On Wednesdays, Amanda Chatel will be sharing stories about her strange, fascinating and sometimes wonderful dating life. If it makes you want to date, check out TheGloss dating page.
It was August and my skin was bright red from the beach. Despite having been burnt to a crisp and scarred several times before, I had yet to learn the importance of sunblock. With sand still in my shoes and in all my crevices in between, I met a friend in Brooklyn for a few drinks before heading back to my apartment to shower. It was a Saturday afternoon and the bar was one that was low-key and didn’t require that I be dressed up or even sand-free.
As my friend and I discussed work-related things like sex and dating, a fella, who was sitting alone, perked up a bit. He was clearly interested in what we were saying and wasn’t afraid to be obvious about it. I asked him if he’d like us to speak up so he could hear better and he took this as an invitation to join us. He introduced himself as Dave, was friendly enough and proceeded to treat us to the next round.
Under normal circumstances I would not accept a date with a fella sporting a Steve Miller Band t-shirt, but considering my beach attire, I was in no place to judge. And since it was still the afternoon and I didn’t have any evening plans, we decided to meet up later that night. He proposed we meet again at the bar and go from there. I hurried home, gussied myself up and jumped back on the J train to Brooklyn.
Unlike myself, Dave had not changed his outfit for the evening. I chalked it up to the fact that he was from Seattle–a fact that he had told me over drinks just a few hours earlier. Kurt Cobain never seemed to get all dolled up unless it was in a dress and eye-liner, so although Dave was a far cry from Kurt, I was willing to forgive this indiscretion. However, my facial expressions must have said differently, so he suggested we go over to his place across the street so he could make a a quick costume change. I agreed.
Similar to not yet having learned the importance of sunblock, I’ve also yet to learn that when you go to a guy’s a apartment the intentions all of sudden become at least mildly sexual. We walked up to the third floor, he showed me into his apartment (which was a sty, so it definitely wasn’t going to evolve past that night) and motioned me to sit on the couch while he switched up his look.
He took off his t-shirt and I watched him walk into his bedroom as he grabbed some clothes. With a pile of too many items in his arms, he went into the bathroom and shut the door behind him.
I looked at the childish posters on the wall and tried to blame his invisible roommates. Clearly the kitchen had not been cleaned since the building was erected in the 1800′s, and I half expected to see a rat or at the very least, a cockroach emerge from the shit that was piled up in there. Instead, the only emerging I witnessed was Dave from the bathroom in his boxers. I turned my attention to him.
Since we hadn’t spent more than an hour together earlier and we were barely into the first 30 minutes of our official date, I was a bit nervous. I realized as I sat there that I didn’t know this guy from Adam, as my father would say, and for all I knew I could be on the verge of being attacked or killed or even worse, cut up into tiny bits and fed to the fish in the East River. Before I could think or react, Dave reached into his boxers and pulled out his penis.
“It’s not bad looking, is it?” he asked.
I had been asked about penis size by guys I had dated in the past. My college boyfriend even insisted we measure it one night to see just how much it was above average, so I’ve always been aware that “size matters” at least in the eyes of men, but this question was a new one.
“I’m sorry?” I asked, because I was pretty sure I either had ocean water in my ear or I was drunk.
“I mean, it’s all right, isn’t it?” was his follow up question.
I really wanted to come up with something witty. You always want to be prepared with a snappy comeback when confronted with something so out of left field, but the shock was too strong that I just couldn’t come up with anything. Well, anything except: “It’s OK for not having foreskin.”
How else was I supposed to respond? I wanted to make him feel just as uncomfortable as I did and while I knew a comment about size would be a kicker, I just couldn’t bring myself to insult him; commenting on his lack of foreskin seemed like fair yet neutral ground.
With it still in his hand, he looked down at it and shrugged. I asked him to put it away and that’s where the conversation ended.
I won’t get into the fact that I didn’t put an end to the date right there, because although it was a weird moment, he seemed relatively harmless. I also won’t get into how I brought him home that night and experienced Jackrabbit sex for the first time ever, how I wouldn’t let him sleep in my bed and made him leave at 6am–none of that is pertinent. What is relevant is that some guy once showed me his junk in less than 30 minutes into our date and I’ve yet to learn the importance of sunblock.
Whether you like apples or bananas, you can find your own flasher at TheGloss dating page.