Jen
I had been dating Maria, on and off, for the better part of two years when she ended things for the last time. I was drinking heavily as a response to some health issues with my family and some other issues between friends, and I guess she decided rather than stick around and my watch slow degradation, she’d bail. Apparently she’d been sleeping with a yoga instructor for about two months before the split and I guess that his holistic optimism, or whatever, seemed more appealing than my brooding and mood swings. I turned twenty a few days after that, and following a pathetic birthday party I found myself perusing personal ads on Craigslist. I tried to justify this to myself as some sort of joke, or a weird sociological character study, but the truth of it was that I felt lonely. I felt horribly lonely and rejected and I didn’t want to be by myself.
Jen’s ad had a brief description of herself: slim, alternative, into the Toronto rock scene. She stressed that it wasn’t for lack of attention that she was posting, but rather because to this point she hadn’t found someone that was able to keep up with her. She had attached a black and white photo of two emaciated actors kissing. The photo had a hot pink trim. She said that she wanted an attractive, confident, shaggy haired type who was above all passionate about the things that he loved. I’m all of the things, sometimes, so I decided to answer the ad.
I replied with a picture and a few choice words and didn’t think much of it until I received a response a few hours later. We exchanged a couple of emails and eventually decided to meet for a drink before heading to a new exhibit at the Art Gallery of Ontario.
It takes a certain type of person to answer a personal ad. It’s a pretty gutsy move for a couple of reasons. You’re putting yourself out there to be judged by a complete stranger based only on what you say about yourself and maybe a photo, but the bigger thing though is admitting that at this point you’ve failed with the typical forms of meeting people, and on some level human interaction as a whole. It’s a plea for something: attention or otherwise. Some people will try and argue that, but they’re either lying to themselves or lying to you. I had been twenty for three days and realized that I was one these types of people.
Anyways, I showed up to the bar early and brought a book because I like to read books and because I wanted to appear as though I like to read books. She entered a couple of minutes later dressed all high fashion: a black dress that looked Gucci, pumps that laced up the ankle, and a handbag that probably cost a more than a couple months of my rent. Her hair was long a brown and hung over her shoulders. She was slender and her hips shook when she walked. Objectively I would have called her cute, but she carried herself like someone who was beautiful. I felt like I was in over my head, but because I always like a challenge, I took a sip of my drink then introduced myself with a smile and a firm handshake. I had learned a long time ago never to let it show if anything phases you.
The conversation started nervously, and was awkward at first, but warmed up after a little while. We chatted about how neither of us had done this type of thing before and digressed into the regular subjects: school, childhood, family, and all that stuff. She said that she was doing communications studies and bartended on the side. I talked about my job and then we named dropped back and forth for a little while. We were getting along, and I liked her, so periodically I’d go to the bathroom to regroup myself. I’d throw water on my face and try to think of what to say next. After a couple of goes of this she took my hand and looked me in the eye. She said that she’d like to see me again, so she had to tell me the truth. The bartending thing was just a cover for what she really did. She said she was actually a stripper.
I thought about whether or not I was the type of guy who could date a stripper. I mean, maybe? I kind of liked the idea of being the ex punk rocker with a stripper girlfriend, but I didn’t know if that was really me. I always thought of myself as kind of shy, but I don’t tell her any of this, because that’s not the type of thing you want to hear on a date. I mean, it also wasn’t a holier than though sort of thing. People can do what they want. I was just trying to figure out if I could do this. The conversation went on and the conversation turned sexual. She started to talk about leather, fetish bars, and swingers clubs. I wasn’t sure if she was trying to turn me on or scare me off, so played the whole thing coy and sipped at my drink while trying to figure out what I was going to do. Soon after she suggested we skip the Art Gallery in favour of watching her favourite at her apartment. Breakfast at Tiffany’s.
I’ll spare the details but clothes didn’t stay on for too long once we got there. I was into it, but as things started to get heavy I couldn’t help wondering what I was doing half dressed in a near stranger’s apartment being scratched and bitten when Maria, the girl that I loved, was somewhere else. That sat with me for a couple of minutes, so I closed my eyes and felt Jen’s body flow like water over top of me. As she lead me to the bedroom she asked if I was okay. I didn’t tell her the truth because that’s not the type of thing you want to hear on a date. I told her that of course I was and then she apologized. She said she was sorry if she was a bit weird, she was just used to getting nearly a grand for a half hour of this type of thing. And that’s not stripper money.
So I thought about whether or not I was the type of guy who could date a prostitute and I’m not. I wondered about whether I had been paying for the time we’d spent together, but that didn’t make sense to me, because I think you have to discuss that type of thing before hand. I looked at her and mumbled about not being the type of guy who sleeps with a girl on the first date, and she cooed at me for a bit before saying she wasn’t the type of girl who let strangers sleep in her bed. After that I put my clothes back on and started to walk to the door. She draped herself in a blanket, followed me out, and half heartedly alluded to going through with some of the plans that we had set up for future dates, but her voice sounded a little hurt and more than a little pissed off. I left and I knew that we’d never see each other again.
