The last sane bloke in Chicago

Just a date

A little over a week ago, I was bike shopping in the north burbs. Didn't find a bike I liked, but I noticed a cute gal looking at me a few times, returning my smile. When we bumped into each other in the accessory section, I decided to see if she was interested, or just flirtatious.

So I walked over and said hi. "Hi. Buying a bike?" Trying to, but nothing that screams ME. "I know, it took me months to decide." I'm sure it'll take me months. I'm heading out, but I'd like to give you a call some time and take you out.

She stared at me for 20 seconds, smiles, and whipped out a business card and pen, jotted her number on the back. I thank her, and she asks me for my name. Oops, it's Sane. Chicago Sane, but people call me Sane. "Nice to meet you, Sane. Call me." I will. I left.

I gave her a ring the following week, and she actually answered the phone. We talked for a short while and made plans for the following Tuesday. I pitched her two options: Monday or Tuesday. She picked Tuesday. A few days later, she emails me out of the blue, telling me she found my email address online.

Note to guys: cyberstalking a woman shows her you're TOO interested, so don't do it or she'll be UNINTERESTED. On the other hand, you WANT a woman to show interest (and don't return it as strongly), so I don't think a little cyber-investigating is a weird thing. I actually appreciate women taking the time to check me out online. I have almost 2 decades of Internet history, including all my failed relationships, businesses, friendships, etc. There are people who love me online, there are people who hate me online.

No big deal. Her first email was a bit inquisitive, wondering why I post so much under my real name. I explain to her that I am not ashamed of my opinions, and that it challenges me to think things through before posting. Hiding behind a fake name (which I do on this blog, actually) is not my Modus Operandi.

She writes back, giving a day's time between emails. I HATE dating over email or chat or the telephone; when I date, it's face to face. I keep my emails simple and short, with hers being a little longer than mine. That's also something I do when dating: I write less, letting them write more.

Her first email was decent, but they declined in quality from there. I'm pretty particular about spelling and grammar, even in the new form of English we use in casual online conversation. Even my twitter updates attempt to fit good grammar and spelling into 140 characters. I've found with regularity that people who communicate well online also do so in person.

I started to lose interest by email #3, and by email #4 I contemplated canceling our first date. It's not that she's boring, really, but her life revolves around things that I don't really have a passion in: a LOT of weekly TV shows, her pretty boring job, and her lack of a desire to do ANYTHING now or in the future. Not my kind of gal.

Not that I'm saying I want Miss Perfect; I would prefer a ladyfriend up to her eyeballs in drama but with goals and hopes and dreams versus a gal who is pretty much sliding through life with no real ups or downs, with no long term desires. I'm an adventurous guy with a happy life, so if I'm going to take time out of it to date, they better be special in some way. Her emails led me to believe she is the exact opposite.

But I made the date, and I hate breaking them. Too many douchebags do that, and I am no douchebag. Plus, from what I can recall, she's pretty, and I haven't really gone on many dates lately. Pretty much every gal I meet is either uninteresting to me, or I'm uninteresting to her. It's been an odd couple of months, maybe I'm too picky, or maybe the women of Chicago are too picky, or both.

So I kept the date. I called to confirm it on Monday, and she answered. "Uh oh, yoú're NOT calling to cancel, are you?" No, I'm calling to confirm. Tomorrow at 7? "Oh, great! Yeah, perfect, where do you want to go?" Dinner or drinks? "Dinner is good. I get off of work at 5 sharp and am home by 5:30, so I can meet you somewhere at 7." Would you rather I pick you up? "Oh, that's fine, too. I live in (suburb)." I know, you told me that. Actually, I may have an early morning, so why don't we meet somewhere in the middle. American or Italian? "American is good, I can go for a burger." Score, a woman who actually eats meat! I don't date vegetarians seriously, it's too big of a conflict in terms of dining together.

I pick a restaurant, give her the address and simple directions, and I get off the phone. I could tell she wanted to talk more, but I generally don't do phone calls with women I might end up dating. Once we're friends, the phone calls are fine.

