About a week and a half ago I went on a date with a 21-yr-old.
Fittingly, I met T. on myspace. (I’m not proud of that.) He messaged me one afternoon out of nowhere, writing only this: “I just have to tell you how beautiful you are.”
I hate to admit it, but I laughed quietly to myself when I received this and I thought, “That’s sweet.”
I messaged him back, “That’s nice of you to say.”
I couldn’t tell what he looked like because his avatar was some sort of comic book character with three eyes. (That should have been a sign, I know, I know.)
I noticed the “21” next to his picture right away. And then I laughed quietly to myself again.
“No way,” I thought.
But he continued to message me. These mostly consisted of far-fetched compliments, that, although my ego loves to be stroked, I knew were somewhat over the top. But I kept replying because I was flattered and curious. (Most men don’t find me irresistibly beautiful. True story.) And, eventually, I agreed to go out with him.
Now, before you chastise me (I know I deserve to be chastised), please take some time to understand my reasoning behind this decision.
I was not looking to fall in love, no. I was looking to have fun with what I thought may result in some sort of refreshing dialogue with someone untainted by the cold harsh world, someone still budding with optimism, vivre and vitality. Someone who just might have a very healthy sex drive.
I agreed to meet him after work at a coffee shop. He agreed to meet me after his final class of the day (again, not proud).
When I walked into the coffee shop, I noticed a young looking man in the back. He was wearing jeans that were much too big for him and a black down jacket, with a comic book character etched on the right shoulder. He waved at me. I gathered I was in the right place. He was cute enough, but thin like a 21-yr-old boy usually is…like someone whose body hasn’t yet received that final dose of testosterone, someone who is just entering that final phase of post-puberty, if you can refer to it as that.
I smiled at him; he smiled at me. We bought some tea and sat down. The first five minutes of the conversation revolved around ordinary day-to-day activities; where each of us lived, what I did for a living, what he was studying, etc.
The second five-minute interlude revolved around him and his 32-year-old ex-girlfriend’s abortion. Why he felt the need to bring that up…still beyond me. I mean, I’m pretty crazy, and I have in the past talked crazily about things that were inappropriate (like my tendency to count steps as I go up them, for instance), but even I don’t think the first ten minutes of a first date is the proper time to bring up an abortion.
I also discover that T. makes a habit of dating older women. And, by his estimation, at 25 I’m a little young for him.
“Interesting,” I think. In order to ease out of the slightly depressing abortion talk, I suggest we go on a walk around the loop.
As we walk outside T. throws around “Fuck this’s” and “Fuck that’s” about the cold and the snow. He sounds like I did when I was 17 and I used to work at IHOP and smoke menthol lights in the back room. I’m no saint when it comes to swearing, but I can’t really get behind using cuss words as a regular adjective/verb/noun. In between his articulate musings he tells me about how much he likes to have sex, how he wants to meet someone and move in with them, his gastro intestinal problems and how much women like his slim physique.
He keeps bumping into my arm and I think he is trying to hold my hand. But I don’t want to touch him. He asks me if I’m hungry, mentioning that he has a gift certificate to Panera if I am. As we walk past a Walgreen’s he says that he would like to go in and get a candy bar because he’s a little bit hungry.
I oblige. We walk in he looks through some power bars, picks one up, and then wanders around. Before I know it, he looks at me and says with a bit of urgency, “I put it back, come on, let’s go.”
As he practically plows through the front door, I scramble to follow after him (I don’t know why). When we get outside he extends his hand from the inside of the sleeve of his coat. His hand is holding the $2 power bar that he had said he put back.
He looks at me triumphantly and says, “There was no fucking way I was going to pay $2 for this.” He puts the candy bar in his mouth and as he chews little pieces of chocolate get stuck on the corners of his mouth.
I’ve had enough. Stealing, like most things, is ok given certain circumstances. It can even be fun given certain circumstances. But stealing a candy bar on a date ceases to be attractive after the age of 14. I simultaneously wonder if this kid was lying about being even 21 and where the semi-retarded 32-yr-old woman is who would date and bed him.
Forty-five minutes into the “date” I stammer, “I really, really have to go. My cat needs me. She’s a kitten. She…uh…she….needs to see me.”
I don’t even care enough to come up with a good lie. I see the next EL
stop and run down the stairs. I don’t even hug him goodbye or shake his hand.
Now, though, at least I can say I went on a date with a 21-yr-old. Upon re-examination of my past, I realize that I’ve never actually dated someone who was 21. 20 or 22. But not 21. Now I know why.
February 10, 2007 at 5:29 pm
[...] story the next time you have coffee talk or cocktails with your girlfriends, it soon turns into the klepto thing, or even worse, the two-week thing. If I had been drunk I would’ve made out with him and [...]
February 16, 2007 at 4:41 am
Obviously the woman was using him for sex and power bars.