Friday, October 9, 2015

In which I am shallow: part three (the grand finale).

(Background: Part OnePart Two.)

My TimeHop notified me the other day that this date happened, and it reminded me that I never finished telling all of you about the ridiculousness that occurred at the end of one of the worst dates of my life.

We pulled up to Brad's house, after nearly being killed. I was about .005 seconds from peeing myself, so I followed him in to use his bathroom. The house was nice; really spacious. He had roommates, of course, because San Francisco is outrageously expensive for no damn reason other than it's San Francisco and one of the best cities in the world, so they can rip you off completely to live there. I tell him that I really have to go to the bathroom, and he tells me he has his own bathroom connected to his bedroom, which is in the basement. I basically sprint down the stairs to his room. His room is unremarkable but seemingly adult; no Ikea furniture, but there are a lot of boxes as he is packing to move. I run into the bathroom. It's a surprisingly spacious, clean, gorgeous bathroom. Brad yells down at me that he's going to get us some wine. I'm simultaneously peeing and ferociously texting my friends for advice; thankfully, they answer quickly and tell me that if I'm uncomfortable/having that awful of a time, I need to GTFO. I wash my hands, walk out of the bathroom, out of his room, and start up the stairs. I'm hoping I can get out the front door before he even knows I'm out of the bathroom. I'm more than halfway up the stairs...and he starts walking down with a bottle of wine and two glasses, shoes clacking on the wooden steps. Oh, fuck. You know that part in 10 Things I Hate About You, where the dad catches Bianca sneaking out and says, "Shoulda used the window?" Yeah. That's what was going through my head. If only he didn't live in the basement! (Also I can't find a gif or picture of that scene anywhere, so here's a related one, instead):

Brad looks confused. "Where are you going?" 
"I...uh...I'm leaving. Sorry; I'm uncomfortable. I need to go home." 
"But we were having a nice time. I have wine for us! We don't have to do anything; we can just cuddle and drink wine."
"No, no, I need to go home, I'm not comfortable."
"You can't drive all the way back now! Just relax. Aren't you having a nice time?"
"It's like 9:30; it's fine. I just need to go home."

Now, before I say this next part, I should say a couple of things. One: he had admitted to me that he likes to dress in costumes. I have no problem with this. I like costumes! Dressing up is one of my favorite things. And, yes, I know this is different for everyone, and in his case, we aren't talking about cosplay or LARPing. We are talking fishnets and latex and such. Again, this was his deal, not mine. I am not one to judge someone for their sexual proclivities. In fact, I love a man in fishnets. Particularly, this man:

(Do you see those legs?!? My GOD. That FACE. THAT CORSET. PLEASE.)

I wrote my Master's thesis on The Rocky Horror Picture Show, focusing on gender performativity and masculinity. I am not a slut shamer. I am kink-friendly, perhaps kinky myself. I just think I'm open-minded about most things in that arena. So, with all this fresh background for you (in case any of this is somehow a surprise; in which case, you definitely don't know me in real life, but you should because I'm pretty fucking cool), let's pick up where we left off, shall we?

"I should go home, really, it's fine. I'm sorry. I'm just uncomfortable."

And, I swear to RuPaul, he looked me dead in the eyes and said, "Did you see something?"
"What? See something?"
"Yeah. In my bathroom. Did you see something that freaked you out?"
"Are you sure? If you saw something, we can talk about it."
I have now become convinced that there must be either a gigantic dildo collection (which would be fine, really, as long as I didn't have to use them) or, more likely, a dead fucking body, or six severed heads on the windowsill.
"No, I didn't, but I definitely need to leave."
"Can I at least walk you out?"
"Uh, okay."

I sprinted up the stairs and to my car. He caught me on the sidewalk and trapped me in a giant hug. "Please don't go. Please. It's okay; we can just cuddle together. We don't have to do anything." BIG BAG OF NOPE. If we have already talked about how you like to dress up and how I'm fine with it and then you are worried about what I might have found in your bathroom?? Fuck. No. Get out of here. Go away. You are creepy and you're terrifying me. No. I got out of his hug, got to my car, immediately locked my doors and pulled up my GPS. I watched him go back inside his house. I instantly unmatched him on Tinder, blocked him on all social media, and started driving home. I called my friend Sara on the drive back and told her what just happened. "WHAT THE FUCK WAS IN HIS BATHROOM?!?!" was her response, because yeah, WHAT THE FUCK WAS IN HIS BATHROOM?!

I sped home, arriving in just over an hour. In that time, I got twelve texts and a phone call from him. The texts were asking if it was a power trip, if this was a game, if he was supposed to beg me to stay, how I should tell him exactly what went wrong. "Come on, it'll be fun, tell me what I did wrong."

And so he did. I never answered his texts; presumably, he got the hint. I assumed he moved to Chicago.

Time passed. My birthday is in April, six full months after the horrible date. My lady friends and I decided to go out in the city to the gay clubs and go dancing. Yay birthday! Yay dancing! Yay hot gay men in San Francisco! The first club I wanted to go to was beyond packed, so we decided to roam around the district to find another bar/club. Most places were madhouses or overpriced, except for one spot. My friends decided we should check it out. They all go in before me; there's a few people ahead of us in line. My first friend is ID'd, pays her five dollars, goes in. Second friend is getting ID'd and I look at the bouncer. He seems familiar. He's in an Ace Frehley-style wig with a mask, some short shorts, fishnets, a whole getup. He looks me in the eye as my second friend goes in. It's Brad. It's fucking BRAD. And now I have no choice but to go up to him.

"Hey gorgeous, how have you been?" he asked while hugging me.
"Oh, uh, hey!"
"So, tell me, what did I do wrong?"
" just came on a little strong, that's all."
"Well, that's me! No no, you're not paying, keep your money." And I did keep it, and used it to immediately buy myself a shot when I got to the bar. I explained the situation to my friends, but as he was working the door and there was a small group of us, we figured it would be okay. Actually, it was a fun little bar and we ended up staying for a while and dancing. I danced on top of a banquette multiple times, once with a hot dude wearing tiny underwear. I saw Brad a few more times, and he talked to me once more, briefly, as he walked past me on the dance floor.

Later, as we were leaving, he had two women all over him. So, good for him, I suppose. I've never gone back to that bar. I've been up in the city quite a few times since then; thankfully, that was the only time I saw him. But on my birthday? Working the door at a gay bar?! Who does this happen to?!!? Oh, right. Me. #blessed

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