Sometimes you wanna go where everybody knows your blog. (You’re supposed to sing that in the tune of the Cheers theme song.) (And actually I think only three people know about my blog there.) I facking went to BOSTON for a Tinder date! (I should probably drop the word “facking” and start using “wicked” for this particular blog.) So how did this happen? And is it too late for me to start writing in present tense?
Flashback: One Month Ago
His profile picture is of him and another chick. I have to say, I like this. Not in a kinky way, and certainly not if it’s their wedding photo. But a guy who shows he has girl- friends is cool by me. I have tons of guy friends. I’m guessing it’s probably his sister, which also makes for a sweet picture.
Our first messages are pretty casual.
Me: Hey man!
Him: Loving the pics you have- def seem to be having a lot of fun:)
(Already he passes one test. He’s knows “a lot” is two words.)
Me: I do! I’m one of those “happy to be alive” people:)
Him: That’s good to hear!
A few days later, I notice he’s now 3000 miles away. It turns out he was only in Toronto to visit family, and is now back home. I figure since I’m never going to meet him, I can reveal my dirty, little Tinder secret. (No, not date #19.5, ya pervs.) I send him a message.
Well, you totally dodged a bullet by returning home. I blog about my Tinder dates. I’m a writer/comedian.
We decide to add each other on Facebook. I figure that’s probably all I’m going to hear from him and then I get this message:
Ok so a few things:
1.) Your blog is freakin hilarious- I was dying laughing while reading it. People were staring at me but I didn’t give a shit- you are seriously funny
2.) Love that you had the balls to do this.
3.) I 100% want to go on a date with you when I’m in Boston for work next month. Hell, I’ll fly you down there to make it happen!
Haha! He MUST be kidding. As weeks go by, we continue to message each other. He comments on my dates. He’s charmed by my love for beer and wings, and mentions he doesn’t wear a lot of plaid. We’re both the same age too. We continue to bond, but I assume the offer to Boston was just something that slipped out when he was drunk. It’s probably not responsible for me to go anyway. I have gigs out of town all weekend, I’m going to Maui on Sunday, and I should really be picking up shifts at my bar job to make money for my trip. But then…
So, flights to Boston are way over $1000, but I can easily fly you on points. Is that cool? I can get you to Boston for 4pm on Wednesday- I finish work around then. Can fly you out anytime the next day. You choose a rough time. In terms of hotel, I won’t be presumptuous to assume you would want to share my room- although amusingly I have two double beds so you are welcome for sure- otherwise you can find something too. Let me know and I’ll book it all:)
HOLY FACK. Am I really going to do this? I’m scared. Am I creeping up on hooker territory? Hold up- I don’t have to put out if he flies me there on points, do I? Oh shit- am I a POINTS HOOKER? FAAAAAAACK!
I decide that this is the exact kind of crazy shit I like to do with my life. I’m doing it. I’m going. But I’m buying my own hotel, just in case. (And to feel like less of a hooker.) This is the craziest thing I’ve ever done in my life! Okay, second craziest. The first is probably that time I moved to Huntington Beach for a guy I met in a Vegas nightclub who convinced me I was his soulmate.
When the ticket pops up in my email I nearly shit my pants. I tell all my friends I’m going to Boston on a Tinder date, and their enthusiasm is split with fear. I let them see his Facebook profile, and that gets me the thumbs up to go. (Tough screening process, eh?) They’re actually excited for me, though they do make jokes like,
“So, when are you leaving to get murdered?”
“Can I see a picture of your murderer again?
One of my friends writes down his full name, email, phone number, etc. At least if I do get murdered, he’ll totally get caught. Yay for justice!
I go online to look for hotels in Boston. The prices are WAY out of my budget. I go back and forth contemplating just staying with him. He really does seem normal, and nice, but my instincts have been wrong before. (Like when I thought the remake of Melrose Place was going to be a smash hit.) One of my friends suggests trying Airbnb. I’ve heard good things, so I opt for that. I find a chick to stay with in South Boston. I can’t help but laugh at the irony of my plan. I’m too scared to stay with a guy I’ve been online bonding with for the last month, but I will pay money to stay in the home of a total stranger.
On the way to the airport, I’m so facking excited. I’m sure I have Taylor Swift “I just won!” face the whole ride there. I’m also really nervous. I wonder if this is how mail order brides feel when they’re going to meet their dudes… It’s also a welcome change for me to be going on a trip so short. I don’t even have to check luggage. I just bring a duffle bag. I don’t pack any body mist, because of the liquid/gel ban. If I need to, I’ll just rub deodorant in any areas I want to smell good. I also pack my hairbrush. Not because I plan on using it. It’s just a DNA supply for the Boston cops, in case I go missing.
In the boarding area, I don’t even have a beer. Who in the world goes to an airport and DOESN’T have a drink or two before they board the plane? But I’m on a natural high right now, and I really want to be sharp when I meet him. This is no time for a Date #17 repeat. (I’m really learning here, folks.) I decide to buy my Airbnb host a present from Toronto instead. I know technically I’m a customer, but I still feel like you should bring something to someone’s home when you’re a guest. Fridge magnet of the CN Tower it is!
When I land in Boston, he texts me to make sure I got in okay. It’s a gorgeous day. I get on the Silver Line (free from Logan airport- very cool welcoming gift for a big, American city.) The people are friendly too. Everybody’s smiling at me. (I also can’t help notice how many men here look like Fred Armisen.)
