By the middle of 2005, I had determined beyond a shadow of a doubt that my sole purpose in life was to provide entertainment for my parents. I would go through an embarrassing date. They would laugh. It was a cycle that continues even to this day. Thank you internet blogs.
Anyway, the first part 2004 had been a series of useless blind dates. I don't know why I ever agreed to them. If I could justify it, I would say it was nothing more than a feeling of obligation to friends. I don't feel that way anymore, so don't get any ideas. After multiple mundane dates, none of which I ever initiated, I was pretty tired of the whole thing. Now, I tell you, I have been on dates that were nothing more than dinner, a movie, or even a ballgame. For the record, those women who wanted nothing more than to go a Reds game immediately became more interesting. There was nothing to the others to really talk about, because they were all rather pedestrian.
And then, Angie reared her head. You would think that with her track record, she would have quit while she was behind. Not Angie. Sporting the memory of an NFL cornerback who's just been burned for a long td pass, Angie charged into the arena, grabbed the bull by the horns, and [insert metaphor here]. Seriously, Dave and Angie had been privy to the dating expoits of yours truly for several years. Mostly, it was because we had dinner together often. Through every story, Angie never offered to set me up.
When July, 2005, rolled around, I had not been on a date in almost a year. I guess I had reached the magic number of months flying solo, and Angie decided I needed a night out with female companionship. Dave called me, and, I swear on all that is holy, his first words to me were, "I'm sorry." Anyway, after Angie grabbed the phone away from Dave, she told me that they were going out on Friday, and I was going with them. There was no asking. There was only telling. She then informed me that she had a friend who had met me at one of the Saturday races, and wanted to go out. I ran through the mental list of females that would have been at Dave's house, both of them. There aren't that many woman who are interested in racing little cars around a track.
"Your babysitter? Are you serious? What is she, 19?"
"She's 23, and she is a nice girl. A little wild, though."
" And I, at the ripe age of 39, strike you you as the proper date for this kid?"
"Stop. You don't look 39, and she thought you were funny. Don't worry about the age thing." Then, Angie dropped her go to argument. "Besides, it's just dinner, not a marriage proposal. You need to get out and have some fun." That statement was used against me just two weeks ago, by yet another friend for the exact same purpose.
"She's too young. I would feel creepy."
"If you don't say yes, Dave and I will drive to your house and pick you up. You're going."
Wait. Who's going to babysit for you if I'm with the babysitter?"
"I have another girl."
"Do I have to go out with her at some point in the future?"
"Ha. Ha. Not funny. She's 16"
"It's just dinner, not marriage."
"Keep it up, smartass. You're going, or else."
And that was that. No more discussion. She was serious. My hope was that I could play it off as not a date. Perhaps it would just be friends getting together for dinner. Yeah, I could do that.
Friday rolled around and I went to the club/restaurant/bar type place. It was in Covington, and it was really pretty cool. The building had several floors, and each floor was a different type of club. This was the only time I'd ever been, so if the details are fuzzy, forgive me. One floor had a country bar, One had a jazz club, one was a restaurant, and one was a dance club - my destination.
I stepped off the elevator, walked in, and soon discovered it was 80's night. Yay. An older crowd. The heavy set middle aged pedophile dating the babysitter would never stick out here.
I stood there surveying the crowd when I felt a hand on my shoulder. It was Dave. We shook hands, gave the guy hug, and I followed him to the table. Angie and , I am not kidding, I did not change the name, it was really CANDY, stood up when we got to the table. This was the point when I got to take stock of the situation. Dave and I were both wearing basic shirts, jeans, and tennis shoes for me, casual dress shoes for Dave. Angie and Candy were wearing little dresses that barely went high enough or low enough in all the important places. That was not to mention the high heels. Despite the fact I was there as the escort for the youngster (curious choice of words, I know. Since she looked like my escort, if you know what I mean.), I'm still a guy. My first thought was...DAMN!
We sat down, ordered some drinks, and began the ceremonial dance. There was the usual small talk. What do you do? Do you like it? How long have you known Dave and Angie? What do you want to be when you grow up? You know, the basics.
About 15 or 20 minutes into the conversation, Candy managed to reduce the rest of us to sputtering imbeciles when she blurted out this gem (parapahrasing not necessary, because this one is seared into my memory. SEARED) - "I like to be tied to the bed. Is that a problem for you?"
My eyes were about 3 times normal size for a few seconds. I mean, really, how does one respond? What is the proper segue from that? "Dave, let's dance." And with that, Angie ushered her husband to the floor so as not to deal with it. Coward.
So, how did I, master communicator, Mr Suave, handle a thorny question like that? "It's not really my thing, but I'm always willing to try something new." LIE, LIE, and then LIE some more. I did notice through this that Angie kept looking at me from the dance floor. She actually looked apologetic. Or it might have been gas.
Anyhow, the rest of the evening wasn't quite so shock inducing, until Candy got me to the dance floor. My friends know I don't dance, but Candy was insistent. That girl was like a force of nature. There really was no saying no to her. She hopped up, grabbed my and hand and practically dragged me out there.
"I really don't dance."
"Don't worry. Just stand there, move a little, and I will make you look good."
The next 6 minutes were the longest of my life. There was a fast tune on, and I faked it as best I could. Apparently, Dave was trying hard not laugh, and Angie repeatedly hit him on the arm. Did I mention it was 80's night? The fast tune ended, and then, the most uncomfortable song in the history of the world began. Oh, it wasn't uncomfortable until that moment, and I can't really listen to it now without certain psychological and physical reactions. The doctors chalk it up to PTSD.
The culprit? Terence Trent D'Arby's "Sign Your Name". Look it up http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tWJexBuAF60. Give it a listen. It has a sensual, snake-like quality. Candy began gyrating, and rubbing, and I was the pole. It took about 20 seconds for it to sink in. I looked at Angie and Dave. I probably looked like a man who just realized he was about to die. Angie's mouth was open. Her face was red. Dave started to laugh.
I wanted something, anything, to happen that would take the focus off this X-rated dance. Really. A fire. Explosion. Trained hippo. Anything. Candy was pressing against me in full view of everyone, and I do mean everyone in the room. I have never had that many women look at me so disapprovingly, while simultaneously have men raise their glasses, giving the "Way to go" nod.
At some point in the dance, Angie had moved beyond horror to something else. I hesitate to describe it, because we all know the look. She was biting the tip of her index finger. She was enjoying it. Scratch that. From what Dave told me the next day, I know she was revelling in it. Gee Dave, anytime my public humiliation leads to you having awesome white hot monkey sex with your wife, you're welcome.
I managed to work my way off the dance floor before the song was over, and before any unfortunate physical manifestations became evident. To this day, I have not stepped back on a dance floor. The atmosphere at the table had changed quite a bit after that. It was...charged, to say the least.
After dinner, we made our way to the cars. Candy did not expect me to go home with her, since I had made that clear with Angie before I ever said I'd go. It didn't stop her from trying. I just didn't think that was the way to go. She settled for a good night kiss, and I am pretty sure she was trying to lick my brain. She didn't do anything halfway. She also asked me to call her again.
After she drove off, I turned to Dave and Angie. Dave just stood there, not knowing what to say. Angie gave me a hug, and smiled a devilish grin. "I told you she was a little wild." The woman has an understated grasp of the word 'little'.
Angie never tried to set me up again. Mostly because I moved to Florida the next year. She keeps threatening to come down here and find a woman for me, but I know she means well. Meanwhile, somewhere in Eastabutchie, there is laughter. Loud. Boisterous. Laughter.
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