Self-restraint is not something that comes easily for me. I have trouble turning down invitations to anything, and I’ll even commit to multiple things on the same day knowing full well I’m going to have to flake at some point on one of them. After a weekend that saw me get a total of something around 12 hours of sleep, I needed a break from the bar scene and the vices that come along with it. My last weekend out involved a Friday night that didn’t end until 6:00 a.m. the next morning, which was then followed by a trip to Navy Pier where Kygo played in front a few thousand people all of whom were rolling their goddamn faces off. Fun times, for sure. But my God, I needed a weekend in.
Maria, a girl who I had met at a club downtown was all set to come over for dinner on Thursday night. In-home dates are great for obvious reasons. One, they’re infinitely cheaper than dining out, and two, they’re already in your apartment. It’s honestly like fishing with dynamite. The transition from living room table to bedroom is so seamless I don’t know why more people aren’t utilizing the in-home date more. As you may remember, Maria is not American. Because of this (and the fact that I am an ignorant xenophobe to the tenth degree), I had reservations about asking her to my place for the first date. I wasn’t sure if that was a normal thing for people to do on a first date in different countries and I thought there was a chance she would think I was super creepy for asking her to my apartment. It turns out that she didn’t, however, and we had some pretty good repartee going on via text message all week. Let’s put it this way: she was sending me a lot of texts containing “jajajajaja” which is Spanish for hahahaha, so I knew I was in like motherfucking Flynn.
I made chicken roulade, a very easy dish that takes no more than a half hour to make and looks a lot more intricate than it actually is. Using a meat hammer, the chicken is flattened out. It’s then rolled up with spinach, feta cheese, oregano, and garlic into circular “roulades.” Cooked partially in the oven as well as on stovetop, it makes for a satiating meal that acclaimed chef Gordon Ramsay calls “a tantalizing, very charming” dish. Paired with cous cous, a salad with garlic expressions (my personal favorite when it comes to dressing), a 2015 cabernet sauvignon and you have all of the fixings necessary for a sensual night in.
I had my new James Taylor Greatest Hits record on, and Maria seemed to like the vibe I was putting off as we finished dinner and sipped wine on my couch. She told me about her home country of Belize, how universities differ in South America compared to the US, and why she prefers blonde men to dark haired men (it’s because they’re a rarity there. Shocking, I know). She was throwing signs at me like a first base coach. And first base is exactly what I got to on that Thursday night. Making out on my couch like a couple of middle schoolers soon thereafter, we got interrupted by my roommate who got home from work around 8:00 o’clock. It was at this point that Maria decided she would call it a night, but she also promised that she would text me this weekend because she had a lot of fun and wanted to see me again. As I walked her out of my building down to the street where her Uber was waiting, I patted myself on the back for a successful night. I didn’t have intercourse, but nothing horrible happened and I truly believed I was starting to get the hang of this whole dating thing. Laugh out loud funny in retrospect.
Maria is the antithesis of the prototypical American girl. She speaks in a reserved, almost careful manner — in a way that only someone who didn’t grow up watching shitty reality television (i.e. Survivor, The Apprentice, etc.) and idolizing Britney Spears could. Absent is the word “like” as filler in her sentences. She doesn’t skirt around the point she is trying to make. When she speaks, she speaks with a purpose. In other words, Maria is not talking just to talk. The accent that accompanies her English is attractive, flirtatious… imperfect. Even when she’s talking about something as mundane as what her major was in college or her commute to work it sounds sensual. The best part about this is that I can tell she isn’t speaking like that for effect. That’s just her way. She’s cultured and worldly, but isn’t obnoxious about it.
She sways when she walks. It’s with purpose, but it’s not intimidating. Inviting, but at the same time guarded. For the life of me, I cannot get a read on this girl and I love it.
Just wholly different from any girl that one would meet at a bar on Friday night. But I had Maria over on Thursday night. And Friday night was reserved for seeing Allison. Allison, the quintessential American. Allison, the girl who considers Vanderpump Rules appointment television. Allison, who could have played D1 volleyball in California on a full ride but chose to go to a liberal arts school in Ohio instead.
We met for drinks and some overpriced appetizers post-work, where I had to pretend to care about her work friends boyfriend problems. The calamari was the only reason I was able to keep my cool as an in-depth, mostly one-sided discussion unfurled about the pros and cons of her friend leaving aforementioned boyfriend. Riveting stuff.
There’s a deep contrast between Maria and Allison, but both of them unique and interesting in their own way. Their qualities are not comparable because they are, for all intents and purposes, polar opposites. On two ends of a vast, complicated spectrum that we call the female population of Planet Earth.
Allison and I left the bar that was now beginning to fill up with patrons right around 7:30 p.m., just an hour and half after arriving, to go back to her apartment. This was under the guise that we were going to “let her dog out”. Nothing but smooth sailing tonight, right?
Her roommate was out of town for the weekend and we had their palatial 1400-square foot apartment to ourselves. Between the sex, the post-coital back and forth from bed to kitchen for glasses of ice water, and my pea-sized bladder, I was ready to burst. The post-sex pee is vastly underrated and nigh talked about. Few things feel better than that powerful stream hitting porcelain following a session. I foolishly walked into her bathroom with the confidence of a man who had just had sex, and who, for the time being, truly believed that he had the world by the balls. Following what seemed like a five-minute, dual-streamed pissing marathon, I climbed back into bed and sighed, quite satisfied with my night as I put my hands above my head and just sort of smirked at the ceiling. Allison’s lips were pursed and clenching my phone, which, up until then, did not have any sort of passcode set.
“So what did you and Maria have for dinner last night?” .
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