A busy woman, i.e. every person attached to this site, rarely has time for “me” in the form of a date. Like, a real date. Like, the kind where you shave. So when the event – because yes, it is an event if we have set out a time, place, promise to be there, and, gulp, get pretty prior to – actually happens, it must in some way or another fulfill minor expectations different from everyday life. Example? He picks you up in a car but this time, the car flies. (I get that’s a little far fetched). So, did that happen on Friday night when, amongst deadlines, family dinners and shows, I managed to buckle down and give my self the gift of “dating”? The answer is nope. No way. Ding ding, the “horrific luck” bell is ringing. The actual result was far more perfect.
I was taken to an after-hours bar that is stuffed inside a motel courtyard with Geisha girls for bartenders and a female security guard who had no problem telling me in the bathroom that I “should wash my hands more” (I have since taken her advice). My date (because I own him. He is mine.) hands me something in a plastic cup and offers me cocaine off his car keys. Record scratch. Love at first bump? That’s interesting, now you get to see me get socially awkward. Like, for real, dude? For real, for real? This our first date and those are your CAR KEYS. It’s one thing to celebrate days after curing cancer, or preventing the apocalypse or finally solving that beckoning question of “What’s the real difference between men and women?” (Am I right, LADIES?) Then and only then can you look your pals in the face and go, “You know what, pals, I know this is kind of sketchy but tonight I’m going to do a rebellious activity off my car keys. Because I deserve it.”
The opposite would be when you are a struggling editor (I didn’t find out ’til later) with “here and there” jobs to take you to and from your Father’s many estates because you don’t really need to work. Which I gather gives you the green light to be completely slimy and mislead adorable lambs to their after-hours slaughter.
Now mind you, this little get-together is all occurring on The Rapture. The day when everything is supposed to go to dust, my life decides to take it up a notch and speed up the storm with ease and precision like a true self-sabotager would. That’s when I laugh out loud and take my nerdy, D.A.R.E-preaching tuckus to hail a cab. Because this can’t be happening to a smart and charming twenty-something who waited patiently for a cute boy to return home only to find out that he is socially inept without drugs. I mean, for God’s sake, if you’re going to do this the first day we get to know each other, you better be a rock star that influences the world with his art. Anyone. I’ll take Daughtry, even. So long as he promises he’ll never play for me live while I’m grinding my teeth, drinking water and talking too much. Gross. Forever.
JC Coccoli is a Comedian, Actress, and Writer who reps Pittsburgh, PA via Downtown LA.
Champagne toast image via menz health news