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.
The first problem with Ben was that he had been a theater major in college. And because of this fact, we never officially dated. He was just someone who hung around where I hung around, and that was pretty much the extent of it. I had tried on a few occasions to go on a date with him, but it always ended up in a disaster. I’d conveniently forget how bad it was, then a year later, I’d try again only to end up regretting my decision once more.
The handful of times I brought him home, it always resulted in this bizarre act where he’d feign an interest in me that was over the top, while I just sat there trying to imagine just how absurd it would be to anyone unlucky enough to peak in the window. He’d also act as if he was never going to see me again, as if these were our final moments on earth and we should embrace them in a strange dramatic fashion. It was as though he firmly believed a camera was on him and he was waiting for a director to yell “cut!” Mostly these few instances involved me pouring myself a drink while he went on and on, more impressed with the sound of his own voice than anything else.
During one of these times when I foolishly thought I’d have yet another annual date with him, he’d been in Brooklyn all day doing coke with his friends. He told me this as he explained that the shots he was doing were to “even out” the cocaine in his system. After a few drinks and ample eye-rolling, I decided to go home and order Mexican food, so I sent Ben on his way.
Shortly after my food was delivered, the doorbell buzzed again. Assuming it was the delivery man having forgotten something or me accidentally having short-changed him, I hit the buzzer without asking who it was. Honestly, I should have known better.
Ben pushed open the door as if making his grand debut on Broadway, and stood in my kitchen with his arms spread. “One last time,” he said, “one last time I’m going to try to get you to run away with me.” I had ordered a burrito and wasn’t about to let this fool stand in the way of my dinner, so I ignored him while I pulled the food from the bag. “Anywhere you want to go,” he continued.”Let’s just be together!”
As I walked to the couch, I asked over my shoulder: “Anywhere?”
“Anywhere,” he said again.
“Fine. I’d like to go to Fiji.”
“Really? You’ll really go with me?” he asked shocked. I turned on the TV and directly went to Law and Order. “Let’s make love,” he announced as if from a podium.
“No, I’m watching Elliot Stabler,” I said as I took a bite of my burrito.
“No,” he said, “I’m going to fuck you like a rockstar!”
“Are you insane?” I asked. He was pacing, grinding his teeth and talking incredibly fast. I stood up to get a glass of water when he pushed me against the wall. “Get off me, you lunatic,” I snapped. But Ben was no longer the theatrical boy I once knew, the one who annoyed me during our once-a-year date; instead he was a coke-fueled maniac who, in his words, was going to “fuck me like a rockstar.”
“I’m being passionate!” he exclaimed as he dropped his jeans to his knees and leaned into me. I stood there not moving, and waited to knee him in the groin if it came to that.
“No no no!” he yelled all of a sudden, as he stepped back and I squirmed out of his hands, through his legs and free of him. There in my kitchen, in his boxers, with his arms down by his side and his hands in tight fists, Ben tried to will an erection all while cursing the drug that was prohibiting it from happening. This was my first lesson in the fact that coke and erections sometimes do not go hand-in-hand.
“Are you serious right now?” I asked, “You’re going to stand there and try to get an erection by scrunching up your face and yelling ‘no?’”
It was an amazing sight; and in that instance, Ben became a poster child for why drugs are bad. I shook my head and made a mental note to never forget that moment: the glow of the television, the smell of the burrito on the table, the soft sound of Broken Social Scene coming from the stereo in my bedroom and Ben standing in his white boxers trying to get a hard-on with his jeans at his ankles as he stomped around in a mini-circle like a child being denied an extra piece of cake.
While Ben was still in his boxers, and for the sake of argument, clearly out of his mind, my roommate Thal let herself into the apartment.
“What the hell is this?” she asked acknowledging the half-naked boy in our kitchen.
“That’s limp dick,” I explained, “that’s why drugs are bad.”
“Ben?” she said slowly, “Ben, I don’t care what sort of crisis you’re having in your personal life, but I’m really going to need you to pull up your pants if I’m to enjoy the quesadilla Mandy ordered me to the fullest extent.” She joined me on the couch and asked me what she had missed so far.
“Not much,” I explained, “Stabler and Benson were just called in to investigate a body in a dumpster.” Before I finished the sentence, Ben was gone and I never saw him again. That was the night I swore off theater majors and anyone with a penchant for cocaine.
Now matter what floats your boat or if you think theater majors are all the rage, then TheGloss dating page is where you should be heading right now.