After my first date with Lauren, I was a little apprehensive about going out with her again. I wasn't sure whether I was captivated by her attitude, humor, and intelligence, or if I just thought her singing voice was really hot. But then I remembered I was in the middle of dating season, and I'm not one to violate the laws of nature. Lauren and I texted back and forth and eventually arranged a second date for the following Saturday, February 7th. Initially, she wanted to check out the Chinese New Year parade. However, her excitement quickly died when I said, "That's stupid." The dating machine is an excellent communicator. She then suggested a movie, which I was actually in favor of (violating one of my dating tenets) because the Embarcadero theatre was hosting a limited engagement of Oscar-nominated shorts. Rad. So, after she was done with her choir rehearsal on Saturday afternoon, we were going to have dinner, watch a movie, and maybe go to a bar.
I prepped for the date by playing twelve hours of video games, with a short four hour nap. I just thought I'd mention that.
Since Lauren's choir rehearsal was in Palo Alto (she lives in Oakland), we decided to meet at my house and then either take her car or my scooter to dinner, depending on the weather. When she arrived at 5pm, the weather was cooperating, so we decided to scooter. However, my new scooter, Esmeralda, was not cooperating. Esmeralda is a cold-hearted bitch. Earlier in the week, I found out that my beloved scooter, Isabelle, was suffering from what the scooter repairman described as, "Your scooter is fucked. It's dead." He estimated the repairs would cost $400. Prior to going to the shop, I estimated the repairs costing $500. At the spur of the moment, and perhaps stupidly, I decided to trade in my beloved Isabelle for a new scooter. Esmeralda seemed like a good bike. She was physically prettier than Isabelle; though, Isabelle's imperfections (aka scratches and dents from me falling) gave her character. Esmeralda also ran very well, something I was definitely unaccustomed to. I bought Esmeralda, drove her home, and mourned the loss of Isabelle. So, just as Lauren and I were about to get on Esmeralda, Esmeralda started, ran for ten seconds, then died. Fuck. If I actually cared about Lauren's opinion, I might've been embarrassed. Luckily, I am also a cold-hearted bitch, and even thought about canceling the date so I could attend to my new scooter. Instead, we decided that Lauren should drive and I'd be the in-car DJ.
Lauren is a terrible driver. During the twenty minute drive to the restaurant, she missed two stop signs. I realize that people have unique driving styles. Some people like to brake hard and others like to brake gradually into a stop sign/light. I had not accounted for the third group who like to blow past stop signs. I attribute this unlawful behavior to two possible reasons - either (a) she is just unaware and not attentive, or (b) she was just way too into me and not concentrating on the road. Both are bad and unacceptable. I took note and prayed that we'd get to our destination with all our limbs intact.
Oh, I guess I should mention what I thought of Lauren upon seeing her a second time. She was short. Pretty fucking short. I'm no goliath myself at 5'9", but 5'1" may not be allowed on amusement park rides. It's cool though, she had pretty big tits. It's funny how short girls have big tits. I've never understood the logic behind it, but 3 out of 4 short girls (at least the ones I've been out with) have C-cups or bigger. Weird. Aside from her height and breasts, I noticed that her skin looked aged. She was also not wearing a cute outfit. I like cute outfits. I like a girl that has style. Lauren was missing that. As you can tell, this date was not starting off well.
We made it to Loi's Vietnamese on Irving Street just fine. Incidentally, Loi's Vietnamese is another standard dating machine spot. Inexpensive meals (about $13 for two), delicious food, and chicken marinating in the back alley near the cats (yes, really) equals a good, frugal time. After ordering, I noticed that Lauren's loud laugh was only amplified at this small restaurant. It was really loud. I realize that I'm kinda funny, but I'm not laugh-so-loud-that-you-scare-
We started making our way over to the Embarcadero district, with only 17 minutes to go before the movie started. The commute, if ideal, and the parking, if ideal, would take about 17 minutes. Unfortunately, those Chinese motherfuckers and their stupid parade ("Look at me, I'm a dragon!") took over downtown San Francisco. Facing numerous street closures and a flood of traffic, we ditched the movie idea. Instead, we decided to go to the Broken Record over in my hood. I love the Broken Record, mostly because it's always empty, so please don't try to go there and unempty it. Anyway, aside from Lauren being too short to sit comfortably on a stool, the action and conversation at the Broken Record was mostly uninteresting, similar to the entire date. However, the really interesting shit was about to come right up.
After we finished two drinks each, we called it a night and Lauren drove me home. Once we arrived outside my pad, we had the following conversation:
me: So, thanks for hanging out today and for driving, even if the driving was poor. *quick hug* Bye.
her: Do you want to invite me in?
me: What? Uh, but I thought you had to get up early tomorrow to prepare for your dinner party?
her: Not that early.
me: Oh.
her: Do you even want me to come in?
me: Yes, definitely.
(to self: Fuck.)
her: Okay, I'll find some parking.
me (with a last second attempt to discourage her): Cool, but just don't park on that street; that's where I got mugged.
her: Okay.
(to self: Oh well.)
