First Date Magic
On the nights that follow a great first date, I go to sleep as early as I can. I take naps in the afternoon. I close my eyes whenever possible. Every detail must be gone over. His soviet-bloc stoicism, how we breathed into each other’s mouths, the way his arms negated gravity. Again. Again. No, from the top. Again.
Because there might not be a second date.
This might be as good as it gets and I have to find a way to cherish what is good in this world, while it still feels good. Before I send a text that lands unanswered. Before he decides that I’m not what he wants. Before I become a thing ignored. I gather up all the joy to balance on when I falter. I fill my cheeks for winter and try not to think about the hunger.
The reality is that I know from the beginning with almost every man I date that it’s not going to lead anywhere (not that there’s anywhere specific I’m trying to go). I know that they’re not “the one” (even though I don’t believe in the one). They’re not going to be a soulmate (even though I don’t believe in soulmates). Sometimes they’ll surprise me briefly by being better than expected, but it’s usually pretty clear from the jump that we’ll never have anything more than fun. If even that.
The problem is that they want one night of fun. I think. I mean, if I’m being honest, I have no fucking idea what they want because the men I date are terrible communicators and/or may not actually even know what they themselves want. They’re clearly interested in some fun, though how much fun often remains unclear, and so I say that they want one night of fun as a place filler because who really fucking knows. I, on the other hand, am looking for 3-8 nights of fun, give or take, the math isn’t all that important. I want more fun than they want and that leaves me eternally disappointed no matter how often and readily I put myself back out there. All that said, I’ve started to wonder whether or not I actually want 3-8 dates of fun or if I’ve set my sights on that number because it feels like that’s the amount of time it takes for a man to realize you’re a person and care enough about you (at least on a human level) that he's invested in making you cum. I wonder if cumming is actually all the fun I’m after. None of this really matters though, since they only ever seem to want a little taste of fun, for themselves, as a treat.
I (mostly) no longer fuck on the first date. Not because I don’t want to or care about a man’s judgement of my sexual habits. I don’t fuck on the first date because I’m giving us both time to want it. I’m giving him time to care about my orgasm, and I’m giving myself time to be interested in him. I don’t fuck on the first date to up the chances of a second date. And even then, a second date is rarely a guarantee. This is why after first dates I bathe myself in the endorphins.
Even though I know it’s only lust and mostly a projection of who I hope he could be plus a mix of pheromones and the comfort that comes from honestly just having a nice time. Even though I know I would be settling for these men who have so very, very little offer. Even though I know, in many ways, this is all a charade, a circus of the heart to pass the time, little adventures to get my pulse racing on this long hard journey called life. Even though I know this is all just a bit of smoke and mirrors, it’s a joy that’s rare and so you have to cherish it. I breathe in every last scent of it while it still feels like euphoria.
After a good first date, I am rewiring my own brain. Consciously tracing out pathways of happiness while that’s still how they feel. I am terrified to lose this, to become who I am when the disappointment stains my back and I become all too aware just how central men are in my life and how little control I have over whether or not things work out in my favor.
I have to remember, remember, remember. I want to coat my skin in glue. I have to brace and prepare because eventually, predictably, it will all come crashing down around me.
At some point, after a first date, after many first dates that never become second dates, the disappointments will pile onto one another and become unbearable.
The night I go out with Oleg is a good first date. We meet at Starbucks and he’s wearing a grey crewneck sweatshirt. When he hugs me hello, he’s so much taller that my arms wrap around his waist. He said he was 6’5” and so I should’ve expected 6’5” but after a lifetime of dating men, you learn not to believe the hype. He pays for our drinks and carries them to a table for us. We talk for an hour, and I notice he rarely drinks his tea. Maybe he takes a sip or two, but it mostly sits there as a gesture until he throws it out when it’s time to leave. On the surface it’s wasteful, but if that’s your first thought consider yourself lucky because it means you’ve never been on a first date with someone who doesn’t order anything. I believe sociopathy is the diagnosis for this kind of abhorrent behaviour that leaves your date sipping a coffee and eating a cookie while you just stare at them like you’re trying to figure out where you’ll bury their body. Men are always doing bonkers shit like this with me. Like they’ve literally never had a singular thought about social graces or the dynamics of a first date, never considered how their behavior affects others, how they might come off to a stranger. Men are forever not thinking about anything that would make my life easier. But Oleg gets a tea, even though he barely touches it, and because the bar is so goddamn low, it feels like he’s a genius and this is a thrilling start to a torrid love affair.
After an hour, I invite him back to the apartment where I’m housesitting. I suggest we watch stand-up comedy (because I always suggest that). We sit on the couch and I’m laughing but he is not laughing. I wonder if Ukrainian men have less levity in their lives. When I finally ask him about it, he tells me that stand-up moves so quickly it’s hard for him to translate fast enough in his head. By the time he understands the joke, the joke is gone. I apologize for not considering this and suggest we watch something of his choosing. He picks The Godfather, which if you’re not familiar is one of the longest and quietest movies in existence. During the sixteen-hour screen time, which is so quiet we can hear the city bus going by multiple times, he remains seated beside me without movement. He never puts an arm around me, he never snuggles closer. Even when I get a blanket to put over us because “I’m cold” (reader, when you tell you that I’m never cold, not once, not a single second in my life), he doesn’t touch me. I suffer through the longest movie of my life without a single move being placed on me and by the time it’s over I’m ready to say goodbye. I stand up before the credits have a chance to roll, expecting to usher him towards the door and berating myself for misreading yet another man, when instead he asks what we’re going to watch next.