Not many can say they’ve been chosen as an object of affection by a (albeit tangentially) “famous” mister, but this author holds that dubious honor.
The year was 2007 and yours truly was a wide-eyed youth in possession of an inconvenient virginity. The fault for this state of affairs could be laid at the feet of Scarlett O’Hara, Ender Wiggin, Alvin Miller and any other dastardly villain or peerless hero which kept the eyes of this author glued to a page rather than scanning for potentially lustful gazes. There I was, on the campus of one of Canada’s most prestigious universities, realizing that not only did I not have experience competing academically, but I had no experience, period. How had this happened? How had I failed to ever notice that boys were a thing that existed? And continued to exist once my passing glance had grazed them? Yes, the plot of The Half-Blood Prince had been riveting, but how had it blinded me to the recent discovery that I had been an object of (more than one!) high school crushes? I was now stewing in an environment tailor-made for libidinous exploration, but still had to take it on faith that human males did not resemble my childhood Ken dolls.
Perturbed but confident, I decided to tackle this problem the way I tackled my school assignments: lazily, begrudgingly and with maximum hubris. This was still a time when online dating was reserved for amorous serial killers and desperate spinsters with affinities for cats, so looking pretty in public was the only game in town. With only two, or three, or four winces of pain, I decided to forgo my reading while out in public and project approachability. Counteracting my resting bitch face with perfected half-smiles, reapplying lip gloss, holding gazes a fraction longer than needed, the works. And it paid off almost immediately.
The scene: A public bus overfull with sweaty bodies.
The characters: A budding goddess hunkered down in the form of a shy teenager, and her would-be tall, dark and handsome stranger. Let’s call him J because I can’t remember his name.
He was cute, he was imposing and more importantly, he was interested. Thus began the time-honored mating dance of small-talk followed by the exchanging of numbers. I was thrilled. I could tell by his smile that he was a kind soul who would treasure the woman he called his. I would tell by his firm grip on the bus’s rail that he would be there to pick me up should I stumble and start to fall. And even though his pants were in distressing need of some vertical support, I graciously decided to overlook their bagginess and focus on the great butt they obscured. We set up a date, the classic dinner (well, lunch) and a movie.
The big day came and I proceed with arcane practices: shaving everything from the neck down, agonizing over wardrobe, and carefully applying makeup. I hopped on the bus and got to the theater early, arranging myself for maximum effect as I waited. And waited. And waited. Well, no one is perfect. What’s tardiness in the face of true romance? Being the strong, independent woman I was, I decided to buy the tickets for the both of us while I waited. I bought the tickets, stared at my phone, and struck up conversation with a bored worker. Finally, I got a text from my date apologizing and advising he was running late because he’d missed his bus. Having been at the mercy of public transportation many times myself, I assured him I understood and asked him when he thought he would be there. 10 minutes. Cool.
10 minutes go by and no word from the guy I was now convinced was not as cute as I’d first imagined. I continued to follow up and continued to be given the same ETA, to the point where I was worried my hapless beau might have been the victim of some temporal mischief. An interminable time later, it was now too late to grab something to eat, and the movie had already started.
Finally, my date arrives and I stand up with an excited smile. A smile which falters slightly when I see he looks like he just rolled out of bed, has clearly not showered, is wearing a stained, rumpled shirt, and smells very strongly of weed. A long pause from yours truly before I hesitantly move up to meet him and ask him how his trip was. He gives some noncommittal answer and I try to rally myself since I’d already paid for the movies and didn’t know a refund was an option.
J asks me if I want popcorn and I do, but advise that we should really get going since the movie has already started. J then advises that actually, he wants popcorn. To the popcorn line we go. We get to the front and both make our orders. Then there’s an awkward pause. I look at J, J looks at me, the cashier looks at both of us. J then casually informs me that he has forgotten his wallet, not a trace of chagrin or sheepishness to be found anywhere in his visage. After a wordless pause, I dig up some cash and pay for the popcorn. I hand the cash over and the cashier thrusts his hand forward to give back the change. Except he thrust it in the direction of J. Why this cashier tried to give change back to my date when I had been the one to pay is something I’ve pondered ever since. Nonetheless, with such clear sanction, can J really be blamed for immediately accepting the change and pocketing it? I leave that to the discerning judgement of the reader.
