And then there was the time during my brief, misguided residence in L.A. that I had a date with a nice woman one balmy evening. Someone I'd met through another woman I knew. A nice person who seemed to think the same of me, the upshot being we decided to spend an evening together, dinner followed by dancing.
There are those times when, despite attraction and good intentions, things just don't seem to fall into place. This -- don't ask me why -- turned out to be one of those, pretty much from the first moment.
We'd arranged that I would pick her up somewhere and we'd directly to a restaurant from there. She hadn't planned well, turned out -- we had to go back to her place so I could wait around while she pulled clothes together, talked on the phone. At some point I managed to pull her out the door, drove her to dinner. We sat, talked, ate. Nice woman -- cute, bright, good personality. And things didn't quite mesh with us, despite both of us obviously wanting them to. It was just one of those cases, didn't matter how we tried to find subjects that would provide the key, didn't matter how good our intentions were. And somewhere during all that, she decided that she hadn't brought the right shoes for dancing, so we had to return to her place once more after dinner so she could run in and get the right footwear.
The club we'd decided to go to: a gay disco I'd been to one time with a coed group of friends. Good atmosphere, fun music. The lobby had sofas, a pool table off to the side. And on the walls, above head level, slide machines projected images of L.A. We had a good time, no one seemed to mind a pack of heteros visiting for the night. Seemed like a great place overall.
My date and I finally arrive at the club, after an evening that had come to feel strangely eternal, and we do the coatroom thing. This evening, who knows why, the vibe was not so welcoming. The coatroom guys dealt with me all right, but decided they weren't wild about having a female -- or maybe just this female -- on premises this time around, and gave her a hard time. I got that it didn't seem to be going smoothly, but didn't realize how cranky they'd been with her until she stumbled away from the window, looking confused, a little dismayed. She filled me in, me looking back at the coatroom, neither of us sure what to do about it. And then we looked up. Around the room, where a week or two earlier I'd seen a cheery slideshow of L.A., were images of guys in leather outfits, BDSM style. We stared up at all that for a minute. I look at her, she looks at me, her expression not happy. And she says, "WHAT KIND OF DATE ARE YOU?"
It was downhill from there, but I didn't care. That moment, with that one classic line, made the whole evening worthwhile.
España, te quiero.
rws 12:06 PM [+]
Comments:
hehehe Got the end.
Good then, at least, all the "suffer" was worth.
I might take my dates to gay/lesbian pubs to show them off how female I am ;-)
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Good then, at least, all the "suffer" was worth.
I might take my dates to gay/lesbian pubs to show them off how female I am ;-)
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: 5:09 PM
: 5:09 PM