Silent auctions and charity events are almost synonymous with a speed dating for socialites here in San Francisco. They bring together pools of individuals with similar interests and an above average salary, and while the occasional egomaniac may come into play, the men at the auctions may be a more desired prize than the auction items themselves. Through some strategic bidding and a stroke of luck, one can oftentimes end up winning a something unexpected and well worth the risk. But in the auction of dating, the bidding is always a gamble.

In my line of work of event planning and sales at an upscale downtown hotel,  my colleagues and I are often asked to attend these silent auctions and local charity events as shop calls of sorts; we compare other venues, use best practices, and get to network with our market demographic while simultaneously give back to the community. Being a good Samaritan, I am always a willing and ready volunteer for these types of events. Never mind the premium hosted bars and steady stream of wealthy male socialites… my selflessness knows no boundaries.

In lieu of such research, my colleague and I ventured to the annual Gatsby Charity Ball at the San Francisco Opera House to help to “build our business.” The music was hot, the bar was open, and the socialites were out in full force. I love nothing more than combining business with pleasure, and was certainly keeping my prospects open for more than just closing business.  These events are like a flea market for the affluent, and I was more than ready to make a couple of offers on the goods at hand. After a good hour of making eyes at a handsome silver fox in a tux, I finally got the deal I had been waiting for.

The conversation over the next two glasses of champagne taught me that my object of desire was not only handsome, but also a doctor in Marin, embarked upon annual trips to Thailand and Paris, and apparently owned a luxurious condo in Punta Mita, Mexico. I also learned he had been divorced from his wife for three years, and while the traditional woman may be turned off by the post marital status, I have found divorcees make for great flings for the twenty something girl for the following reasons: a) they are typically emotionally unavailable and make up for their lack of compassion via lavish gifts; b) they have a newfound appreciation for the younger women they missed out on their last X amount of years of marriage (and with me, flattery will get you anywhere….), and c) you know they have already been trained by their former spouse how to behave (at least in the short term) and they know their way around the bedroom.

However, there was one caveat to this lucky fling I had stumbled upon.  My divorcee was not without baggage, and a thirteen year old daughter was a result. Don’t mind I was closer in age to his offspring than himself. As I started cringing thinking about the fact that I would probably have more pop culturally in common with this adolescent than her father whom I was pursuing, images of myself adorned in Prada basking at a five star Mexican resort with he and his sophisticated surgeon friends banished all negativity. My optimism was confirmed when he asked me to join him for dinner the week after at Boulevard, a hot restaurant renowned for Chef Nancy Oakes French American fusion. Oh yes, this man knew how to keep it classy.

My divorcee and I met at Boulevard the next week. After the hosted bar at the charity ball, I was quite relieved that his good lucks were not a memory manifested via gin and tonics. A hug and a kiss on the cheek later, we found ourselves nestled into a quiet table overlooking the Embarcadero, and I eagerly awaited what was sure to be a sophisticated and stimulating companion.

Now, I consider myself a confident person, but the eagerness with which he was staring at me from the restaurant door to the table, and now as I looked over the wine list, was beginning to make me feel a bit uneasy. The dress I was wearing was certainly intended to hug my curves, but a casual glance or two of appreciation would have sat with me a bit better.

“God, you are so beautiful,” my doctor said very seriously, shaking his head as he spoke. Considering we had only met once before and I had barely taken my coat off, I found it to be coming on a bit strong. Then again, maybe I needed to learn how to take a compliment.

“Well, thank you,” I said. “What a great restaurant choice, I’ve been meaning to try this place for months.”

“Well, you are a special girl that I wanted to celebrate with,” he said, leaning in closely. I didn’t recall this banality in our initial meeting, but then again, my baby boomer dates  are typically more appreciative of their female companions, and I continued on with my appointment with the doctor.

“So what are we celebrating then,” I asked, anticipating a heroic story about a patient he had saved earlier this afternoon.

“Well, I didn’t tell you this when we first met, but today is actually the first official day of my new life. My divorce is officially final today.”

After I confirmed, in fact that he had not been divorced for three years but that his marriage had been “on the rocks” for three years, I found myself a little short of words. A healed divorcee is one thing… a middle aged, recently wounded gent who hadn’t been on a real date in over fifteen years is a whole other practice. Considering we hadn’t event been served bread and butter, I got the uneasy feeling it was going to be a very arduous dinner. I thought briefly about asking if he had any prescription pain killers in his pocket, but opted for a heavy dose of the red wine instead.