The movie was inconsequential and I fail to recall it’s plot. What I do remember is having to defend my previously unwanted virtue from persistent and focused attacks. Skirmishes between my hand and his were fought near the vicinity of my thighs, brief engagements of will as it pertained to the placement of my shirt. It was great as I’d always complained about needing to get more exercise.
The movie ended and J asked me if I wanted to grab a bite to eat. I asked him how we could eat when he’d forgotten his wallet, which elicited a laugh. Thrilled that I had made an inadvertent joke, I too smiled. Though I might have been smiling due to building hysteria, I’m not sure. In either case, I graciously declined and took the bus back home. For some reason, I did not attempt to look approachable on this particular bus ride. He reached out inquiring about a second date and I advised him I was much too busy with school and work to possibly contemplate a romance. And so ended my ill-fated affair with J. Or so I thought.
Not a few days go by before I get a call from J while at work. After being summarily ignored, J calls again. I was still in that stage of employment where I was genuinely concerned with being a stellar employee, so dutifully ignored my phone again. Finally, I get a text from him saying, and I quote: ‘Please call me back, it’s an emergency. Please, it’s really important’.
I hadn’t yet trained myself to be a heartless bitch, so felt actual and genuine alarm at this. I hurriedly excused myself and snuck out into the hallway to call him, heart pounding as wild scenarios played out in my head. Maybe he’d cut off a limb and couldn’t move. Maybe he was being held hostage. Maybe some Final Destination shit was happening to him right then and he was doomed. Never mind questions on why he wouldn’t call friends, or family, or the police, he was in trouble!
The call connected and I exhaled a sigh of relief as I heard his voice. I asked him anxiously if he was okay and could tell, despite his faint “Yeah”, that he wasn’t. He told me he was freaking out and didn’t know what to do. That he had just found out something and didn’t know who to talk to and couldn’t think of anyone else to call. My wild speculation adjusted to this new information and I was now imagining he’d found out he had some incurable disease or was suicidal or something. I gentled my voice and told him he could talk to me if he needed to and that everything would be okay. That was when he told me, voice trembling slightly, that he’d just found out he was Tupac’s brother.
…
…
That…Hmmm. Let us be succinct and say that was not what I had been expecting.
There was a very long pause while I listened to his strained breathing and carefully sifted through a response. After considering and discarding many first words, I very quietly asked him if he had called me at work to tell me he was Tupac’s brother. He confirmed that he had. I hung up on him and went back to work, questioning every decision I had ever made in my entire life. If only that had been the end.
What followed were days of constant messages, phone calls and pleas. It ranged from begging me to call him back, to cursing me and my harlot ways. From apologizing, to sending me pics of a naked girl I sincerely hoped was a professional and not some poor girl he had duped. I was at my wits end and didn’t know what to do. Why didn’t I simply block him? Because that was my first year of owning a phone and I genuinely didn’t know you could do that. Far too mortified to seek advice, I decided the only option was to either destroy my phone, or change my number. I went with the latter option and have kept the same number ever since. If only I could claim to being more judicious in giving out said number to future prospects. If only I could say that I got my shit together, and that was the last insane date I went on. But it was not to be.
I could speak about the date I went on where I retold this same story only to be told, in a very condescending tone, that Tupac didn’t have a brother. I could speak about the date I went on where an aggressive and sloppy kiss concluded with my face being licked thoroughly, from chin to eyebrow. I could speak about the date I went on where the harmful effects of contrails were discussed in earnest tones, along with a dissertation on which political leaders were actually lizards in disguise. Or the date I went on where I was propositioned…for pictures of my feet…so a dedicated website could be built for them. But I suppose those are stories for another time.
-Ren
