A Nashville Twin
My third night in Nashville, I went on a second first date (omg am I a math genius?) with another guy from Tinder. His name was Brendan or Brandon or Braden or something like that. Growing up in the eighties, we were always given the trope of someone who can’t remember the names of people they fucked as being some kind of a lothario or player, but the truth is it’s far more about how old you are, how much sex you have, and how many mothers named their fucking sons Andy in a single generation, amirite (try a little creativity eh? Marilyn). But I digress, what I really mean to say is that my ability to remember a man’s name is directly related to how boring the experience was. Good or bad, if nothing elaborate or transformative happens or if I don’t get to cum, then a dude can fuck right off because he’ll never get more than a nickname based on some obscure detail I can remember, if even that.
So back to, uh I don’t know, “Nashville Guy #2” (sorry bro). I remember that he was attractive enough, he was available, and he was proactive. By which I mean that he suggested a time and a place; he made a plan, and that was enough for me. While I could sit here and talk about how low of a bar that seemed to be (a man who can ask to see you and then set a time and a place), I was on vacation so that meant I was pretty much up for anything, even if I had to limbo to get there.
We met at a bar in downtown Nashville. He drank beers and I drank diet cokes and we talked and laughed and laughed and laughed. Was he particularly witty? Probably not, but he asked lots of questions and I asked lots of questions and we both told stories and made jokes, and we were both in good moods, and we were adults sexually attracted to each other. People will tell you all these terrible things about first dates, but honestly—unless you’re a total dud—it’s kind of hard to fuck up a first date, especially when at least one of you is on vacation. Because let’s be honest, vacation Vicki? That bitch is a good time. She’s practically laughing before you’ve even told the joke. I’m not saying that every first date is going to lead to the connection of a lifetime, far from it. But every adult should be able to make conversation for a few hours with someone new without it being a nightmare. The obvious caveat to this is when someone has lied with their pics or about their height or some other major detail that makes them seem sketch. Luckily, neither of us had done any of those things. Not to mention, there’s something to be said for leaning in and just having a good time because you want to. That’s what we were doing. Or maybe he found me majestic. I mean, obviously that’s a real possibility, but it’s neither here nor there.
The important part is that I was intrigued by him. I liked his southern accent. I liked how assertive he was (I had forgotten how much I deeply enjoyed that about Americans and confident men everywhere). I liked the way he said, “You’re good,” the same way I say, “No worries.”
While we were sitting at the bar, one of the musicians of the band walked around with a hat for tips. When he approached us from behind (out of my view), I had been so rapt by our conversation that he startled me and I screamed (like a totally normal person). I swear the bar went silent but that’s probably just a case of dramatic misremembering. At some point, we went to another bar for another set of beers and diet cokes, and before long he was asking if I wanted to come back to his place. I did.
I didn’t invite him back to my hotel because there was only a bed and a chair in my room, and in 2016 I was still doing things to make sure dates didn’t go too fast. In 2016, I would still purposely not shave my legs for a first date so that I’d have another reason to offer up other than, “I don’t fucking want to, yet” in response to the question, “should we fuck?”. In 2016, I was still putting up barricades to protect myself against the sweeping tide of male-boundary-crossing. But that night in Nashville, I had shaved my legs. I was ready to fuck.
So, when he said, “Do you want to come back to my place?” even though I had a perfectly good hotel room with a king-sized bed, and smooth as silk legs, I said, “Sure.”
Because I wanted to sit on a couch before we fucked. I wanted the sexual tension that builds in the time it takes to watch a movie, I wanted to talk and laugh more and then I wanted to feel that feeling when you know you both want to kiss and fuck but someone has to make the first move. I like the feeling of waiting for the first kiss. I like watching a man while he decides when and how to make the first move. I like watching him struggle, just a little, as a treat.
Outside the bar, we went to our respective cars, and I followed him back to his place.
Now, I want to be clear that I’m not really suggesting that this is safe behavior (nor am I suggesting that it’s not), but I was making a calculated decision about my safety, and it was the right decision for me. That said, during the 30-minute drive to his place during which he absolutely seemed to take a wrong turn or two, did I consider pulling a quick turn and dashing back to my hotel no fewer than six times? You’re goddamn right I did—especially when he seemed to get confused by a straight-forward detour. Was I about to get murdered? Probably not, but it did cross my mind once or twice.
And then suddenly we were there sitting on his couch making out. It wasn’t long before he told me that his roommate was in the other room (which was a real fucking shock given that we’d been making out in the living room for at least twenty minutes, and I hadn’t a clue there was anyone else in the apartment). I immediately wished we’d gone back to my hotel instead. We went to his room for a little privacy and dear reader, that’s when things got dodgy. Well, maybe not dodgy but definitely sadder.