I decided to steer the conversation away from our “celebration”, and moved onto asking about the lavish vacations we had discussed before.

“Well,” he gloated, “My daughter and I typically travel to Thailand every year for vacation during Christmas.” After mentioning I had never been, he added, “You should absolutely come with us this year. Would you join us?”

I laughed at the obvious joke.

“No, really.” He said intensely reaching across for my hand at the table. “You should join us over Christmas. My daughter would love you. And it’s still a few months away, so you have time to plan.”

I politely explained I typically celebrate Christmas with family and friends in my hometown and not a stranger and his teen daughter in a third world country and hoped the waiter would forget the intermezzo and keep the service coming as quickly as possible.  This doctor was beginning to prescribe poison. One more blip and I’d be suing for malpractice.

After some banter about the other popular vacation spots he felt confident I would escort him on, I opted again to move onto a better topic. His career. At least he had confirmed he was an intelligent man. A man of success. A man who helped humankind.

“So what kind of doctor are you?” I asked. “Do I recall you saying you were a general physician?”

“Well, Christina, I guess I should have clarified, I am actually a doctor’s assistant.”

You’ve got to be kidding me. The one saving grace he had left…

“But you know,” he said quite proudly, I met Huey Luis the other day? He comes into the office regularly.” Apparently this was supposed to make up for the lack of “M.D.” next to his name.

Considering I had already consumed a pre dinner cocktail and a full bottle of wine, I was able to bear with my companion it through dessert without feigning ill. I was initially worried the doctor would have offered to take care of me with this excuse, at least now I didn’t have to worry about it. Maybe he could have played “Hip to Be Square” to lift my spirits.

Although I could have been confused with a mute considering my conversation engagement, he still managed an invitation to a wedding the following weekend, and also reaffirmed that I was the only woman in his life. He took our relationship seriously, and wouldn’t dare dream of seeing another woman. I decided to handle the situation diplomatically with vague excuses, and probably a few unintended eye rolls at his obscene commitment levels.

And finally, to his diagnosis, “You know, Christina, I am really excited about this new relationship and our new adventure together. And you know, tonight is so special to me that I actually booked a hotel room in Union Square. I wanted to let you know I can stay out late tonight if you’d like to have a night cap.” Sop a night cap is what he called it back in is day…

After explaining I had an early meeting, I closed out with forced peck on the lips and hightailed it home in a cab moments later. Sure, he was no rocket scientist (or a doctor, for that matter), but figured my lack of enthusiasm must have given him the hint.

For not being a doctor, I will give my divorcee credit for his consistent follow up. 2 days, 3 missed calls, and 4 text messages later, I began to worry my date may have needed some Xanex himself. His final prescription came a week later via voicemail through a very angry sounding tone (and I quote) “<<Deep breath…>> Christina <<deep breath… pause>>, you know, I don’t what I did.  I don’t know why you haven’t called after our special time together <<pause>> Maybe if you were a little more mature, you would have let me know in person and didn’t have to be such a bitch. And after all we shared together. Have a nice life.”

Other than the lobster appetizer, I really couldn’t surmise what the doctor thought we had shared together. Although I can’t see the experience was all bad- the menu at Boulevard really had been quite wonderful. While the food had been exactly what I had requested, this date was certainly not what the doctor had ordered.

Most people are familiar with the concept of selective listening: you only hear what you want to hear. I can’t help but think the same rule applies in evaluating men. I call it selective judging: we only see the traits that we want to see.  My heart throb college professor was notably intelligent when I saw him in lecture, but how would I have felt about being approached by him in a bar of good looking college guys? I found myself in constant admiration for my hot shot boss, but would I have felt the same was if I saw him stumbling through a conversation with his ex-wife and their kids? When we see individuals in fields where they are they expert, it is hard to imagine their confidence wavering anywhere else. I don’t know whether it’s optimism or inanity, but we have a poor habit of making people out to be who we want them to be and not who they actually are.

I usually pat myself on the back for seeing beyond the exterior, consciously making an effort to avoid this one-dimensional evaluation of an acquaintance. I try, but am unfortunately not immune to it. I shamefully admit I fell victim to this goggle-eyed naiveté in the worst place of all: the gym.