Until then I thought that it was always good to feel wanted, even if it was just for your body, but feeling wanted doesn’t mean anything if all you want is something else.
Jen’s ad had a brief description of herself: slim, alternative, into the Toronto rock scene. She stressed that it wasn’t for lack of attention that she was posting, but rather because to this point she hadn’t found someone that was able to keep up with her. She had attached a black and white photo of two emaciated actors kissing. The photo had a hot pink trim. She said that she wanted an attractive, confident, shaggy haired type who was above all passionate about the things that he loved. I’m all of the things, sometimes, so I decided to answer the ad.
I replied with a picture and a few choice words and didn’t think much of it until I received a response a few hours later. We exchanged a couple of emails and eventually decided to meet for a drink before heading to a new exhibit at the Art Gallery of Ontario.
It takes a certain type of person to answer a personal ad. It’s a pretty gutsy move for a couple of reasons. You’re putting yourself out there to be judged by a complete stranger based only on what you say about yourself and maybe a photo, but the bigger thing though is admitting that at this point you’ve failed with the typical forms of meeting people, and on some level human interaction as a whole. It’s a plea for something: attention or otherwise. Some people will try and argue that, but they’re either lying to themselves or lying to you. I had been twenty for three days and realized that I was one these types of people.
Anyways, I showed up to the bar early and brought a book because I like to read books and because I wanted to appear as though I like to read books. She entered a couple of minutes later dressed all high fashion: a black dress that looked Gucci, pumps that laced up the ankle, and a handbag that probably cost a more than a couple months of my rent. Her hair was long a brown and hung over her shoulders. She was slender and her hips shook when she walked. Objectively I would have called her cute, but she carried herself like someone who was beautiful. I felt like I was in over my head, but because I always like a challenge, I took a sip of my drink then introduced myself with a smile and a firm handshake. I had learned a long time ago never to let it show if anything phases you.
The conversation started nervously, and was awkward at first, but warmed up after a little while. We chatted about how neither of us had done this type of thing before and digressed into the regular subjects: school, childhood, family, and all that stuff. She said that she was doing communications studies and bartended on the side. I talked about my job and then we named dropped back and forth for a little while. We were getting along, and I liked her, so periodically I’d go to the bathroom to regroup myself. I’d throw water on my face and try to think of what to say next. After a couple of goes of this she took my hand and looked me in the eye. She said that she’d like to see me again, so she had to tell me the truth. The bartending thing was just a cover for what she really did. She said she was actually a stripper.
I thought about whether or not I was the type of guy who could date a stripper. I mean, maybe? I kind of liked the idea of being the ex punk rocker with a stripper girlfriend, but I didn’t know if that was really me. I always thought of myself as kind of shy, but I don’t tell her any of this, because that’s not the type of thing you want to hear on a date. I mean, it also wasn’t a holier than though sort of thing. People can do what they want. I was just trying to figure out if I could do this. The conversation went on and the conversation turned sexual. She started to talk about leather, fetish bars, and swingers clubs. I wasn’t sure if she was trying to turn me on or scare me off, so played the whole thing coy and sipped at my drink while trying to figure out what I was going to do. Soon after she suggested we skip the Art Gallery in favour of watching her favourite at her apartment. Breakfast at Tiffany’s.
I’ll spare the details but clothes didn’t stay on for too long once we got there. I was into it, but as things started to get heavy I couldn’t help wondering what I was doing half dressed in a near stranger’s apartment being scratched and bitten when Maria, the girl that I loved, was somewhere else. That sat with me for a couple of minutes, so I closed my eyes and felt Jen’s body flow like water over top of me. As she lead me to the bedroom she asked if I was okay. I didn’t tell her the truth because that’s not the type of thing you want to hear on a date. I told her that of course I was and then she apologized. She said she was sorry if she was a bit weird, she was just used to getting nearly a grand for a half hour of this type of thing. And that’s not stripper money.
So I thought about whether or not I was the type of guy who could date a prostitute and I’m not. I wondered about whether I had been paying for the time we’d spent together, but that didn’t make sense to me, because I think you have to discuss that type of thing before hand. I looked at her and mumbled about not being the type of guy who sleeps with a girl on the first date, and she cooed at me for a bit before saying she wasn’t the type of girl who let strangers sleep in her bed. After that I put my clothes back on and started to walk to the door. She draped herself in a blanket, followed me out, and half heartedly alluded to going through with some of the plans that we had set up for future dates, but her voice sounded a little hurt and more than a little pissed off. I left and I knew that we’d never see each other again.
Until then I thought that it was always good to feel wanted, even if it was just for your body, but feeling wanted doesn’t mean anything if all you want is something else.