My teenage self was a fully fledged emo kid; a streak that runs pretty wide in me to this day. Boys with tattoos, nose rings, and silly hair have always been my kryptonite. My teenage self was also painfully insecure about her physical appearance and projected absolutely zero confidence, a trait I have thankfully outgrown.
Ben checked every single one of those kryptonite boxes. And then some. And he was interested in me. Seventeen year old Sarah would never have believed that someday she would get to touch a man that looked like he did. Shit, she wouldn’t have even known what to say to one. Thirty-five year old Sarah, on the other hand, is a motherfucking maneater.
We talked for a few days and found that we had an inordinate amount of common ground. We liked the same music, movies, art, podcasts, he’s even traveled in Europe. (Almost no one I encounter in Oklahoma is well-traveled. The lifestyle here just doesn’t allow it for the vast majority of people). We arranged a date, and I was incredibly excited.
We met at a small restaurant in my small town on a Thursday night last Summer. Unbeknownst to me, that meant we’d get to experience the phenomenon that is ‘Singo’. A guess-the-song game based on Bingo. It was 80s themed, and Ben won. During dinner, he told me what a great time he was having. I agreed. We had so much in common, and there was no end of conversation topics for us.
As I drove us to our next stop, a dive bar I had never visited but thought would be fun, he asked for permission to touch me. I gave it. I thought he would put a hand on my thigh, but instead I felt his hand on the back of my neck. He ran it up into my hair. His grip was firm, and I was instantly turned on. I parked at the bar and asked if I could kiss him. He said yes, and I practically leapt across the car at him in a move that was perhaps a little more aggressive than I had intended.
We went inside and quickly discovered that it was karaoke night. The crowd was a people-watchers dream. We settled ourselves in at the bar, ordered beers, and looked around. There was a very large, bearded man performing his best rendition of Shania Twain’s ‘Man, I Feel Like a Woman’. A woman who was reminiscent of a grown-up LuAnn from King of the Hill sang a Miranda Lambert number, working the crowd the whole time.
Ben and I had a blast. Talking, laughing, singing, and drinking all night. It was the best first date I had been on in a very long time. I was intensely attracted to him, and when the karaoke wrapped up we went back to my house.
I fumbled with his belt, and he fumbled with my bra. It was all pretty fumbly to begin with, but we found our groove and within seconds he had his face between my thighs, with no complaint from me. The sex was great, not mind-blowing, but great. He lived an hour away and had drunk too much to drive home, so I let him stay the night. We both had work the next day, and thus alarms were set, and we went to sleep.
The following morning I offered him breakfast and coffee, which he declined. The dude threw on his clothes and literally ran barefoot out of my house at 5am. I was perplexed, to say the least.
He texted to say what a wonderful time he had had with me and that he wanted to go out again soon. I pressed to schedule something, but he was non-committal. I gave it a week, and he became more distant. I believe in transparency, so I asked him about it. I explained that I’d had a wonderful time and was keen to see him again, that he had expressed the same, but that his actions were giving me cause to question his words. The two did not match at all. He gave reassurances. He had a lot on his mind, but he didn’t want to talk about it, though he definitely wanted to see me again.
I gave him space, but eventually I confronted him again. This time I was more blunt. ‘None of your actions give the slightest implication that you are interested in me. That’s fine, but just say it so I don’t waste my time.’ Finally, he admitted that he had run into an ex at a show, and they were rekindling something. He wanted to explore it. We wouldn’t be seeing each other again. He said we could stay friends, still talk about podcasts and books and music. But no more dates.
I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t disappointed, but hey, at least I got to fuck the punk boy of my dreams. My teenage self would be so damn proud. We still talk now and then, just small talk. He’s still with the ex-ex and he appears to be happy. Good for him!
Still pretty delighted that we fucked though. And it was a really awesome first-last date. *high fives in emo*
Fat and Slutty 