First Date
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I’ve never been good at making eye contact — especially on a first date — but it’s even harder when all I can look at is her strangely sharp-looking nipples threatening me through her thin crop-top. Now, don’t get me wrong, I don’t usually make a habit of staring at women’s breasts (I am a woman, after all,) but I was nervous, and so I did what any nervous person would do: I found a focal point.
The girl’s name was Faith and she was a vegan. I say this not because I have anything against vegans, but because it seemed to be her only defining characteristic. Her physical appearance was unremarkably average; her only unusual feature was a mole above her upper lip that treaded a thin line between Marilyn Monroe and Halloween Witch.
The thing is, she didn’t seem to want to talk about anything other than veganism — well, with the exception of her passion for being eco-friendly and reducing waste. Although my roommate said otherwise (his exact words were “she’s gonna be crazy,”) I didn’t find anything strange about her straight away. When she suggested we go for a walk around town after we finished our ice cream (made with coconut milk, of course,) I agreed eagerly.
To put things in perspective, the last date I’d had was with a man who talked about his lactose intolerance and had me walk him to the bagel shop while we waited for his mother to pick him up; as far as I was concerned, the date was going amazingly.
Boy, was I wrong.
It wasn’t until she asked if I wanted to go over to her house that I started to have reservations, but since I wasn’t in any rush to go home to my useless roommates and I really wanted to see her cats, I agreed. What I didn’t know was that her house was all the way in Hull (which should have been one of many red flags,) and that I’d be stuck there after dark with no clue how to get home. At this point, it was getting late, and it was at least 9 pm by the time I got to her house. This, my friends, is when shit hit the fan.
“Do you wanna smoke some weed?”
Now, I can’t recall if this is exactly how she phrased it, but the events of that day from that point on were a little hazy.
“I don’t wanna pressure you,” she added, which was false — I was an impressionable 19-year-old who just wanted this girl to like me. But now was as good a time as any to try the devil’s lettuce for the first time (also false — in Hull with a stranger I met on Tinder is definitely not as good a time as any) and so I agreed. Since I had no idea what the hell I was doing, she kind of had to give me a mini pep-talk before: “Okay, so I’m gonna lift the [thingy containing the burning weed which I cannot name because I still know nothing about marijuana] and then you’re gonna breathe it in, and then hold it for as long as you can.”
I inhaled, and then my lungs were on fire.
“That’s normal,” she assured me, as if I didn’t sound like a 97-year-old man on his deathbed. “I’ll grab you some water.”
As I coughed and sputtered alone on her balcony on that chillier-than-usual August evening, she left for a few minutes and then returned with a glass of water and a bowl of fresh (almost definitely organic) strawberries.
“This should help.”
It didn’t help — in fact, I think the acidity of the strawberries may have made the pain worse — but it wasn’t long before my second issue arose.
I couldn’t move.
Okay, maybe that’s an exaggeration. I could move, but it felt like I was being held down by an unknown force that thought it might be a better idea if I just sat down for a little bit. Faith was saying something to me — well, more like at me — but all I could say was “I can’t move,” trying to explain what it felt like, until finally—
“Gravity blanket.”
She laughed. I coughed.
I could have sworn that “gravity blanket” was something I’d heard before, but she wasn’t convinced. Faith started talking about something else but I wasn’t paying attention. All I could think about was that I really had to pee, and really having to pee and not being able to move don’t mix well. Finally, she caught my attention when she blurted out something that shocked me:
“I lost my virginity in a threesome.”
Excuse me, but when did this become a topic of conversation? It’s a first date, for fuck’s sake! She should be telling me about her childhood pets and estranged father — hell, she should be telling me about her lactose intolerance!
“That’s also how I had my first orgasm.”
Wait, what the fuck? First of all, why are we talking about this? Second of all, what the fuck! Is that supposed to be some sort of deranged pickup line?
My brain was screaming, but I couldn’t move. I just stared at her expressionless face for a moment before saying, “Uh, can’t relate. Innocent virgin.”
At this point, even though I can’t quite remember it, my dumb ass probably made a “finger guns” motion.