For about six months, I had been going to a weekly spin class, and while I occasionally tried out other classes, nothing got my adrenaline rushing and my blood pumping like my sixty minutes of cycling. And it wasn’t just the exercise that got my pulse racing. The instructor who taught the class made the my routine absolutely indispensable. Perched at the head of the group, his biceps rippled through his spandex muscle shirts, and his sweat trickled down his washboard chest in pulsating zeal. For fear of echoing a bad romance novel, I’ll keep my description brief, much like the garment I visualized him in.

Over time and after a few well planted seeds, I finally worked up from a fleeting smile to asking a question or two about spinning to holding lenghty conversations after class. I learned that he had not only gone to UC Davis like myself, but held a degree in the same major and was also studying to take his GMAT. He taught the spin classes purely as a hobby, working as a business consultant by day and partier by night. This guy’s stock was rising faster than the heat he generated in class, and the series of chance coincidences was beginning to seem unavoidable.  Thursday date night took on a whole new meaning. I could feel the tension between us becoming more and more palpable… I started getting the kiss on the cheek greeting, the “sweetie” pet name, and the weekly complement on my hair or my new toned figure.

One night, we had a group meet up for the opening of Apartment 24, a new club out on Broadway where the music was hot and the company hotter. His suave confidence from class carried through onto the dance floor, and his contagious charisma was apparent by his seemingly endless circle of friends. I was intimidated, but not completely naïve. I could tell my interest was not one sided, and the night ended with a sweet kiss that left me spinning.

Post cycle the next week, he invited me out to Le Colonial, a hip French Vietnamese place just off Union Square with killer food in the evening and an even deadlier bar scene at night. “I mean, I recommend going with a group since the place gets pretty packed”, he said through those twinkling eyes, “So you should come with me and my buddies, or bring your people, or whatever.” Oh baby, I get it… we’re playing it cool.

“I’ll send you a text Saturday if I can make it.” I replied in my coolest voice, “Thanks for the work out.” Five minutes later, I had already alerted all of my roommates of my breakthrough, scheduled a hair appointment for the next day, and ran through at least six outfits in my head. I know, real cool. But hell, I was excited. Finally, the wheels were turning outside of the class.

Two days later, I was even more stoked about what the night’s evening could hold. “Dude, you are totally getting ass tonight,” my testosterone embed roommate, Jen, tittered. “You’re so lucky, man! I wish I could hit that.” I basically live with a female version of Napoleon Dynamite, but prettier and hornier.

“I don’t know, Jen. Maybe he was just being friendly.”

“Dude, you’re an idiot. He’s all over your shit all the time. Dude, so hot.” Jen’s eloquence always had a way of encouraging me.

Hours later, dolled up like Malibu Barbies, my best wingmen and I rolled up to the bar. After a couple of texts and more than a couple tequilas, I finally spotted my favorite spinner enter the club. I naturally acted like I didn’t see him at first, assumed the most flattering stance I could and made sure it looked like I was having an especially good time. Then came the eye contact, the approach, the lingering hug, the hand on the arm, the kiss on the cheek, and the exchange of complements. “

“You look good,” I said, “What’s the occasion?”

“Well, it’s my birthday next week, so we decided to celebrate early, you know.”

“Oh, well then handsome, happy early birthday.” I already knew exactly what I planned on giving him as a gift.

“Thanks baby,” he said, kissing me on the cheek. “Why don’t you grab a drink on my tab. I have to go say hi to a few friends. Meet you on the dance floor in a few minutes.”

Jen and I took the offer for the complimentary beverages, and took the liberty of dancing on or own for a bit. Moments later, I saw my spin instructor looking a little frazzled on the other side of the bar. I sauntered over, ready to pounce.

“So, when are you going to join us for a dance?” I cooed, excited at the thought of seeing what those quads could really do.

And then the bomb dropped.

“Well, uh, I just got a text… my girlfriend’s in town for a surprise visit. I guess she’s coming over to join us in a few.”

I felt like the DJ had just brought the music to a screeching halt. Suddenly my tequila started talking for me, “WTF, you have a girlfriend? You never told me that.”

“Oh, I didn’t? I thought I mentioned it”.

Reaffirming that he most certainly had not, he then leaned in close, breath hot on my cheek and hand tight around ass, “Mmmm, well then, I must have conveniently left that out.”