Since my first objective (of going home alone) had failed, I made two more objectives. #1, we would not kiss. #2, if we kissed, we would not have sex. Did I yet mention, or did you yet get the feeling, that I wasn't into Lauren? Well, I wasn't. I'm wholly uninterested in kissing or having sex with chicks that I'm not 100% down with. Perhaps I'm an atypical male, but I only like to have sex with people I'm truly interested in. Well, either that or they're really fucking hot, in which case I can guarantee I'll be interested. Lauren was neither of those things. Right when we stepped through the door, I enacted Project Get This Chick Away From Me. The first phase was to avoid eye contact and suggest other activities so she wouldn't want to make out. Apparently, in my mission to avoid eye contact, Lauren successfully slipped into my room, took off her shoes, and sat on my bed. However, she didn't realize Project Get This Chick Away From Me was actually in version 2.0, and totally prepared for this type of development. I quickly grabbed a DVD and walked into the living room, while yelling towards the direction of my room, "We should watch this. I think you'll really like it." Mission accomplished - she came out of my room and sat on the couch, secretly hiding her dejection. For the next forty minutes, we sat quietly, about a half foot away from each other, and watched the movie. Unfortunately, the calm and inaction did not last long. Lauren complained that she wasn't enjoying the movie and that we should do something else. "How sly of you, Lauren - something else? What could you possibly mean? Well, I'm not a slut and you're not attractive, so this isn't going to work." That's what I should have said. Instead, I enacted phase two of Project Get This Chick Away From Me. I put on White Chicks by the Wayans Brothers.
If there's any better anti-panty dropping movie, I don't know it. Wayans Brothers movies are historically bad, however, White Chicks was in an entirely uncharted stratosphere of shit. I should know, I've seen it. Unfortunately, Lauren and I didn't see it that night. I should sue Comcast Cable for advertising White Chicks and instead showing Best in Show, which, amazingly enough, is one of Lauren's favorite movies. Are you there God? It's me, dating machine. And I'd like you to know that you're an asshole.
We started watching the movie when it was halfway through. I had approximately forty minutes to turn this chick off, aka phase three. I started biting my nails and spitting the remnants onto the floor. Didn't work - this chick had a mission herself and it was to experience my limp dick. Apparently, Lauren was also a nail biter. She showed me her nails (gross) and then asked to see mine. I showed her my deformed nails. I think she tried to hold my hand. It was pretty hilarious. She held my fingers with her fingers and then slowly tried to inter-cross our fingers. Upon realizing this, I suddenly laughed at a not-so-funny scene in the movie. I also decided the not-so-funny scene was a knee-slapper. Literally. Crisis averted.
During the remainder of the movie, I caught Lauren occasionally looking over in my direction. I did not see it directly obviously because phase one is a lack of eye contact, but it's not hard to tell when a person shifts their weight to look at you. It's also not hard to tell when a person simultaneously laughs and inches closer to you. Two can play at that game. Every time she'd laugh and get closer, I'd laugh and move farther. After about forty minutes, we moved from the center of the couch to the far right, where I was sitting. I secretly giggled. I may not play the game of dating well, but I play the game of avoiding chicks very well.
Near the end of the movie, Lauren whispered, "I have to go home soon." Being a master of linguistics, I knew the phrase "I have to" carried a much different connotation than the phrase "I'm going to". The latter phrase is a declaration - I gotta go home, so I'm going to go home. The former phrase is a thinly veiled plea for sex. Correct, a thinly veiled plea for sex. It translates to "I have to go home, but I don't want to. I want to stay here with you, but preferably making out and then maybe some cunnilingus." My response to such a plea was to put my shoes on and declare, "Cool, I'll walk you out." I called her bluff and she sat for another ten minutes.
Finally, the movie was over and there was no longer an excuse for her to stay. Project Get This Chick Away From Me was a success. She gathered her belongings, I mentally high-fived myself, and we made our way to the front door. I opened the door and prepared to walk her to her car. After all, if she got mugged or raped, I'd probably have to, like, help her out, which would in turn cut into my sleep time. Wait, who am I kidding? I was going to play some video games as soon as she left. After opening the door, we had this conversation:
me: I'm going to walk you to your car to make sure you don't get mugged or raped.
her: I don't think so.
me: Huh?
her: Since you're not going to make the first move, I'm going to make it.
me (with my hands held up in the air in a defensive position): No sex.
I am not shitting you. That's exactly how the conversation went. I don't know what I was thinking. It wasn't part of some grand scheme. It wasn't some age-old, time-tested Buddhist tactic. Without thinking, I just blurted out, "No sex". Pretty much, it was getting late, I was tired, and I really didn't want to have sex. At least with her. I've done many silly things on dates, but this move ranked right up there. Though, even more amazingly, she was not dissuaded. Our conversation continued:
her: You don't have to worry about that.
me: Oh, okay. Good.
She then proceeded to kiss me. I kissed her back a little (about 30% of maximum capacity), until I realized that her lips tasted and felt the way her skin looked - old. Kissing her was like kissing the sagging flesh of an old, fat man. I've never kissed the sagging flesh of an old, fat man, but I'm just really bad at similes. I then kissed her at about 8% of maximum capacity. If my 100% output induced rapid moisture of the panties, my 8% output was like a firm handshake. That was a better simile.
After roughly 25 to 30 seconds of sheer making out horror, it was over. There was no blood, but she was playfully biting my bottom lip. I secretly hoped that she would bite a little bit too hard, causing blood, so that there'd be a reason to end the kiss. I'm a weird dude. Right after the kiss, she looked at me longingly, like she wanted me to invite her to sleep over. I wanted to invite her to get the fuck out. I made a note to myself that 8% of my kissing capacity is still fairly lethal to the ladies. I then walked her to her car, gave her a hug, and quickly walked home. I smoked about five cigarettes in a row that night, trying to get the taste of sagging old, fat man skin off my lips. It did not work.
So I'm definitely not going to see this chick again. I've decided that if she calls or texts me, I would simply say that I met someone else. It won't be a complete lie. I have five more dates tentatively lined up in the next eight days. More recaps to come.
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