My Do-Over

One week after my embarrassing first date with J, he texted me again. “Hey, are we still on for tonight? I got us a reservation at a place I think you’ll really love.” For those of you just tuning in, J was my first OkC date. We had great chemistry, until I threw up all over it in the bathroom of his studio apartment. As if that weren’t mortifying enough, the toilet wouldn’t flush. If you’re not cringing right now, then bitch needs to work on his or her empathy skills.

Still, a miracle occurred and J was interested in seeing me again. “Yeah, we’re on. But … are you sure you want to?” I wrote back. He said he did. I must have made a bomb-ass impression during the drinks, dinner, and cab ride portions of our date. We met at Pianos on Ludlow before going for dinner. This was especially exciting for me, because Childish Gambino mentions this bar in one of his . The thought alone of going somewhere that Gambino likes turned me on more than a high-resolution photo of key lime pie taken on a fancy camera. I mean, he might just be the only man in the world without red hair that I would still call perfect.

As I arrived at the bar, I noticed J walking into the wine store across the street. He was looking good in dark jeans and a blazer. Kind of like your gay best friend. I think my friend Rachel actually has that same blazer. It was just a fact I’d have to accept — he dressed way better than me. Still, he didn’t seem to mind that I was dressed like a college kid. I’m not even talking about a Barnard girl, though, because a large majority of us like to sport handbags that cost more than a college credit ($1500 per! F you, Columbia.) and heels that could transform a dwarf into a runway model. I not-so-secretly get my jollies every time one of these girls trips on Columbia’s cobblestone.

When J texted me saying he was by the bar, I left the bathroom stall where I was casually hanging out (something had told me it would be a bad idea to get a drink before he got there). He kissed me as soon as he saw me. I insisted on buying the first couple drinks as an apology for last time, and then I was in the clear. While I slowly drank one beer, J downed three gin and tonics. Freud was fist-pumping me from the grave as I tried to look seductive for the boy who could drink as much as my father. We left the bar and headed to dinner.

Great conversation continued at the restaurant, aside from my consistent forgetting that J is allergic to gluten and dairy. In my defense, we were at an Asian place, so it wasn’t too weird that I kept hinting we should order dumplings. I seriously started talking like a Jewish bubby over it — I want, you should share the dumplings with me. God, dumplings are fantastic.

The restaurant was BYOB, so J pulled out a bottle of white wine. I like white wine; I do. It’s … refreshing, and it doesn’t make you sleepy like red. It’s just that my dad has ingrained in my brain, ever since I was a little girl, that, “white wine is for homosexuals.” It’s stupid and clearly a result of his macho Argentine upbringing, but … I don’t know. These things stick with you.

Reflecting on this now, the girlfeelings were already starting to creep in. It’s all too obvious in how many tiny “faults” I found in him. I was too terrified of thinking that I might be with the right guy. But I’m getting ahead of myself now. As I’m sure you’ve guessed, loyal readers, we giddily made our way back to his apartment after dinner. The midget fairies that hang out in my brain were looking out for me, and I didn’t get sick this time. In fact, it was fucking great. But as I woke up the next morning to two Chinese guys picnicking outside J’s window (he lives in Chinatown, remember?) and walked over to the mirror, I noticed that both sides of my neck were smeared with dark, blotchy bruises.

I had … the dreaded hickies. I still don’t even remember getting them. I think I have a drinking problem.

“Ooohh fuck,” I said. I’m into the attacked-by-a-vampire look as much as the next 12-year-old girl, but this was crossing the line. Regardless of this family thing I had to go to later that day, I was going to interview that afternoon for a bartending position! I glared at preteen me, who was smiling back mockingly while giving her arm a hickey, showing the older kids at camp that she knew how to do it. Wrong spot, but the sentiment was real.

My friend Caroline showed me how to use cover-up when I got back to campus, and with my hair framing my neck like a beard on a Hasid, you couldn’t see the hickies at all. And I got the job! All I had to do was make one drink, spin around for da boss to see what he was working with, and act cool about wearing a cheerleading uniform on Superbowl Sunday. Done and done. And done.

Plus, I have another approaching date to look forward to. I’m going to meet a kid named C. He’s in three bands in Brooklyn and has three piercings. 2012 is going my way.

What’s been creepy lately? This message:

“Hi, I dont normally send out messages due to my high volume of adoring fans and such, however your profile seems to have caught my interest. I’m not sure whether it was your first photo or your second, but from your expressions I can tell that you are severely deprived of a good pussy licking orgasm.

I’m here to help:)”


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