The present installment from the DateChron brings the following lesson:
If you don’t have a ten-inch cock?
Don’t say you do.*
Among the first wave of the meat sniffers, this one seemed pretty groovy cool. Immediately picked up that I mentioned kink in my profile, astute enough to realize I said I couldn’t live without my glasses though I don’t wear them in my pics, we start to exchange messages. We quickly move on to instant messaging where we chat about things kinky, dark and sexy.
His talk is tall. Likes torturing girls he’s got tied. Sure, yah, he’ll be happy to fuck my shit up. Also, things like: if you were here now, this is the kind of thing I’d do to you/how I would make you suffer. This kind of chat makes me hot and slurpy. We (by which I mean Ipso and Izzo and I) nickname him The Marquis, for obvious reasons.
Oh, you like red wine, I’ll get you some, come on Saturday, we’ll have dinner. Then I’ll fuck you up and fuck you. Saturday it is.
Getting to his side of the world is a bit of an event, I’ve never been to the valley. I take the Red Line to the end and do the recky to find the restaurant at which we’re meeting. There’s a Starbucks down the way, and I camp out there.
Let me go back a little bit.
I’ve camped at Starbucks (the one by me) nearly all day. I left G’s before he got up so I could leave him alone on a weekend day. I fucked up my glasses outside of the pharmacy, they had slipped out of my bag and I managed to step backwards onto them as I looked for them and bent them. I twist the frame a back into a shape I can see until I get to an optical shop.
Six hours I burn at Starbucks, eating only a few bits of dried meat and fruit because I can’t afford much today or tomorrow. I had enough to pay for my entree tonight, and not much more, really. But something is going way wonky with me.
I’m confused and shaky. I’m hot and cold. I drink water, but it’s not right or enough or?? I’m addled. I leave in time to make it to an optical place on Lankershim before they close, but that puts me in NoHo like 2 hours before dinner. Then I sit at Starbucks and sign on, like I do.
And the Marquis is asking how things are, how I am and I don’t lie, I don’t feel well. And he is weird, not his usual dark and bemused tone. At one point he responds to something I typed with
“*swats your nose.*”
I suddenly feel really sick.
“I’m not a puppy.”
I do not mind puppies, but I am not one. Considering the week of sizzly chat, he describing his veritably insatiable sadism, me detailing the extents to which I ‘ve gone — I would have set his head on fire with the glare I leveled at the screen of my netbook.
“Aww, come on, don’t you want learn how to fetch and be petted?”
“No.” I was ready to call off the night, but there were a couple of problems with that. 1. G expected me to be out as late as the trains were going, if not later. 2. I was super hungry and kind of bonky and if I said no now, I’d be kind of a douche, and also I don’t know where I am very well, and I really really needed to eat something and maybe I’m just too fuzzy headed and have come to some assumption about his desire for a puppy altogether too brazenly. I hope.
It was half an hour before we were going to meet up at an Indian restaurant. I wanted to kiss my date from last night instead of meeting not-Marquis. I wanted to walk back to Mid-Wilshire instead of making it through dinner. I wanted to suck on an orange or something to fix my wonky glucose levels. I slip into the washroom at the starbucks and put on mascara and lipstick, take off a t-shirt that was over a tank top, freshen up as best I can having been out all day and I step outside to have a cig before I walk over to the restaurant. He txts me, with a kind of insistent edge, asking where I was. “Outside starbucks across the street smoking” He says he got us a table. I’m impressed that the place is hopping at this hour– it is not yet 4p.m. Good sign, right? I make my way towards the place, and when I get there I easily pick him out. Of the no one else there, he’s pretty easy to spot. (I saw him first.) I am struck that he is wearing a shirt buttoned all the way up with a thick cardigan (also buttoned.) I know it’s January, but it’s 70f outside. What’s with the bundled up?
I’m still in a tank top and baggy & paper thin pants. My clothes are starting to sag on me, after three weeks of walking.
The waiter asks if I want a drink. I want water, so badly. I ask for a mango lassi with dinner, hoping that sugar will ameliorate how fucked up I feel. The Marquis chats. And the more he chats, the more he admits. I have three bites of chicken and no rice and I drink the lassi and my head is on more securely but the body is pissed at me.
Which ultimately made an easy exit for this date. Because I know I don’t look well.
So, as he’s confessing, he gives away more and more that he doesn’t really like s&m, he wants to hold hands and do laundry together and pack picnics on saturdays. This doesn’t make me want to spend much more time with him. Not because I’m inherently squicked by ‘nillas (which is somewhat, but not always, the case), but because of the faking thing.
We change his name to Milquis.
Because sometime in the course of the evening, you’re going to have to show it off, and, fucker, if it’s not the whole ten inches you said it was, it will be only too fucking obvious that you don’t know how to count, which makes you stupid; you’re a liar, and thus an asshole; or you think I’m stupid whore.
And, despite reports to the contrary, I’m not a stupid whore.
*credit to G for this analogy