Yeah, and I must have conveniently left out my better judgment. I was somehow not too upset about my loss; suddenly, everything I had found charming now just seemed sleazy. I started thinking how he always wore that chain with a cross; what once seemed religious now screamed thug. He could get away with wearing cut-off shirts, but was it really necessary every class? And was his charisma actually conceit? It all seemed so suddenly fake. Maybe all of that build up was because I saw him only in a situation where these traits were acceptable.

I’m not completely self righteous; I admit to searching his name the next day on facebook, and the evidence I found their made me shudder. I was hard pressed to find one picture of the guy with his shirt on, and the throngs of beach bunnies in every photo reminded me of spring break freshman of year of college.

As immoral as it sounds, it wasn’t really the fact that he had a girlfriend that gave me the creeps. It was the fact that I had painted this perfect portrait only to discover the masterpiece was not of an eligible bachelor, but a total douche. In lieu of my experience, I’ve vowed not to make things out for more than they really are. Although that personal trainer I met last week seemed pretty tasty….

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….

Getting Burned: Part 2

Living in a 19^th century San Francisco flat with four roommates and thin walls makes privacy a scarce commodity in terms of bedroom playtime. While we have closed doors, we all still have ears that work perfectly well, and sometimes the imaginary visual resulting from those slaps and moans is more haunting than actually seeing it. As such, any late night gentleman callers would have to wait until the wee hours of the evening for any type of foreplay to ensure the household audience was fast asleep, or, of course, wait until the house was actually empty. It’s really standard etiquette in a single household of twenty-something girls.

We abide by this etiquette without avail unless, of course, alcohol has anything to do with it. The last time I checked a bottle of vodka, the surgeon’s general warning never said I would have a blatant disregard of privacy and become a sexual exhibitionist, but I suppose it’s one of those unfortunate side effects that our favored vice tends to have.

Even with the alcohol, I always felt I was exceptionally adept at keeping my sexual clamor to a minimum, until I came across the delightful additional of a booty-call to my sex life. I never thought I would be the type to actually adopt such a person, but it seems to happen pretty naturally when you meet a man with whom the sex is pretty damn good, but the relationship logistics simply don’t work. My longest standing booty call to date came from the owner of a local bar in our neighborhood. The relationship lent itself perfectly to booty call standards; he was a nice enough guy, thirteen years older than I, never married, and absolutely okay with having no strings attached. He usually left his post as I was headed home absolutely smashed from the night’s frivolities and my place with literally a hop, skip, and jump away from his bar.

One such evening after a particularly copious amount of vodka tonics, I found myself dialing my favorite back-up, and being the trusty man he was, came over moments after I myself had stumbled up the stairs. Bless his heart, he tried to set the mood, shutting the door to my room, letting Jack Johnson croon from my lap top, and even lighting candles on the nightstand and dresser. True, I wouldn’t have known the difference between Jack Johnson and Metallica at that particular moment in time, and the candles could have been strobe lights for all I knew, but it was a nice thought.

You can imagine the completely un-sexy and brief foreplay that ensued, and all I really say that I remember are brief snippets of stripping off clothes, the sensation of the cold headboard against my back, and the scent of the burning wick growing stronger. Everything was blurry… almost smoky, even. Suddenly, Jack Johnson’s acoustics took on a whole new beat. A high pitched beat came into play, beeping repetitiously. Suddenly my bar owner was up and running around, and as I drunkenly swung my head to the right, I saw the cause of the interruption: one of my pillows had shifted onto the nightstand during the romp, falling onto the candle, and was now in full flame.

I remained completely useless in my drunken stupor, sitting these with a confused look on my face while my house guest took action. I watched him running around in the buff, trying to decide whether to put out the flames first or shut off the blaring smoke alarm which had just alerted all of my roommates to come check out the peep show. I think he must have put out the flames first (how this was actually accomplished, I can’t quite say), but ingeniously used the burning pillow itself to muffle the alarm.

Somehow, two of my four roommates remained sound asleep, but one poor soul woke up to find a nude Italian in her hallway with nothing but a charred pillow for a loin cloth. What happened next we will never know, but I woke up the next morning short one pillow plus one condom wrapper and enough shame to last me a while. The candles most certainly set the mood, but not the one we were hoping for.