I’m participating in a new blog hop. It seems to be right up my alley.
Awesome, right? I know.
This week’s post: Lessons Learned From A One Night Stand:
After chatting online a few times over the course of about a week, he drove almost 150 miles to pick me up for our date.
Lesson #1: If he drives through more than one county to see you, it’s most likely because he
(a) is married or in a serious relationship and keeps his hoes in different area codes,
(b) has already slept with most women in his area (and their friends from surrounding areas), or
(c) was the joke of his high school back home and is desperate to create a new image via online social pimp sites
I watched from my bedroom window as he got out of his car (oddly, a different car than the one he was standing next to in his profile picture) to ring the doorbell.
He was wearing a sweater.
I’m not talking about a hooded sweatshirt. Or a zip up sweatshirt. It was not a sweatshirt at all. It was a sweater. A knit sweater. It was thick. It looked scratchy. It was maroon with a picture of something I must have blocked from my memory. I want to say a clown – but I am 100% sure I would have not answered the door if there was actually a clown on this man’s sweater. In any case, there was a man at my door wearing a thick, scratchy, maroon sweater that had a picture on it. I opened the door and laughed in his face we walked to his car (NOT the car he was standing next to in his profile picture), both with our own set of expectations.
We make small talk on the way to the club (keep in mind that I am about the last girl you’d ever see in any club like establishment. I’m more of a “dive bar with a pool table or two” kind of chick) and he informs me that he had to “borrow a friend’s car for the night” and other obvious bullshit I won’t bother to mention.
Lesson #2: When you smell bullshit for no good reason at all, he’s most likely:
(a) married or in a serious relationship.
(b) incredibly insecure
(c) a man
He proceeds to check BOTH his iPhone and his Blackberry several times, as if he was expecting a call or maybe – just maybe – flashing his bling.
Lesson #3: If a man has not just 1, but 2 trendy cell phones – ask to borrow one so you can call a friend to come pick you up immediately.
We get to the club and he is a gentleman with his chivalrous behavior. The old-fashioned girl in me really likes these small gestures. The tiny bit of feminist in me thinks I should be getting his door. He’s the one wearing a fucking sweater, for Christ’s sake.
Anyways, he pays the door man our cover charges (total: $14) with a hundred-dollar bill. I didn’t think much of it.
I led the way to the bar immediately, knowing this incredibly loud and highly social event calls for copious amounts of alcohol. I ordered a Long Island Iced Tea. He got some frilly girl cocktail and 2 shots of Patron Tequila (my favorite). He paid the bartender with a hundred-dollar bill.
We took the shots and I downed my drink pretty quickly. I was thirsty. We shared some small talk about the scene and other shallow things of that nature when he lets me in on something he should have taken to his grave:
He was on the dance team in high school.
I got the impression that he was not confessing an embarrassing fact about himself as much as he was bragging about his taking part in the coolest club on campus. Don’t get me wrong – a man who can dance can be hot (it’s rare, but it has happened). However, paired with the facts I already had (the picture sweater, the multiple phones, and the attempts to flash his cash), it was everything I could do not to call my best friend right then to share this ridiculous turn of events.
Lesson #4: High School Dance Team = 2 guys who choreograph routines in a garage after school that no one will ever see performed outside said garage.
Okay, so two more Long Islands and 2 shots of Patron later, I’m on the dance floor with my dancing stud and his sweater. I should mention that I don’t dance. At least, not well. But whatthefuckever. I was fairly shit faced at that point and for some reason, I agreed to dance with him. I think it was probably just so I didn’t seem like the stick in the mud/ non-dancing chick I really was. Whatever the reason, I was on the dance floor. And I was dancing. And then…
we were making out.
Swear to God. One second, I’m making myself laugh out loud with jokes in my head about his sweater and how it was probably part of the required uniform for dance team competitions, the next second – we’re making out on the dance floor.
Lesson #5: Guys who wear sweaters with pictures on them and took part in the school dance team ? They are great maker-outers.
I must admit, though I’d like to say otherwise because it fits into my tiny slightly larger than medium-sized box of generalizations, this man (who suddenly earned that title) could make out like a stud. And I love me a great maker-outer.
Long story, short
(or is it too late for that?) – I went back to his room with him (he conveniently had a room already since he lived so effin far away and “didn’t want to drink and drive”
Short story, long – I lost 3 1/2 minutes of my life that I’ll never get back.
Lesson # 6: Guys who wear sweaters with pictures on them? Don’t even take them off to have sex.