A Perfect Date, Fading With Every Passing Day

It was him, I knew the number. I didn’t keep it in my phone, because I didn’t want to rely on it. Like the last one. My face lit up as I swiped and put in my four-numbered passcode. And then I read the text: “Can I see your tushy?” 
 

It was my fault really, not only for my amazing ass (kidding, kind of) but because we had sex already. And once you have sex with a guy, especially when you barely even know him, that’s the first thing he will think about. Especially if he claims that he took adderall and that makes him a “champ in the sack”. I always wondered why that was a phrase. It sounds so domineering. Champion suggests that he won. Yet isn’t sex supposed to be mutual? Shouldn’t we both win? And the sack suggests that there is no way out. A sack holds things and doesn’t let it go until it is turned upside down. And I don’t mean any sexual position either. But I still wanted him to come over because I still had faith in our first date. Here’s how it went: 

Setting: Barnes & Noble

Time: 7 PM, I was fifteen minutes late. As always.

My age: 22

His age: 31 

What I wore: A white long sleeve, loose shirt, black tank underneath and my favorite blue jeans. Along with my favorite black knee length boots. 

What he wore: a Cornell ski cap from his ex girlfriend, and the stereotypical “cool teacher” garb.

His profession: English professor and English high school teacher

My profession: Space Planner (now unemployed) 

Things I noticed he did when he’s nervous: plays with the pen he had that was grading papers before I arrived, searching through his papers as he talked, no direct eye contact.

Things I know I do when I’m nervous that I certainly did: smile a lot, blush, look down, bite my lower lip

His passions discussed: animals, the LGBT community, teaching

My passions discussed: the smell of old books, Updike’s Rabbit Run, how people’s voices make a huge impact on whether I like them or not, listening instead of talking 

That was just the first part of our date, where we sat at the Starbucks section and got to know each other. I told him I’ve been to AA and haven’t taken a drink in eight months. I told him about my last night drinking, which I haven’t told most. And he sympathized completely, even getting angry at the situation. He told me that he wrote his thesis in college on how animals are stereotyped in literature. And how much he loves his brother, who was once his sister. I loved listening to him. His voice just held so much passion in every word he let out and I couldn’t help but love how he intelligently strung words together. I could have listened to him all night. I could have stayed in that extremely uncomfortable chair for the rest of the night if it meant listening to him talk. But we both remembered that we were going to exchange books. We both got up excitedly, solely on the fact that there was a used book section that both of us never seen in a Barnes & Noble.

I told him to smell a 60’s edition of The Bell Jar and he smiled at how much I enjoyed it. We both parted and looked at some of our favorite genres. He picked graphic novels, I picked the classics. We came together every once in a while, talking about things I forget now. As we talked, something was pushing us nearer and nearer with every word. Cupid, or God, or The Universe. But it wasn’t something I questioned … for once in my life. I just let it happen, because I felt something. What it was I don’t know if I can fully explain. But right now as I write, my stomach is feeling it. It was this tension, this sexual chemistry that we both knew was there. We would look at each other in an aisle of books that looked back, whispering about us as inspiration for a new romance. We would leave each other and go back to something else to look at other than each other’s eyes. And then we kissed. It was light and sweet. And then we did this back and forth. Leaving each other, then talking about the book he or I picked up, looking at each other, and sometimes letting the butterflies leave us, into each other’s mouths, sometimes leaving the butterflies inside.  

He had two dogs at home, having to leave before he really wanted to. I told him obviously to go, that I knew how big of a responsibility dogs were (never admitting that I’m not a fan of that responsibility). I picked out John Updike’s Rabbit Run, he picked out Oscar Wilde’s The Picture of Dorian Gray. 

The next time he saw each other, he saw me naked. I saw him naked. We had sex, and it was the best sex I ever had. But almost right after, he had to leave, and go to a school play his student asked him to go to. He asked me if I felt used and I nodded my head. He told me he knew that was going to happen but that we would see each other soon. 

He was hard to get in touch with at first, and for the first time with a guy I felt immature. Needing to read something from him, any kind of text, any response, when they weren’t coming. He used me, I thought. And after a week or so I gave in to my immaturity and said, “I guess men never do grow up”. It was a suggestion from my strong willed sister, who looks out for me always, and a few days later he said we do grow up and sometimes lose our phones. Excuse? I’m still unsure. 

I haven’t seen him since those two hours of sex, and that was about a month ago. Yesterday is when I got the tushy text. And he was going to come over, until I realized that my eyes weren’t going to stay open long enough to even kiss him. I told him to come anyway and he said no. He told me that he wanted me to be me, not putting my best face forward for him. He said he was busy for the next two weekends. And there is part of me that doesn’t want to wait. And then I picture that date. And it starts to be all that I think of. 

I don’t know if that perfect date was just a fantasy or if it actually happened. And I don’t want it to fade. But slowly, it is becoming less clear. And I desperately want it to come back. But I have this strange feeling it might never come back. Once again, I will keep you all posted.    



By: Kristin Jane Smith