The Bad Date Chronicles – In the Ghetto

Not so charming by day. Scary as F@#ck by night.

I met “Cameron” on the dating site HowAboutWe (which I recommend you check out.  A pretty interesting concept, though I struck out 2 for 2 on it).  His profile was sparse, even by HowAboutWe standards and his date idea – “go to a bar and have a drink” was pretty uninspired.  But I had some time to fill and there was something attractive about his picture.  I responded and we were able to set something up pretty quickly.  We met at a pretty nifty little bar just on the edge of one of San Francisco’s most notorious neighborhoods (or, as someone who doesn’t want to admit to living there would say, “The Theater District”).  He was about 15 minutes late, which, in retrospect is ridiculous as he lived just a few blocks away, but I didn’t mind as there was a pretty good Giants game on and I made friends with the girls next to me.  At one point, they told me that they were rooting for this guy not to show up so that I could just hang out with them all night.  If only the night had taken that turn instead of the one that had me strolling the streets of the ghetto at 1 in the morning.

Once he arrived, and my new friends expressed their disappointment, me and my tall, handsome and oh-so-doable date settled in for a couple of cocktails (I now have a strict 2 drink maximum). It took me very little time to determine that this guy had no long-term dating potential (I am so over the underemployed musician thing after being married to one for over 10 years) but he was just too pretty to pass up.  Besides, The French Boy had been out-of-town for nearly a month and I was definitely overdue for some action.  Once the bill was squared away (a bill that he graciously paid, despite my protestations) I looked him straight in the eye and said that we should go back to his place.  Not one to refuse such a request from a lady, he escorted me a few blocks through the very heart of the beast until we got to his apartment.

We spent the next hour quite enjoyably engaged in adult-type activities until it was time for me to get home.  I was a bit miffed that he didn’t offer to walk me the couple of blocks to the train station, but didn’t really make an issue of it.  I’m a big girl, after all and although I wasn’t super excited about stepping over junkies and avoiding being eaten alive by a homeless man’s pit bull, I made it to the train without incident.

I was surprised the next day to receive a text from my ghetto-licious friend expressing his satisfaction and gratitude and asking when we might see each other again.  I replied that I was busy for the coming week but would get back to him.  In the week that followed, he stayed in contact texting every couple of days.  He even sent a rather awkwardly adorable one saying that if I wanted to spend the night and not have to rush out of there to catch the last train out of the city, he would be more than open to that.  We set up our next date for a few days later and I prepared myself for a rather fun sleepover. 

Our second date took place in another bar and after another couple of drinks we walked, rather sweetly arm-in-arm through the ghetto and back to his place. More adult fun took place.  Only, this time it was less fun.  Usually things just get a little bit better, but things seemed…off.  I was puzzled, but figured that every time couldn’t be a 10 and started to drift off to sleep when I heard this unbelievable phrase come out of his mouth:

“You should go.  I have work really early in the morning and I don’t sleep well with someone else in my bed.”

It took me a couple of seconds to process what he had just said, and do the mental calculus that told me I would have to walk 5 blocks through the worst part of town at 1 o’clock in the morning.  Alone. Because Mr. I Have to Wake Up Early was not about to walk me there.  I almost laughed and dug out my phone to show him the text message he had just sent me.  Instead, I cheerily got dressed and did my best not to punch him right in the throat.  The walk to my car would have been frightening if not for the fact that I was positively boiling with rage.  I don’t think any of those crazy mothers on the street were interested in messing with me.  Also, I was walking with my keys in-between each finger like they teach you in self-defense class so I felt pretty safe.

Here’s why this bothered me so much (besides the fact that I had parked in a garage far away so that the car would be safe and not out on the streets) – I never assume that I am welcomed to stay the night.  In fact, I assume that I am NOT welcomed to stay the night.  Even after sexy time I don’t feel like he owes me any hospitality besides the use of his bathroom and a glass of water.  Because sex does not equal an obligation to provide anything to the other person.  I got sex, anything else is just extra.  The only reason not being asked to stay bothered me is that HE HAD ALREADY ASKED ME TO STAY.  Telling me that he was gonna pull the old heave-ho on me would have been no big deal if he if he had told me at the bar.  I could have made other arrangements or at least have been prepared.  Instead me and my poor knickers were left twisting in the foul, urine-stenched wind.

The lame solicitation for phone sex that he sent me a few days later was not well received and largely ignored by me.  As were the ones he sent me over the next couple of weeks.  In a huff, he finally sent me a text that read “I guess this acquaintance is over.  If you wanted to fuck again, we would have by now.” I couldn’t resist.  I texted back that we probably would have fucked again if he didn’t kick me out of his apartment in the middle of the night and made me do a walk-of-shame through the mean streets of the Tenderloin.  This was met with “Well I don’t want to see you again anyway.”

Note to self – buy pepper spray.  Better note to self – do not date guys that live in the Tenderloin.

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3 responses to “The Bad Date Chronicles – In the Ghetto

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