When I was back in Montreal, just after grad school, I went on a first date with an Olympic runner. We had a great time, made out overlooking the city, made out in his car, and when he dropped me back off at my apartment, I didn’t invite him up (because that was when I still thought it important not to fuck on the first date—which I guess I still do but for different reasons than I did back then). On our date, I ordered mozzarella sticks and nachos which felt revolutionary given that he was solid muscle and could run a hundred metres in... just kidding I have no idea how fast he runs. I googled to make sure he’d actually been in the Olympics and that was the extent of my interest. We texted a few times after that, but nothing ever came of it and then that was it, I had moved back to Vancouver.
So, when Murphy, my latest tinder match, told me he was on the Jamaican bobsled team, I almost laughed (how many Olympians can one girl date?). I quickly found out that he was only in town for the night, having just arrived from Whistler (where the team was training). Tomorrow he would start his drive toward Salt Lake City (where the team was based during the season). I wasn’t going to fuck him (was I?) but what harm would a quick drink do?
Normally, I wouldn’t bother meeting someone who’s only in town for one night (because normally they’re not hot enough or famous enough or have a funny enough life story to make it worth it for me). But when you’re a girl who grew up watching Cool Runnings and you get asked out for a drink by a man who is literally living the story in that movie, how could you possibly say no? You can’t say no. After all, you haven’t lived until you slid, amirite. And if you’re thinking—is this bitch really going to tell us another story about fucking a super-hot dude? Obviously.
We met up at a pub in Richmond across from the hotel he was staying at. It was a Ramada which is a brand I always seem to confuse for Radisson which is far more upscale bougie. Needless to say, I’ve never stayed in a Ramada and not been disappointed that it wasn’t a Radisson (which feels like an apt metaphor for dating). The amount of mid to low-level hotels that I’ve fucked in throughout my life is truly staggering. There has to be someplace I can redeem my frequent fucker miles.
In his wonderfully heavy Jamaican accent, which for some reason I was surprised by, he told me that the team had been training up at Whistler. When they got to the Vancouver airport, they discovered some issues with the paperwork and the sleds couldn’t be shipped home. Someone had to stay behind and drive the sleds in a van back to the training centre in Utah. Murphy volunteered. The story was shockingly close to the plot of the 1993 movie Cool Runnings in the way the team was so down on their luck (and low on resources) that they couldn’t afford their own equipment and were essentially renting their sleds from another team.
Murphy had seemed very attractive in his photos, which is why I’d swiped right, but meeting in person was still a welcome surprise. He was taller than I’d expected, easily over 200lbs. of solid muscle, and had a beautiful smile of perfectly straight white teeth—not to mention he asked me questions about myself non-stop (a rarity on a first date to be honest). When we hugged hello, I breathed in the thick scent of cologne and body odor, which sounds gross but was deeply alluring. His pheromones had me wrapped around their little finger. When he asked if I wanted to come back to his hotel room I practically jumped into his arms, which honestly looked like they could carry all 300 pounds of me without breaking a sweat. I agreed to go back to his hotel room but the whole walk there (you know, across the street), I was nervous about the bomb I’d have to drop on him—