I have no trouble finding my Airbnb. My roommate for the night is totally cool. She even has a little bottle of wine with a glass wrapped up as a welcoming gift. I notice she has a cracked iphone screen. As per the drinking game that’s been discussed in former blogs, I decide this means I should have a few sips of wine. Now I’m off to the Fenway Park area, to meet my murderer.
I get to the bar a little early. (I’m better navigating around this city than I thought I’d be.) The beer list is extensive (he picked the meeting place. Clearly he already knows how to impress me.) I order a beer, then the bartender asks,
“Can I see your ID?”
You KNOW I love this. I hand over my license.
“Do you have anything else?”
I have my Health card too, but Americans never consider that a real ID. Or do they now, cuz of Obama Care?
“Do you have your passport?”
I tell him “No.” I purposely left my passport in my room, as I always do when I’m in a foreign city, and plan on drinking. I’m always paranoid I’m going to lose it.
“Sorry. I can’t serve anybody from out of the country who looks under 25 without a passport. Boston is a really strict city. You’re probably gonna have trouble everywhere without it.”
Fack! I don’t have time to go get it. Can’t wait to ask my date if he wants to spend the night in Jamba Juice instead. I decide to try the bar across the street, just in case. Sure enough, I don’t even get ID’d. Bless! (But bless the other bartender too, for thinking I look under 25.) I text my date, and tell him to meet me across the street.
I sit at the bar, enjoying my Harpoon IPA, when from behind me, I hear,
I turn around, and there he is. He’s even better looking than his pictures. Here’s my Richard Gere, and me, his Julia Roberts. (But I’m not in a dress. I’m in jeans and my Toms.) On my last date, I was completely enchanted by a kind, broke guy. Now, here comes the financially secure, world traveller. Clearly the universe is fucking with me.
I stand up and we hug. He gives me a kiss on the cheek too. We sit down, and the first date interview begins.
“So, I gotta ask. Where did you get your picture pose from?”
Bahahahaha! Yes, I do tend to make the same face in every photo. People notice, but don’t often ask where I got it from.
“I’m not gonna lie. I saw Drew Barrymore make that face in a movie from the mid 90’s called Boys on the Side. I love Drew Barrymore. I started making the face for pictures, and it kind of stuck.”
(Though, if you check my Instagram, somewhere I posted a picture from when I’m a baby on a rocking horse making the SAME face. Weird, eh?)
He asks me more questions in regards to my Tindering, blogs and life. I ask him about his Tinder experiences, where he’s from, and his job (I still don’t really know what he does- I do, however, know he’s NOT a murderer. Phew.)
He goes to the washroom- oh wait! We’re in America. Let me rephrase that-
He goes to the restroom, and I wave the bartender down to pay the bill. When he returns, he says,
“But I thought getting the cab was your move?”
“Yeah, but you flew me here. You get special treatment.”
As I stand up, he grabs my jacket and helps put it on me. (Don’t worry- I’m not drunk yet, he’s just being a gentleman.) We head to our next venue, a restaurant in Allston called Deep Ellum. It’s a super cool hipster spot. Thank God I wore my glasses. We ask the bartender to suggest a good beer of the hoppy nature, and then decide to split a bunch of dishes: pork belly, mac n cheese and (obviously) wings. Over dinner, the bonding continues. I learn all about the loves of his life. I’m totally interested in each and every one. He confesses he’s recently divorced. (I’m surprised I haven’t encountered more divorced guys at my age.) I love how freely these stories come out. Our comfort level is through the roof. Why shouldn’t it be? We really only have tonight.
I find myself telling him things I never tell anyone. Secrets. Things I’m not proud of. I think there’s a certain fearlessness during this kind of date. I know none of his friends. He knows none of mine. We don’t even live on the same continent. Plus, there’s no confusion about where this is going- or not going. A relationship at this point is impossible.
I finally make the dumbest confession of all…
“I looked all over your Facebook, and could NOT find your birthday, which means I don’t know what sign you are. It’s driving me nuts.”
“I’m not going to tell you… I’m gonna make you guess. But for every guess you get wrong, I get a kiss.”
Guys, I’m melting! Am I getting too soft? Sometimes I’m such a Kate Beckinsale in Serendipity.
“Haha! Great idea! Okay… lemme think… Pisces?”
Woot woot! I got it wrong! I wonder if he’s gonna kiss me now, or wait til the smell of my pork belly burp subsides… Our table space is tight, and I might burn my hair on the candle if I lean over the table. Then he says,
“I’ll cash in on that kiss after dinner.”
He’s probably not a PDA guy. Fair enough. We finish dinner. The server offers a dessert menu (nice job with your steps of service, buddy.) I tell him,
“No thanks. I don’t have a sweet tooth. I have an alcoholic tooth.”
We walk down the street to the Sunset Grill and Tap. They have a bagillion beers on tap.
I’m gonna say it right now. We, as Canadians, have been mocking Americans for having shit beer for years. But you know what? They got better! They really have! I’ve been drinking local Massachusetts craft beers and they’re deluxe. And guys, you can take it from me. I’m a beer connoisseur. He looks over at me and says,
“I’m ready for that kiss now.”
He leans over, and kisses me. It’s a wicked great kiss. He tastes amazing. (Well, he tastes like Makers Mark, to be exact. Yum.) This night has been powerful. I’m getting turned on. But can I really sleep with him? You know my rule. No one night stands. At best, I can do the two night stand. I need the buffer day, to see if you’re rude to me the morning after I say “no” to sex. But the problem is, we only have one night…
To Be Continued…
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