Date 1: My friend Michelle had been trying to set this date up for weeks. “You will love her” she says, “check out her stuff on YouTube, she’s amazing”. I did. She had an amazing voice but wasn’t really my type, but as my type hadn’t really been working out so well, I decided to give it a go. “Okay, okay, give her my number” I said, “and tell her I’m free after work today”.
We met at a bar I know well, great view of the Brisbane River, perfect location to entertain an overseas guest. I walk towards her in my ‘date dress’: small waist, well-supported cleavage, pointy heels. Even though I see her 100 metres away, I walk past her and casually throw my eye around the bar. I then step back, “You were hiding!” I smile. She stands to kiss my cheek and motions for me to sit opposite her. I casually ignore the suggestion and sit beside her so I can enjoy the river view. She is drinking a mojito and I order the same. As I go to pay, she motions to the bar tender to put it on her tab. She drinks slowly as she asks about how I know Michelle, what I do for work, what it’s like to be a single parent, what my thoughts are on non-monogamy. She answers questions about being a musician, a self-taught singer songwriter. She tells me she is in an ‘open’ relationship with a woman back home; but they haven’t seen each other since she started touring 6 months ago.
The bar tender tells us our table is ready, and we follow him into the darkly lit dining room.
“I would like to pay” she says.
“Aren’t you a struggling artist?” I ask.
“No” she says, “this pays me very well, I am prepared to argue this if I have to” she laughs.
“No, that’s fantastic. Three courses then?” I smile.
We start with oysters. She lives in a small fishing village and eats oysters fresh off the boat. I have been vegetarian for over 20 years but I’m intrigued. She wants to teach me, and I want to let her. We get 6 oysters and she demonstrates, and I mimic her. “I’m impressed” she says. She orders a $115 bottle of wine, Beaujolais, telling me she used to be a sommelier. We dip bread into virgin olive oil and guzzle our glasses. We talk about travels and I tell her my favourite stories, she listens intensely. She tells me she runs song-writing courses but never uses her own life as material. We can hardly touch our mains, so full of wine and possibility.
She says “what are you going to do about your car?”
I say “I have to move it onto the street, but I can pick it up tomorrow, I work close by”.
Without skipping a beat she says “I’m sure you can park it at my hotel”.
My stomach flips a little. This is it. After 2 years without sex, it’s finally going to happen! I excuse myself to the toilet and she goes outside to have a cigarette. It’s a dirty habit, but I can let it slide for one night.
We walk together along the river bank; she tells me I’m amazing. We move the car and have another drink. She starts yawning. “It’s not you” she says. I tell her I have a thing about being boring. She looks astonished. We finish our drink, the bar is closing – it’s a Monday night. We walk towards her hotel but she suggests another drink.
“Do you think I’m avoiding taking you back to my hotel room?” she asks
“That’s exactly what I think you’re doing” I retort and laugh – I don’t really think that’s true. We still haven’t touched each other at this point; maybe if I was less tipsy I would have paid attention to the details.
We walk back to arrive outside her hotel, she is finishing a cigarette. We are confronted by a well-dressed conservative woman in her fifties, clearly drunk, looking for a bar. The woman gave me a prolonged hug; she tried to give my date an open mouthed kiss which she politely declined. To extricate ourselves from the awkwardness, I turned on my heel and entered the hotel. “But I’m a good kisser!” she yelled over her shoulder as she followed my directions to the bar.
We went up in a lift full of people; otherwise I may have just pressed her up against the mirror and kissed her then. She opened her room and I sat on the chair, waiting for something to happen. I took off my stockings. “Wait”, she said, “I have to get something down in the lobby”. When she left I took the opportunity to dim all the lights, turn back the covers, take my dress off and recline on the bed. When she came back, my eyes were closed.
“Oh, the lights are off already, can I turn them on?” she asked.
“Sure, just there” I say, feeling confused.
She takes out her new guitar, couriered to the hotel by a new sponsor. She is completely focused on trying it out. I feel bored. She makes a cup of tea and tells me to rest. But I don’t feel like resting. She slaps me on the leg after I make some remark. “You can do a bit more of that” I say, inviting her to touch me. But she doesn’t. She starts checking email as she’s waiting for the kettle to boil. She starts flitting around the room looking for documents and then says, “I have to make a call”. “I’ll give you 10 minutes” I say.
I am wired on oysters, espresso shots and the promise of what’s to come. She comes back into the room while I’m pacing. She pulls off her clothes unceremoniously, and throws herself into bed. “This is so comfortable” she says, “weren’t you going to have a shower?” “Yes” I said. I had the quickest shower of my life and brushed my teeth with her toothpaste on my index finger. I jumped out in about 3 minutes to find her eyes closed. “Shall I close the curtains?” I ask. No response.
I get into bed carefully and accidentally bump her knee, which she pulls away. I get out of bed, and get my clothes. I go into the bathroom, turn the light on to retrieve my jewellery. In the mirrored wardrobe, I can see her eyes squint against the bathroom light. She is not asleep; she is just not into it. I slip out the door, down the elevator, through the lobby and back to my car. Not drunk anymore, I drive home. I need to work on Date number 2.
