One of the more significant wake up calls I have experienced from city living is that dating is generally a very misleading experience. Throughout college, one’s peers are exposed in a very real sense. Students are brought together by way of a highly shared community… age, occupation, lifestyle, and even personal preferences are transparent in ways no student could possibly appreciate until the real world comes crashing down full force and one’s background, education level, career, and even basic personality are as difficult as finding your way home though the Presidio after a night of gin and tonics. As such, first dates are a performance of sorts, a live show of canned speeches and unspoken game rules, which, if played well, can lead to a win no matter the integrity of the player. Cheaters can go undiscovered, and as I have learned, in the game of putting your best judgment on the line, all bets are off.
In a lifestyle that mainly revolves around gym rats, bar flies, and work horses, meeting men outside of my normal routine is rarer than one might hope. As such, I made a resolution to be more open to unforeseen acquaintances in my urban lifestyle, not passing judgment too quickly on unknown prospects. As such, upon a random happy hour stint at Ryoko, a hipster sushi bar highly recommended by locals, somewhere in between the hamachi and masagi I struck up conversation with a decent looking gent at the bar. I was impressed with his ability to speak fluent Japanese, his ability to converse candidly yet not perversely, and his unassumingly generous demeanor. He looked a few years older than I, perhaps cresting thirty, and wasn’t half bad on the eyes. I was sold.
A week later, we had one of those great first dates that absolutely promises a blossoming relationship. We wined and dined at Ana Mandera, an upscale Thai place on the wharf with incredible atmosphere where the food was spicy, the drinks were strong, and the chemistry was hot. The one negative quality I found lay in the sixteen year age barrier between us, but in the gay Mecca of the west coast, when you meet a man who is clean cut, well spoken, and heterosexual, you don’t pass him up without serious consideration. We discussed our opinions on the gender power roles in Japan versus the United States (how cultured!), compared political opinion on Baracks new healthcare policies (how democratic!), and even went as far as having a penchant for the same liquor (how enticing!). He mentioned studying engineering in college and having a career change to software development later on, and I suspected his well educated background was supported by his inflated salary indicated by the silver sports car, leather jacket, yet nonchalant attitude toward anything material. The kiss at the close of the evening was delicious and promised good things to come (pun intended). Sure, my judgment may have been skewed by the four previous hours of drinking, but I was certainly intoxicated in more ways than one.
Our second date didn’t take place until nearly three weeks later, and I would be lying if I didn’t say I was more than a little excited about it. But I soon came to discover that you can’t predict the outcome of the ballgame after only one inning.
I don’t know whether it was because the first impression-excitement had already lost its luster, but our second greeting was not nearly as exhilarating as the first. Without the champagne shades of our last two meetings, the attraction level had plummeted. His choice of clothing looked like it had been modeled after the Terminator, and while he was conventionally a good-looking guy, the atom-splitting connection I felt initially had fizzled. Hmmm, strike one.
We had a drink, then a casual dinner at The Hukilau, a Hawaiian place with good eats but not a hell of a lot charm. Then again, neither did my company. Within thirty minutes, I found out that he had actually not gone to college, was currently being pursued avidly by his married female friend, and had the ability to speak for minutes on end without taking a breath. I also found out precisely how much his apartment cost him per month, the array of new features he had installed on both of his cars (oh, I didn’t realize he drove two?), and that his android-ian sweater was, in fact, a one of a kind number he picked up on his last trip to Tokyo. Hmmm, strike two.
In retrospect, I should have feigned a sore throat and had him take me home promptly, but something told me not to dismiss this middle aged megalomaniac just yet. He offered to take me back to his place for a glass of sake, and since I’m a big believer in the theory that one’s personal environment is a true reflection of their personality, I thought I’d give him another chance. But this was his last pitch.
The apartment building we approached in his second car was cylindrical, shooting up like an eerie white tentacle amidst the churches of Cathedral Hill. The inside halls were completely circular with two elevators in the center that beamed residents up to the appropriate floor, from 1 through 23 plus one button labeled PH. “I was going to get a floor on the Penthouse”, my modest companion chimed in, “but to be honest, the balconies just weren’t as big.” Good thing, big balconies make my panties drop in a second.
Stepping into this place, I realized the balcony wasn’t what he thought was going to be the seal the deal point. True, the place had an awesome view, but the décor must have been scored from a James Bond spin off gone bad. A Bachelor Pad in every sense of the phrase, I found myself perched moments later on quite possibly the most uncomfortable white divan ever made with an orb-like lamp lurking over my head. “You know,” he prompted, “I just finished composing my first song in my personal recording studio. Do you want to hear it?” It was like he had read my mind. Maybe the lamp had transmitted my desires.
An optimist at heart, I had my fingers crossed that the song might help him to redeem himself. Maybe it would be really insightful. Maybe pleasant on the ears, Maybe we would connect musically. “Yeah, it’s a love song between two robots.” Maybe not.
How I made it out of that place with a straight face I’ll never know, but the hostile tongue to my face as I left the building confirmed strikes three, four, five, and six. I left my date and his robots behind, ready for the next new discovery….