Dateline: "I fold up the paper, throw it at him, and run away to some nearby bushes…"
We're collecting stories about your most entertaining dates. Send your time-stamped dating stories to firstname.lastname@example.org; don't forget to include gender and age for you and your date.
6:58 p.m. – I put on perfume in front of my mirror. I've never met this guy in person, but I figure he's worth being eaten alive by mosquitoes. Mosquitoes love my perfume. Maybe he will, too.
7:00 – I wait out on the sidewalk for him. I'm not sure which is more pathetic: the fact that that this is my first date, or that I'm exactly on time.
7:04 – He calls to tell me he's outside of my building, which is strange, because I'm outside of my building, and I don't see him anywhere.
7:07 – Still on the phone with him, I walk down the block to where I think his car is parked. I warned him my place was a bitch to reach because of the one-way streets, and he told me not to worry about it. In retrospect, we both should've worried about it.
7:08 – We meet in the middle of a crosswalk.
7:09 – We walk to his car. It's a white Nissan Sentra he's had since he was sixteen. I mention that I haven't driven a car in two years. Thank goodness he drives.
7:15 – During the car ride, I mention my plan to mash-up the vocals on Spank Rock's "Put That Pussy on Me" with Wilson Pickett's "Shotgun." He tells me I'm cooler than he is.
7:22 – We sit outside at an Italian cafe. He orders Pellegrino for the table. I'm not sure if I should be impressed.
7:35 – The waiter brings out a plate of bruschetta. My date offers me some, and I politely refuse. He hangs his head when he remembers me telling him that I hate tomatoes.
8:15 – He devours his calamari while I play with my chicken parmigiana. It's too hot and humid to eat comfortably. Well, for me, at least. He's dripping sweat and chowing down.
8:17 – I strategically take off my glasses so he can get a good look.
8:30 – When I ask for a to-go box, he tells me I won't eat my leftovers. He's wrong. I'm taken aback by his attempt to predict my behavior. It's ballsy and annoying, and I'm reluctantly attracted.
8:41 – He buys two tickets to Life During Wartime. He's already seen it, but it's the last day the film is in theaters.
9:35 – A woman in the back keeps yelling "Mmmhmm!" at every sexual innuendo. He and I look at each other and giggle.
10:30 – He insists it's too early to take me home. I direct him to my favorite park, then we sit on a bench and talk.
2:30 a.m. – I explain to him that I'm demisexual: it takes a strong emotional connection for me to be attracted to people.
2:33 – He asks me if I'm attracted to him.
2:38 – I pull a notebook and pen out of my purse. I write, "Yes, I'm attracted to you, you fucking asshole." Then I fold up the paper, throw it at him, and run away to some nearby bushes, an entirely rational course of action, and one that I decide to stick with.
2:39 – In my notebook, I write, "Somehow, I want this person in my world."
2:41 – Mosquitoes bite my ankles.
2:47 – I decide to return to my date, but he's already come to find me. We sit back on the bench, and he puts his arm around me. We continue to talk about nothing in particular.
5:23 – He drives me home and tells me how pretty I am. A garbage truck passes us at exactly this moment.
5:30 – I get my leftovers out of his car. There's no way I'd let him win. Then I remember that a date isn't a competition, and that I would've eaten them regardless of his earlier comment. But still, I win.
5:35 – He tells me he'd like to see me again soon. He hugs me goodbye, even though I tell him I hate hugging. Eventually, I relax into his arms.