I get dressed around 6pm, deciding to just go as casual as this guy goes. Well, not T-shirt casual, because it IS a date, so I throw on a dress shortsleeve (bespoken, thankyouverymuch), some black jeans and black shoes, and don the glasses.

I leave a little late, but end up arriving at 6:57pm. Not bad. I ask for my table at the American cuisine restaurant, and they tell me the second party hasn't arrived. Cool. I sit and wait. 7:02pm, a cab pulls up. Damn, oh oh! And I see her come out. First glance, through the glass, through her fall jacket, is that she's really hot. Great hair, nice makeup (not overdone), slim, overall the kind of gal I'd probably have hit on. Oh wait, I did.

She walks in and they seat her at my table. She's smiling, locking eyes with me. Wow, really pretty. How do I get so lucky? I stand, help her with her jacket, and she sits in the booth side of the average 3-star restaurant. I sit across from her and the barrage of annoyances pop out at me.

First, her voice is a little overmelodious. It goes from medium pitch to high pitch and back, especially when she laughs. I wish I recorded it. Voices don't bother me much, but I have a HORRIBLE HORRIBLE conceited problem where I always try to envision what a woman's orgasm would sound like. I do this even if I have ZERO interest in sex. It's one of my reasons for digging foreign women, actually.

She did comment on my voice, though. "I like your voice. It's so...stable." Stable? "You just sound like you're a safe guy to be around." Oh. Do you find yourself in unsafe situations? "No, just a lot of guys talk big and end up being really scared of everything."

I guess it's true, I'm the kind of guy that no one messes with. Russian mobsters, government agents, accountants, they're all equally intimidated by yours truly. At least, that's how it's been all my life.

We talk about her work. She's had the same job since high school, even graduating college and keeping it, moving up a few notches. Something to do with mailing something to someone. I'm sure it's important and all, but that's all she wants to do. It was weird, talking to a beautiful gal who had NO real drive to do anything else.

She talked to me about this and that, and I did my usual feint and dissuade attention from me. It definitely made her more interested though. The server came back 5 times to see if we were ready to eat, and we hadn't even opened our menus. 30 minutes of chit chat, oops.

We look at the menu, she orders a burger, I do likewise. Double burger, double bacon, extra mayo, cooked in butter, medium rare if possible. With cheese. FUCK YEAH. But then...

She starts talking again. I love family. I'm crazy close to my family. But her family doesn't do ANYTHING. No excitement. I think she talked about her family's TV schedule and how it's barely changed in years. How is that possible? Don't TV shows end?

Still, she looks hot, and the voice thing can be overcome with a sock or duct tape. Kidding! No really, KIDDING.

The food arrives. All is well, she'll eat, we'll talk in between mouthfuls of perfect burgers. And then it happens. The worst possible thing ever.

cheep cheep cheep. cheep cheep cheep. CHEEP CHEEP CHEEP. CHEEP CHEEP CHEEP.

She eats. With her teeth bared and her mouth open. And she chews really fast and loudly. Repeatedly. In rhythm. First I felt it shake through the table. Then my chair shook, like an earthquake. I felt it hit my soul, my ear drums. The banging got louder, so loud that I couldn't focus.

I had problems eating my own food, the rhythm of her chewing screwing up my rhythm. Sometimes I'd forget to chew and almost choke on a big hunk of beef and bacon and cheese. And it continued

CHEEP CHEEP CHEEP. And she still found time to talk. CHEEP CHEEP CHEEP. This is not going to end well. CHEEP CHEEP CHEEP.

I was getting nervous. I had to hold the table down or it would bounce away. People right and left of us were falling over, getting swallowed by the fire-ridden cavern that tore open in the floor. I'm a God-fearing man, but there was no creator in this room. It was pure evil.

And then it stopped. And she smiled. She has a great smile, sooo pretty. Nice lips, nice eyes, great hair. But the chewing. The CHEWING. But then it stopped. And she looks so nice and normal.

We chat some more. "Are you seeing anyone?" No one special. "Oh, a few?" Nah, I go on dates. Like this. Seem how things go. "I should do that more." We all should.

