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

(Background: Part One. Part 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?"
"......No."
"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?"
"Uh.....you 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

In which I am shallow: part two.

(For background information, please read In which I am shallow: part one.)


It's a Friday in October in Northern California. So, naturally, it's one of the hottest days of the year. In Silicon Valley, it's nearly 100 degrees; in San Francisco, it's in the 90s. San Francisco is not a warm city, so when the heat is on, it's stifling. This is, of course, the day in which I meet Brad for a second date. I leave work and drive in hellacious Friday traffic up into San Francisco to meet him at his apartment. As it is with San Francisco (henceforth just known as the city), everything is uphill and winding, including the road to his place. I park; he comes out and greets me. We immediately get into his car and try to decide where to go. As it is unseasonably warm outside, and a Friday night to boot, we are expecting it to be nearly impossible to get a table at most places.

He is driving and trying to decide where we should go. He keeps putting his hand on my thigh, and I keep brushing him off. At a red light, he looks over at me, grabs my face, and starts to devour me. Again, I push him away. "Ooooh, are you one of those people that gets nervous in a car?" he asks. "Yes, absolutely," I respond. And it is true; I am very anxious in cars unless I am driving or I trust the driver completely. Otherwise, I will be panicking for most of the trip. I didn't get my driver's license until I was 21 because I was so afraid of cars and driving. Funny that five years after that I drove myself across the country and now make a major daily commute. Anyway.

Brad takes me to the Haight, a neighborhood I had ventured around with my family at the age of 12, but which I now fully appreciate and love. I wanted to go into every thrift store, talk to every person, just take the whole experience in. Brad, however, was totally unimpressed and couldn't have cared less; but whatever, he lives in the city, why should he care?

We end up in a tiny Asian restaurant that is, yes, packed, and stifling. So much sweat started pouring out of me as we waited in the narrow entry to write down our names for a table. At this place, you have to write your name down on a chalkboard, and they will erase you when your table is available. I don't remember specifics, but I know someone came in and Brad was a dick about them writing their name down for some reason.

We start chitchatting. We order. Again, he is unnecessarily rude to the waitress. I'm getting pissed, and my gut is telling me to abort the situation. But I am now literally stuck in San Francisco, on a date with a man I'm starting to realize is a gigantic bag of dicks. And not in a fun way. Being that I am an English nerd, I try to bring up books as a topic of conversation. "Oh, I don't read that much," he said. I said something along the lines of, "Yeah, I get it, it's hard to find the time; you told me that Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas is your favorite book though, right?" And I swear, he said, "Yeah. Well, actually, I've only read parts of it. But I liked the parts I read." YOUR FAVORITE BOOK IS A BOOK YOU HAVEN'T EVEN READ?! WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU?!?! A lot. A lot was wrong with him.

(This is something I need to remind myself of, as it has been proven to me since Brad that you do not. date. people. who. don't. read. At least, I CANNOT date people who don't read. Also I met John Waters and he was amazing and I love him forever.)

Our food arrives. Brad is snarky to the waitress about something; I shoot her an apologetic smile. It's tasty, but it's spicy, and I am so sweaty I swear I'm sliding off the chair. I put my hair up in a ponytail; Brad asks how I manage to make that look adorable. Oh, a compliment! I'll take it. But I am so worked up and pissed that I immediately respond with something rude. So he takes the opportunity to say, "How does someone with your personality work in a wine tasting room?" Me, genuinely confused: "What?" And his response was one of the following; I can't remember clearly because I went into a rage blackout in my mind: "Well, you're just so sarcastic and bitchy," or, "Well, you're just such a sarcastic bitch."

Listen. I know I can be a sarcastic bitch; I'm well aware. But that part of my personality is brought forth when I am uncomfortable and/or angry and/or hangry. In the rage blackout of my mind, I realized that I am acting this way because I am uncomfortable around him. I am not having a good time, regardless of how pretty he is, because he's fucking creepy and I need him to get away from me right meow. RIGHT MEOW.

He quickly followed up that comment with, "But I like that about you. I like that you're a bitch; it's hot." Okay, no, no, no, we are not doing this, no. Thankfully, dinner is almost over. Unfortunately, my bladder is full and I need to pee something fierce. The restaurant is packed, and there's one bathroom, and there's a giant line, and I have no opportunity to use it while Brad walks out of the restaurant. I'm screwed. I just need to pee! And to get the fuck away from this guy.

Walking out, I'm about two steps off from running smack into a naked man walking down the street. Seriously. Naked dude. Just wandering around. I'm flabbergasted, and ask Brad if he saw him. "Oh, that? Yeah that's normal. You're in San Francisco." Definitely not in Kansas anymore. As we are walking to the car I hear a noise: the click-clacking of heels on the sidewalk. I look around, and it takes me a second to realize that, in fact, Brad is wearing men's dress shoes that have heels. Stacked heels. Stacked heels that fucking CLACK ON THE SIDEWALK. I nearly peed right there. I mean, this is San Francisco; nobody would mind, right?

It's happening....It happened. It happened.

We get in his car to drive back to his place. At this point, I'm concentrating on not peeing and not having a total freakout on this creep. I don't know if you're aware, but San Francisco is a very hilly city. Getting anywhere requires you to go up and down a lot of hills. There's also a lot of stoplights. At nearly every stoplight, Brad tries, again, to put his hand on my thigh and/or make out with me. I again remind him that I am nervous in cars, and to please don't fucking touch me. He acquiesces, somehow. The road up to his apartment is a super steep, winding hill, because of fucking course it is. There's a minivan in front of us going under the speed limit, which pisses Brad off. "What the hell are they doing? This isn't okay." So he decides to pass them, which would be fine if we were on, you know, a highway, instead of a two lane residential street with a double fucking yellow line going upward towards a blind curve in the street YES THIS IS A GREAT IDEA BRAD YOU ARE SO SMART YOU MUST READ A LOT!

Of course, there's another car coming down the road, directly towards us, and Brad veers us back to safety just in time. I seriously was about .004 seconds from peeing everywhere, but he probably would've liked that. I must have screamed or made some kind of noise, because Brad looked at me, incredulous, and said, "What? We had plenty of time. We were fine!" BITCH I ALMOST DIED WITH YOUR STUPID HIGH-HEELED WEARING ASS ON A RANDOM STREET IN SAN FRANCISCO. NO. Thankfully, his house was less than a block away. Unfortunately, I still need to pee, and I have no idea where I can do that except in Brad's house. So I got out of the car, and I followed him inside.