sad, both that a meaningless, throwaway compliment would approximate intimacy to me, and that it would trigger in me a withdrawal response.
“Well, not many people know this, it’s true,” he says, and looks away. “And those that do, well let’s just say I don’t think they’ve forgotten it.”
He ventures a nervous glance toward me, I give him an encouraging, flirtatious look – or so I think. I’m very out of practice.
He tilts his head. “Are you in pain?”
“No,” I say, and resume a neutral expression, but my cheeks are burning. I’m so bad at this.
He looks down, then back up at me through his lashes. “You promise not to judge me...”
“Oh, of course I won’t!” I insist.
“Well,” he says, hesitating, leaning towards me slightly. “I am very well endowed.”
I spit out my wine. “I’m... I’m sorry?”
Now that he’s said it, he puffs up, squaring his shoulders. “I have a very large penis. Abnormally large.” He’s looking at me expectantly. What he’s expecting from me, I’m not quite sure... applause?
“I... I don’t know what to say,” I sputter, blinking at him.
He seems to take my fumbling words as an indication of my disbelief. “I can prove it,” he says, pulling out his phone. “I’ve got pictures. Do you prefer flaccid or erect?” He begins to scroll through photo after photo, carefully considering the merits of each one.
At this, I cough on my spit, caught between eruptive laughter and incredulous anaphylaxis-like choking.
I take a sip of water and clear my throat. “Are you seriously going to show me a dick pic?” I say. I always thought such juvenile mating rituals were reserved for millennials with Instagram followers and cultivated fish- lip poses.
He sits back, retrieving his phone with him. His face registers indignation. “Please!” he says. And for a moment, I’m embarrassed that I’ve somehow misinterpreted this entire exchange. “I see a first date akin to a job interview, of sorts,” he explains. “I’m simply demonstrating one of my most prominent qualifications, if you’ll pardon the pun, so that you may make an informed decision about next steps.”
He presents this reasoning so very sensibly, it nearly makes sense. I fight the absurd urge to say, “Pish posh, quite right,” in a British accent to match his disarming civility.
Then he’s handing me the phone across the table, and unwittingly, I see a flash of fleshy, tubular penis – evidently he prefers the erect representation. I recoil, but I’m also intrigued. I’ve only ever seen two adult male penises in my life. I can’t help but be a bit curious. Against my better judgment, I take the phone.
The image, including the penis in question, is quite the presentation. It is propped on furniture of some sort, maybe an ottoman, manscaped and exhibited for consideration like the offering that it apparently is.
I’m oddly fascinated at the artful staging if nothing else. “Why are these objects next to it?” I ask.
“The dollar bill is for scale,” he explains, eager now that I’m showing interest. “A ruler would be too, I don’t know, on the nose, don’t you think?” I glance at him and he winks, eyes sparkling. “The watch is for authentication.” He pulls back his sleeve to flash the distinctive and indeed identical watch.
Clever, I think.
But no, no. This is weird and inappropriate. I’m pretty sure this is not normal first date fodder. Or at least, not for the type of man I want to date, the type of man I assumed he would be.
His next sentence cements my resolve. “I’m also quite skilled in the bedroom arts, from a technique perspective. Would you like to check my references?”
References?
I quickly return the phone and turn away to fiddle with my purse.
“I think I hear my phone buzzing,” I say. “It could be an emergency.” He tilts his head and studies me. “You know, most women appreciate a large penis,” he says. “During sex,” he adds, to make it clear.
“Yes, I’m sure,” I say, as I pull out my phone.
He tries to hand me his phone again. “That’s a real dollar bill.”
I ignore him. “I was right!” I exclaim, scanning my own blank phone display. “There’s been an emergency. My best friend has a... a hernia. It’s pushing against her uterus as we speak. She’s afraid it might fall out – her uterus, that is. That can happen, you know.”
He blinks at me.
I put my napkin on the table and stand to go. “I’m so sorry, but this hernia-uterus emergency can’t be ignored.”
I don’t wait for him to respond. Instead, I pat him on the shoulder, grabbing my jacket and purse in one sweeping gesture, and hurry towards the exit.
As I slip out of the restaurant and walk quickly to my car, the Depression that is always lingering in the background is whispering to me that all men suck, and I’ll never find a good one because they don’t exist. But I’m a logical person, by profession and nature, and I realize something that could be important – this was not a representative sample! He was but one ridiculously inappropriate, genitally-blessed man.
Armed with that knowledge, notwithstanding the worrisome correlation of douchebag to impressive man-parts, I take heart that good men might still be out there as I head back to my empty house.