I asked her about things she liked to do. "Oh, the usual: TV, hang out on the couch." Books? "Not really." At least she's honest. Movies? "As long as they're not scary, medical, sports or too dirty." Too dirty? FAIL. Music? "Whatever's on the radio works." iPod? "No." She FALE'd so bad I misspelled it on purpose.

At least she's smiling, a lot. And making eye contact. Damn, she has a pretty face. Nice lips, too, but my cock won't go within 6 inches of her CHEEP CHEEP CHEEP motoring teeth. I didn't really get to check her bod out, but from what I can tell she's in good shape.

Work out? "Not really." Ack.

So let's review the signs, at least:

1. She smiles at me, a lot.
2. She laughs, a lot.
3. Her attention is on me, not on the few hot guys at the bar behind me.
4. She's touched my arm at least 3 times, my shoulder when she returned from the bathroom, my hand "accidentally" and my knee cap twice while complimenting me.
5. She complimented me twice: my hair (which needs to be cut) and my eyes.

Sadly, good features of a first date aren't enough to make there be a second. But damn she's cute. I wish I was the type of guy who slept with a woman just because she's there, but I'm not. I like to get to know a woman first, even if it's only a date or two. In her case, there's nothing to know.

We didn't delve into relationships (a first date taboo) or sex (another taboo). We didn't talk about family much, or education (she went to some college I had never heard of). Work, boring. Entertainment, boring.

God, she's probably be a good wife to someone. I can't imagine what we'd talk about after doing the horizontal shuffle, though. I notice the receipt shows the time is 9:45pm, and tell her I should take off soon because of an early morning. She says she gets up at 6am every day, and that's fine.

She cabbed it in, which I feel terrible about, so I offer her a ride home. Her suburb is about 20 minutes from the restaurant, the complete opposite direction to my place. I open the door for her and she hugs me before getting in the car, calling me a gentleman. Well, I am one.

We drive to her apartment, and she's telling me what a good time she had, what an interesting guy I am, yadda yadda yadda. Ugh, I hate doing this. Here is EXACTLY one reason why I detest dating so much: lack of chemistry. It's gotten worse in the past 5 years, too.

Her hand is on my forearm that is resting on my armrest. Ugh.

She's looking at my profile as I focus on the road. Ugh.

She's smiling, way too much. Ugh.

We get to her place and I pull over out front. I turn to say good night, knowing 10 seconds ahead of time that she's going to kiss me because of the way she squeezed my forearm. I will never say no to a good night kiss, but I usually keep them very light and friendly.

So we kiss for a few minutes and I realize she's not a terrible kisser as I had expected ("CHEEP CHEEP CHEEP"). Tongues battle lightly, she has her hand on the back of MY head and on my cheek and I consider breaking free but it's a nice kiss, a decent one indeed.

Little Fire Hydrant doesn't spring into life, though, so I guess that's it. We break after a good 15 minutes of kissing. She looks at me, smiling but concerned. "Will I see you again?"

So I tell her the truth: you're pretty (true), you're responsible (true), you know exactly what you're going to be doing (true), but you're 100% serious relationship material, and I'm 100% esoteric relationship material. Her hatchet forms above her nose. "I figured as much. Am I boring?" No, not boring, just too stable, maybe. Do you have problems dating? "No, not at all, I just don't meet very many interesting guys."

I'm sure that's true. I'm confident, but I tease. I feel a little bad for her. "Well, I did have fun. And you're awesome. If you reconsider, you have my number and email." I'll keep it in mind. "And I hate to say it, but I'd be willing to do the friends thing, too." There is always that. We'll talk again.

She kisses me again, for a good 5 minutes, and then breaks it herself as she leaves. Fantastic ass, great legs, cute body overall. Damn it, why am I so picky?

Since it's possible we might be friends, I'll call her Chan. 5'5", 115#, brunette with blonde highlights, brown eyes, size 4, great skin, nice teeth, big eyes, not too pale. Just in case I need to link back.

Posted by ChicagoSane at 7:42 PM

Labels: dating, friends, kissing