When I was 20 I had my first (and only) blind date ever.
It was an odd sort of date, the kind most (smart) people would have avoided like the plague, but being that I am immune to most diseases (also known as borderline retarded) I mightily forged on.
The year was 1992-ish. I was deep into my love of Skinny Puppy, The Young Gods, Coil and coincidentally, This Mortal Coil.
Yes, I know, you don't have to say it. I wore a lot of black and my hair was short and edgy. I wore tights with jean shorts and boots. I thought matte lipstick was cool.
I am aware of how completely dated this is. Get over it already.
I have discussed the circumstances of this date before, but to those of you new to my trail of tears, it went something like this:
I was at First Avenue (which you may or may not remember from the smash hit movie "Purple Rain") with my convenient "of the moment" bestest girlfriend, Kristi (I haven't bothered to change her name because the bitch stole my clothes. Eat it, Kristi, wherever the fuck you are now you southern redneck cashmere-cardigan stealer.)
We were dancing, in between taking turns to the ladies room with the flask of vodka. We were young and poor- go figure.
All night we were dancing by this group of three guys, one was tall, skinny and cute in a heroin-junkie sort of way, one was reeeeaaaalllly sadly Renaissance-y, and the other we didn't get a good look at, but he was tall, dark and vaguely cute, in a "I dye my hair myself and buy jeans I can't afford" sort of way. We flirted, we danced, we slurped from the flask. All was good.
1:30 came around (bar close at the time- LAME!), and we were winding down the booty-shakin. The lights came up, and the bouncers started looking for reasons to have something to talk about in that week's anger management group discussion.
We started making our way out, when all of a sudden this very tall, dark and apparently very quick stranger pushed something into my palm and swooshed away (my memory has him wearing a cape, but I may be mistaken) before I could even get a good look at him. Whatever it was I thought it would be best to stuff it in my bra, for safe keeping. Good thing it wasn't a stink bomb. Or razors.
Later that evening/morning I was getting ready for my 3.5 hours of sleep before I had to go to one of my two gross retail jobs (Hello! Can I help you? Can I listen to you talk about how your bunions make it hard to buy shoes? Can I help you find that perfect hunting-themed sweater for Father's Day? Can I? Can I????). I pulled off my bra and whoops! What's that? Oh yeah, what the hell did that guy give me? Can you catch the Herpes from a note stuffed in your tit sling? God,I hope not.
I picked it up, and there was a matchbook. A matchbook. I almost threw it away, but I decided to look inside, as I was unfamiliar with 70's Cruise ship mating customs but knew enough to take a peek.
Inside was a little note:
"Just moved back to town. No phone yet (pre-cell phone, if you can remember all the way back to the 1800's) but would like to meet. Coffee? Drop me a note.
My info: Gustav VonSmalls, 1234 Uptown place, Uptown Mpls, 50001.
I so desperately wanted to run there and do the "I'm reckless and want my life to be like a made-for-t.v. movie thing" that second, but I was drunk, and my boyfriend sleeping in the other room may have, maybe might have noticed. Oops. How unladylike of me.
So I waited three discretionary days, then I dropped him a note.
Then he sent one back. With a phone number.
Long, bad breakup story later (wait for installment #3, my impatient little peepers), me and Gustav were fused at the nether regions. Or, as I like to call it- newly dating.
But there was an issue. A big/small issue.
An issue I was aware of, but honestly didn't really give a shit about until the subject was broached on that fateful day.
"Are you sure it isn't a problem?"
"What do you mean?"
"You know- how small it is."
"Oh, I didn't even notice." (this is a blatant lie)
"Really? Don't you think it's too small?"
"No! It's fine! Really!" (Um, yes, but I'm willing to overlook it for that thing you do with...you know.)
"Are you sure? My last girlfriend had a problem with it." (I remember this conversation exactly as this is the FIRST time I will hear the phrase "my last girlfriend" where it won't make me want to vomit)
"Totally sure. Everything is great." (Not a total lie yet, but it will be.)
(he smiles) "That's good. That makes me happy."
(I smile) "Great!" (not the least bit forced)
Cut to 9 months later (no, not THAT sort of nine months you freaks. Do you honestly think I'm qualified to give birth? Hello?). I think things are great- me and Gustav are an "item", I know all of his friends really well, I hang out at their apartment all the time, I cook for them, I loaned them furniture, and I don't even mind that really slutty girl that seems to be "working" her way through the group- I know my Gustav is just being nice to a wayward soul...right?
I had my suspicions. I wasn't that dumb, or stupid, or not smart.
I knew a slutty girl when I was/saw one, dammit. And I had every right to ask the questions I did.
"That Alison girl-(again, why change the name when they were a total whore?) is there anything going on there with you two?"
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, you seem to be spending a lot of time with her and not me. She just seems sneaky and diseased to me, if you want to know the truth. Are you two involved?"
"She's a nice person and we're friends- that's all!"
"O.k. fine. Whatever."
So I did what any rational, sane girl would do. I drove by his place approximately 45 times that night he was "hanging out" with his "friend" Alison. I may or may not have parked my car and tried to peek in the windows. I may or may not have seen absolutely nothing. Zip. No one may or may not have been at home.
The next day I decided to prove what a good girlfriend I was and bring my boy some coffee and a muffin (raspberry caramel, not the dirty kind you evil monkeys).
I pushed the buzzer for the apartment.
His roommate, C, answered.
"Hey, is Gustav home? It's Whiskey."
"Hey Whiskey, I don't know if he's home or not, you can come in and check." (seriously. The apartment was ginormous and really spread out. They sometimes didn't see each other for weeks.)
I was buzzed in, went into the apartment, then proceeded to Gustav's bedroom- way in the back.
When I opened the door, there it was: Gustav enjoying what (I assume) was a post-coital cigarette NAKED with the slut, Alison. (Mind you, I enjoyed a lengthy bout of promiscuity in my early 20's that was nearly legendary. If I say slut, I mean it.)
"WHAT THE FUCK???????"
"Um, Whiskey!" (This was muffled as I had slammed the door and was stomping down the hall- shaking and plotting two separate, but grisly, deaths.)
Yeah. He cheated on me. Asshole.
I wouldn't have been nearly as pissed, but I had asked him point blank the day before if something was going on. THE FREAKING DAY BEFORE.
He was weak.
I guess a two-inch penis, third nipple, and really really odd lump on your back might do that to a guy. (no, sadly I am not exaggerating or fabricating here. Honest. Girl Scout's honor. I wouldn't lie about something so...so.)
Don't EVER tell me I wasn't a good girlfriend- that's all I'm sayin'...
Hope you found a really understanding woman.
You need it.