A few weekends ago, I was out with some girlfriends at a Capitol Hill bar. Per usual, the crowd was a mix of self-important twenty to thirty-somethings. The bar itself was a nicer establishment, a step up, if you will, from the seedy college bars just a few neighborhoods over that I was used to attending in college. We were standing at the bar, drinking our various cocktails, chatting and catching up with one another, when a group of guys approached us. They were nice enough, handsome, and from what I could tell, likely didn’t have any plans to murder us, and so we welcomed them into our group.
The guys were attentive, cordial, and acted in a gentlemanly fashion, meaning they told us we were pretty and bought us drinks. After about an hour of chatting and boozing it up on the company card of one of the gentleman lobbyists, the girls had to leave to go to a house party thrown by one of our friends from college. We thanked the boys for our drinks and were just about to leave, when one of the guys asked out loud, in front of everyone, if he could have my number. Having just gotten out of a relationship, I honestly wasn’t interested in meeting anyone. I had appreciated the conversation and the fact that the Koch Brothers were paying for my drinks, but I hadn’t planned on ever seeing these guys again. However, given the combination of the alcohol and me not wanting to look like a real bitch for turning this guy down in front of his friends, I gave him my number. My real number.
My friends and I left the bar that night, went to a house party, and of course ended the night at one of our favorite college bars. It was a mess. And it was awesome. I awoke the next morning with a pounding headache, the need to drink a pitcher of Gatorade, and a text message from the guy I’d met the night before. It was a simple, mature, “Hey, nice meeting you,” text that restored my faith in both men, as well as humanity.
I spent the morning nursing my hangover, watching three seasons of Parks and Rec on Netflix, and carrying on a decent text conversation with the guy, whom we’ll call Dave (because Dave is his name). We talked about our jobs, discussed where we went to college, and made plans to see each other the next weekend. I may not have been looking to date anyone, but Dave seemed like a decent enough guy, and if nothing else, a date with him would mean a night out at a restaurant, which would be a vacation from a night on my couch. We texted intermittently throughout the next few days and I was starting to get excited about our upcoming date.
It was a Wednesday night at about 8:45 when Dave texted me. Our conversation began innocently enough. We talked about our day, discussed the most recent news with Syria (we live in D.C.), and he asked me if I could recommend a new dry cleaner. Again, normal stuff. I was just about to tell Dave goodnight when he threw me for a loop.
Dave: 9:33pm “What are you wearing?”
At first I thought I read it wrong, surely this was a mistake. There’s no way that sweet, conservative Dave was trying to have phone sex with me….before our first date.
Me: 9:37pm “What?”
Dave: 9:37pm “What are you wearing?”
Nope. This wasn’t a mistake. Did he not get that I was taken aback? He didn’t even offer an explanation – just jumped straight back to the point.
Me: 9:40pm “You mean on our date? I don’t know where we’re going. Do I need to dress up?”
Dave: 9:41pm “No. Not on our date. What are you wearing now?”
I threw you a bone, Dave! That was your saving grace. Right there. That was it, you sick bastard.
Me: 9:45pm “Uh. Sweats. I’m about to go to bed.”
Dave: 9:47pm “Oh yeah, you’re in bed, are you?”
Wait. I said sweats. Like, the least sexy thing I could think of. My sweatpants are literally covered in bleach stains and spilled marinara. I’m wearing glasses. My hair is on my head. I have my retainer in. Maybe I should send him a Snapchat of this? Like, “THIS IS WHAT I LOOK LIKE. STILL TURNED ON, YOU SICK FREAK?”
Me: 9:51pm “Yep. Going to sleep. Have an early meeting. Super tired.”
Dave: 9:52pm “I’m wide awake. Want to tire me out? I could send you a picture…”
The fuck? I can’t. I just can’t. I hate men. Hate them. Hate them. Hate them. Unless this picture is from the future and involves you not being a pervert, two kids, a house in the suburbs, and a white Range Rover, I DON’T WANT IT.
Me: 9:53pm “No.”
Dave: 9:54pm “C’mon. Please?”
Oh, why didn’t you just say that before? Please? You’re so polite, Dave! That’s all I needed to hear. You’re such a gentleman.
Me: 9:55pm “No.”
Dave: 9:56pm “Your loss.”
Yes, Dave, you’re right. I am missing out by not getting you off via text message. This is my bad, Dave. My bad.
The next day, he texted me saying that he forgot he had a business trip the upcoming weekend and that he wouldn’t be able to make our date. I never responded. Honestly, if the dating world now requires me to put out before a first date, via my iPhone, I think I’d just rather buy a cat and be done with it.