I had the weirdest date last Saturday with a guy named Curtis. We meet on one of the online dating sites and trading phone numbers. His profile had all the photos in it set to “private” mode and I couldn’t even tell what he looked like in the beginning. His first emails to me indicated that he knew me from somewhere. Hmmmm. I usually won’t respond to people that don’t have at least one picture visible their personal ad because it usually means they’re hiding something or just plain butt-ugly. Finally after some finagling, he “unlocked” his pictures and I see that he's a cute guy I spoke to once, maybe 3 years ago and that was it. He dropped off the face of the earth and all was forgotten or so it seems.
He gives me his phones number and I call him that night. After exchanging a few pleasantries, he launches into a long story about how his dog had misplaced, deformed balls and how he’d tried to physically push his dog’s balls back into a more suitable position with his fingers. I didn’t know what to say to this, so I just started laughing.
“What?" Curtis stops and questions.
Laughing my ass off, “I can’t believe you’re talking about fiddling with your dog’s balls, Curtis.”
“Why…what?” Curtis seemed genuinely puzzled.
“We’ve just met and you’re talking about your dog’s balls…get it?”
Well, he didn’t get it, so I let it drop. I chalked it up to him being nervous and even found it sorta cute. I do like guys that are unpolished (to a degree) and “real”. He invites me over to his place to watch a DVD that Saturday, but I suggest getting coffee at Starbucks instead. He seems disappointed but agrees. I‘m no shrinking violet, but I prefer not to meet somebody at his house for the first date.
I get there first on Saturday evening and take a table near the windows with my large peppermint tea to wait. He shows up fifteen minutes later and I’m somewhat taken aback by how attractive he is. I instantly decide to forgive his weirdness on the phone the other night. Pretty people get more “do-overs”, don’t they?
Folks, I'm here to tell you that 90 seconds after he sat down at the table he launches into this long story about being car-jacked when we stopped to buy gas at a service station in the red-light district of neighboring, Gastonia. I have no idea what prompted this story, but out it came with a vengeance. The story was awful as you might guess. He’s sitting in his car with his doors unlocked after having pumped his gas and a black man comes up to his car window and asks him if he wants to buy some “shit”. Curtis says no, but before you know it, the black man is in the car with a gun on him and tells him to drive. He makes Curtis drive across the road and out into a field by an adult bookstore and then tells him to get out of the car. Curtis is begging for his life and crying the whole time. The man says that he’s going to fuck him and then kill him. For some reason he decides to just kill him, foregoing the ass and tells Curtis to start walking toward the tree line of the nearest forest. Curtis starts running and zigzagging, shots are fired and the man drives off with his car. They find his car later that night, up on blocks and missing the expensive chrome rims. The police aren’t very nice to Curtis. They want to know what- the- hell a nice, white boy was doing down in the “hood” in the first place. People only come here for drugs or sex they tell him and roll their eyes at him when he says he just stopped for gas. I too, know that area and where that service station is located (surrounded by two adult bookstores, a Family Dollar and a liquor store) and wonder why he’d stop there to buy gas. Was he really that trusting and stupid ? Why didn’t he have his car doors locked?
After the story is finished and I’ve: “You poor guy” and “That must have been awful!” about two dozen times he tells me that since I wouldn’t come to his house, he’d made other plans with his straight friends to go to a BBQ for the rest of the evening and he was sorry, but he had to go. I felt like he was trying to punish me for not coming over to his house and it stung.
He’d done it again, launched into some weird, long story and filled up all the time and never asked me one question about myself. Guys, what does that signal, a guy that talks about himself the whole time and never asks you any questions? I could have been a devil-worshipping, Nazi, opera singer that got into scat and cross-dressing for all he knew. I walk him out to his car and shake his hand goodbye.
Curtis seems at a loss for words but manages to squeak out, “We ought to do, this…uh…uh… again, sometime, ya know.”
His offer was so lackluster and pitiful that I just barely nod my head in agreement. I do ask him if that ordeal made him believe that he had a guardian angel looking over him that night. He shakes his head no and says that he believes it was God showing him what could happen when you go out to meet strangers (apparently he'd been on the way back from trickin' with someone he'd just met on the internet when he got car-jacked). Curtis says that all in all it was a good thing ‘cause he was a sexual addict at that time and he’d needed to be woken up to his "sin". Hmmmm. It’s been a week and I haven’t heard from him again. Usually, I'm disappointed when this happens but somehow I don't really care this time. I think I dodged a bullet, don’t you?
Ya’ll be good and stop laughing at my rotten luck.