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.
Every time I come to Colorado I am set up on a date (or two or three.) My friends and family out here are stuck on the idea that should I fall in love with someone out this way, I’ll pack up, leave my beloved NYC and move to Colorado. Colorado versus New York City? I’ll always take the latter, thank you very much, no matter how love/hate and dysfunctional my relationship is with it. I’ll never love a man the way I love that city, so even the greatest of fellas will lose that competition.
There are several problems with setting me up on a date with someone out here. For starters, if we were to line up every guy I’ve dated then threw in these Colorado boys, they would stick out like a sore thumb. I’m not saying that this is bad; I’m saying that I have a very specific taste in men, and guys in flip-flops and cargo shorts who listen to something called Guster aren’t exactly going to mesh with me. Did I mention I was the only one not in flip-flops at the Boulder farmers market this past weekend? I was traipsing around in wedge sandals, because I’m going through a fancy phase.
However, despite my reservations, I always agree to go if only to give myself fodder for something somewhere down the line. I also find people put in such a situation to be really fascinating. It’s hard to put your best face forward, and watching someone try to do so is a lot of fun.
So there I am on Pearl Street this past weekend having dinner with M, who is actually moving to New York City in September. He’s also a writer. I think we’ve already covered all the reasons why I’ll never date a writer, and if we gather up almost everyone know, they’d probably agree on the sentiments I expressed in that post. But M is a journalist, unlike myself, the essayist and broadcaster of everything.
And it’s going well! I didn’t foresee myself seeing him again while I’m in Colorado, but when he moved to the city, I thought I’d meet him for a drink or something.
But then we get to the whole writing thing. I told him I don’t know how to be a journalist, which is true, and he said it was far easier than being creative. He then commented that I’m a journalist in some ways.
“You read some of my stuff?” I asked.
“Yes, Katie sent me a few links, so I Googled more,” he said. I didn’t ask his thoughts, because that seemed weird and he’s not exactly my demographic. Instead I just smiled. “You’re pretty freaky, huh?”
“What?” I was caught very much off guard by this question of his. I racked my brain to figure out exactly what was “freaky” about me. Did he mean it sexually? Personality wise? The fact that I’m pretty damn wonky and have zero qualms about sharing that online with strangers on a daily basis? I waited for an explanation with, what I’m assuming was a confused facial expression to complement my confused brain.
“Well cock rings and one-night stands with strangers — all that.”
“I’ll have you know that I have never written about any of my one-night stands!” I exclaimed as if I was right, he was wrong, when we all know who was the wrong one. “And the cock ring piece was an honest inquiry into how people felt about them and…”
He cut me off. “Are you into water sports, too?”
I found this to be a strange turn in the conversation. “I swim, but I’ve always wanted to try water skiing.”
“I mean water sports — in the bedroom.”
“Oh. Like pee?” I asked.
“Yes,” he laughed, “like pee.”
“No, thank you.”
“Why not? I thought you were freaky.”
“I’m not freaky. A cock ring isn’t freaky and peeing is a bit freaky, so no no no!” Again my voice got a bit on the loud side.
“Well, I just assumed based on –”
“Seriously? I totally would have covered that already if that were my thing. Don’t assume.”
I didn’t ask him if that was his thing, or if he was just inquiring if it was mine, you know, because I’m so “freaky.” After a brief silence he started to talk about the nice weather we’ve been having, I yawned, looked at the time and decided I was really exhausted although it was only 10pm. I was home by 1030pm.
I’m thinking maybe I should change my last name if I’m giving off some sort of “freaky” vibe, or maybe I should just got with it, piss on a guy, write about it and embrace it. If only pee were my thing and I didn’t get stage fright when peeing in front of people, because I need a schtick and maybe that could be it.