I wasn’t sure if, by inviting me to her house, she was planning on getting me high and seducing me, but if that was the case she was about to be severely disappointed. Not only did I really not want to have sex with her, but I also really had to pee.
It was either figure out how to move or pee myself on her porch, so I finally found the words in my alphabet soup of a brain to ask, “Bathroom?”
Okay legs, time to work. It felt like I was losing a fight against gravity as I pulled myself up from the lawn chair I had been glued to and opened the screen door. Left leg, right leg, left leg, right leg. Her ridiculously plump orange cat stared at me from under the kitchen table, and with good reason — I was trudging slowly through this woman’s kitchen like a zombie, stiff as a board, my eyes stuck in a never-ending squint. Finally, I made it to the bathroom, which was a wonderland of smells and colors due to her job at Lush Cosmetics.
Okay. Close the door. Don’t touch the bath bombs. KIRA. DO NOT STEAL THE BATH BOMBS. Now, for the love of god, remember to pull your pants down before you pee. Wait, did I take my pills? Oh god, what am I doing?
Somehow, my high, shitty body remembered how to pee and, in the same moment, had an epiphany.
Do I even like her? Or do I just want attention?
I tried to picture her face, but couldn’t. All I could think of when I tried was my coworker at Bed Bath and Beyond, who looked nothing like Faith. But then I could only think of my coworker, and that’s when I knew it was time to leave.
Alright. Remember to do the buttons on your pants. Wash your hands. DO NOT STEAL THE BATH BOMBS. Open the door. Don’t trip. Okay, now tell her you want to go home.
“I’ve, uh, I’ve gotta go home.”
Oh, hey, her face doesn’t look like my coworker’s!
“Okay, I’ll walk you to the bus.”
Oh shit. I hadn’t thought of how I would get home, but I was half sure that even if I managed to get myself on a bus, there was no telling if I’d get off it in the right place. My only choice was Uber.
I don’t really remember how I said goodbye to her — all I remember is getting into an Uber, and a few seconds later, the driver asking, “Are you okay, Miss?”
It was then that I realized how odd I looked: I was hunched over, knees shut tightly and angled awkwardly towards the car door.
“Just tired,” I responded.
Somehow, I managed to get home safely. The next morning, I received this text:
“Hey, you’re a great cute gay girl, but I just think you’re a little too innocent for me. I had fun. Every time I get high, I’ll remember ‘gravity blanket.’”
Two months went by before I saw her again. It was Halloween — my birthday — and I was heading downtown, dressed in a half-assed not-so-sexy she-devil costume, to find a pub with a group of friends I’d met barely three weeks prior. We were taking a detour through the mall in an effort to escape the frigid autumn air when we approached the mall’s Lush store.
From across the hall, I spotted her — Faith, in all of her crazy vegan glory, was working at the cash that night.
I began to panic — there was absolutely no way I was going to face this girl. Not-so-subtly hiding in the shadow of my 6-foot-tall friend Michelle, I whispered, “Hey remember the bad date I told you about? The one with the weed?”
“...Yeah…”
“She’s, uh, right over there.”
While I was mortified, Michelle’s face lit up. “We should go in there. I’ll pretend to be your girlfriend. We’ll make her jealous!”
I laughed, shaking my head. “Michelle, no! Let’s just get out of here.”
It wasn’t until hours later, while leading my herd of “drunklings” across the Chaudière Bridge and praying in my moody, half-drunk state that I would never see Faith again, that I realized I had what I wanted from Faith all along: attention. It wasn’t romantic attention, but it was damn near good enough. I finally had friends who appreciated me for the innocent, gay virgin I was (and still am.) I realize how cheesy this all sounds, but I’ll be damned if it isn’t the truth.
I haven’t seen Faith again since then, and I really hope I don’t, but if there’s anything I’ve learned from this experience it’s this:
If I ever see her again, I’m stealing the bath bombs.
Kira Frazer
The 30 rats in a trench coat that form the entity known as Kira Frazer emerged from the sewers on Halloween of ‘97, and have been wreaking havoc upon humanity ever since. She hopes to be the first rat-formed-entity to get a college diploma.
