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Confessions Of A True Fuckboy: I Live-Tweeted My Terrible Date

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By the time Marcy called me a dick loud enough to hear over the mayhem that is the inbound rush hour home commute, I knew we were going to have a night on our hands. By the time she recalculated, refocused, changed lanes and a few seconds later called me a motherfucking dick, her central Long Island accent slicing through my iPhone speakers, I knew it was going to be a long one.

By the time I hung up on her, I was pretty sure we were going to bed that night.

Untrained eyes would have said we were not getting off on the right foot. But Long Island girls are shifty that way. Bring them roses and walk them to the door, and they’ll call you a pussy. They call you a dick and before long, they’re sucking it.

So I was fairly certain how the night would turn out. We had gotten drinks a week before by this marina. We were the youngest ones there. We threw back Fireball and laughed at oldies with ear hair. Then we strolled the shadowy corridors, snuck onto a still-covered speedboat and dry-humped in the dark.

I disappeared for a week. Now, we were set to go out again. We were talking on the phone because she’s 30.

I’ll pick you up. It’s right by your house, she said.

Nah, I’ll drive,” I said.

No, I wanna.

You wanna drive?

Yeah, I wanna drive.

OK, drive. I’ll drink. Beware.

I’ll come at 6:30.

Make it 8.

No, don’t be a dick. 6:30. I’m already in the car.

I need a nap. Make it 8.

What is it with you an 8? That’s too late.

That’s when adults go to dinner.

No, you need to sleep? What are you?’

I’m a particular type of adult.

This conversation occurred at 5 pm, mind you.

What about 7:45? she asked. Wait –

See you then. I hung up.

She called back four times and I didn’t answer. She called me a motherfucking dick on the voicemail. She showed up at 8.

All of this is to say that I was pretty sure where thenight was heading. It was pretty clear that she was the kind of person who needed things to go her way, or at least to project the illusion ofthings happening as such. I was the type of unmovable rock that has cemented men’s status as stubbornly glorified gorillas for the better part of centuries.

She was the Ferrari. I was a stop sign. I had final say, and soon we were about to collide.

Which set the night up for a wide range of max potential. We’d either work like hell or not work like hell. We’d either be magic or dust.

Since all my interest was piqued in the eventual outcome, I figured I’d live tweet the whole thing, in an attempt to not miss those little moments, the make or breaks of dates, the ones I always live but rarely remember.

What follows is the Thursday night transcript of my most recent battle of the sexes in this frankly beautifully fragmented dating world of ours.

Sometimes, when I’m extremely confident, I try to dress as bummy (as is my natural state) as possible, talk about jizz as much as I can and slobber over myself like a goat to see if I can still sweet talk my way into bed. It just spices things up.

Tonight I wearmy go-to T-shirt a Photoshopped homemade rag with Brand New’s decade-old emo dream Deja Entendu album art on the front. And I color myself “The Boy Who Blocked His Own Shot.”

We starttalking about me. My favorite topic. The Mets game ison behind her. Divisional matchup. I picka spot just past her eyes to hold.

The Mets hit a home run.

Another home run!

Excuse me, I say. I’m sorry. Give me a second.

We’ve devoured two baskets of bread and an entire bucket of clams. She’s on her second glass of pinot. She tells me to get a beer. She wants to move off Long Island and into the city. I ask her if she has work tomorrow.

Yes, she says. I have work every day.

So if I ask you tomorrow it’ll be the same answer?

Yes. I’m a normal person.

What would be the next day I could ask you and your answer be no?

I’m off for Labor Day.

So September 4th or so?

Yeah, she says. When are you off?

I’m kind of always off.

What do you mean?

Why can’t you tell me? … Why can’t I know? This is seriously pissing me off right now. … “What do I have to do to get you to tell me?

I never tell her.

I grab the last clam, rock my head back and slurp it up like a seal.

Soon…

The Mets hit another home run.

I haven’t looked at her in at least eight minutes. She’s still talking. Something about her old boyfriend. Four years. Being single is weird, she says.

That’s a nice watch, I say.

I like it, but it keeps ticking, she says. It ticks so loudly. It really aggravates me.

Take it off, I say. Throw it out.

No. I like it.

It aggravates you, but you keep it around just to drive yourself crazy?

Bouncer cards her. He gives me a fist pump and says, You’re good, bro.

We start shooting the shit.

She’s buying the beers now.

The Mets win.

More beers. Did the Mets win?

I awake from an extended slumber.

I’m such a dick.

Read more: http://elitedaily.com/dating/i-live-tweeted-my-date/1547751/

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