...that is the third date question.
Since I have been single, I have been on dates with two guys. The first one was almost a year after The Ex left. The second one was a year and a half later. I guess that's how long it took me to wash the first one out of my mind (I still get the heebie jeebies when a memory from that date invades my head). But I'm not going to talk about the first guy (I'll get to him in the chapter called The Worst Date Ever), I'm going to talk about the second guy. If he had a chapter it would be called The Third Date is Not Always the Sex Date.
I think I have mentioned before that the idea of dating scares the crap out of me. I seem to have a knack for attracting all the losers and weirdos online. They put "Barber/Rapper" as their profession and "some college" for education. I'm not really sure what "some college" means. Was he in school when his Barber/Rapper gig started to blow up, so he had to drop out? And how does one become a Barber/Rapper? Of course, I don't ask him these questions. I delete him and then make fun of him on facebook (the polite way, you know, behind his back).
So, naturally, when I got an email from a guy who spelled everything correctly and used proper grammar, I freaked out. Now it was my turn to write an email that didn't sound stupid and/or cheesy. It took me two days to respond. It's amazing how hard it is to write a simple email. I felt like my head was going to explode. We emailed back and forth for about a week and then exchanged numbers. (I want to get to the third date so I'll sum up the first two: I enjoyed his company, he was easy to talk to, good kisser.) I probably would've slept with him on the second date, but I had already promised myself that if I actually liked a guy I wouldn't sleep with him right away (it's not easy, but we have to pretend to be all respectable and shit, am I right, ladies?) I also decided to rebel against the third date rule and wait until the fourth date to open for business. I like to make my own rules.
On our third date, we met in a neutral location because we couldn't decide where we wanted to go. I was not familiar with the area, but my sister recommended Texas Roadhouse. She said it wasn't very romantic but has a fun atmosphere and they bring you peanuts and you throw the shells on the floor. Love it already. I passed the suggestion on to my date and he said, "They're a bunch of hillbillies. They throw their trash on the floor." I said, "It's not trash, they're peanut shells, it's just part of the fun." He said, slightly huffily, "Well, we can go there if you want." Um, not now! I said, "No, that's okay. I don't want you to think I'm a 'hillbilly'." He paused for a moment and then said, excitedly, "Oh, I know where I'm gonna take you! I'll drive."
I got in his car, which was a total mess, by the way (later, it occurred to me that I should've called him a hillbilly for having so much trash in his car), and he drove us to Rubios. If you're not familiar with Rubios, perhaps you're familiar with Baja Fresh? Same thing. Basically, it's glorified fast food. That was the fantastic third date restaurant he took me to. And he made me pay. It was $14. He took our water cups to the soda fountain and said over his shoulder,"You got it?" Seriously? I said, "Uh, yeah, it's $14, I think I can handle it." Then he said, "I don't get paid till tomorrow." This guy was 35 years old, divorced with no kids (no child or spousal support to pay), had his own house with no mortgage, and he couldn't swing $14 until he got his paycheck? I was starting to realize why he didn't want to go to Texas Roadhouse with all those rich hillbillies everywhere. He would've had to make me pay for an actual meal. But, I mean, seriously. If I knew I was going to have to pay, I still would've picked Texas Roadhouse over Rubios. My money, my choice, bitch.
After "dinner", he wanted me to go to his house and meet his dogs. I had to pick up a friend at the airport so I was on a time constraint (thank God), and I knew I wasn't going to sleep with him after buying my own damn burrito, so I figured, what the hell, I'll meet his dogs. His house was a complete dump. Every piece of furniture (the little there was) was covered with junk (more of that hillbilly trash he hates so much). His kitchen sink was overflowing, the cabinet doors were flung wide open, his bed (if you can call it that) had one sheet, one pillow and was swimming in his laundry (clean or dirty, I don't know, I didn't find out).
The prize winner, though, was his bathroom. There was a pile of towels tucked up on the floor under the window, the toilet was filled with blue water and the sink had a bar of soap sitting in it. Not beside the sink or, heaven forbid, in a soap dish, but IN the sink. He used the bathroom just before I did, so he clearly didn't try to tidy up. He just shoved the towels away from the door and dropped the soap in the sink after he washed his hands, like a slob. There was no hand towel. I came out of the bathroom holding out my wet hands and asked for a towel. He went into his bedroom and came out with a bath towel. Not a hand towel. I didn't know if that towel was clean or dirty or if he used it to dry off his balls. I just picked a corner and prayed it wasn't the corner he whacks off onto.
His house was so gross I didn't want to touch anything or sit anywhere. My face must have shown my disgust because he said, "It's not bad for a bachelor pad, right?" In my head I was like, you're 35 and you've been married. Bachelorhood is way behind you. What I said was, "Um, when I was in college and I would go to fraternity parties, this is what their houses looked like." Then he said, "I guess it was pretty bold of me to bring you here." I said, and I'm not exaggerating, "It was pretty brave of you to bring a broad like me to a dump like this."
He still tried to get all up on me, but that was not gonna happen. Even if I was interested in third date doing it, there was nowhere to do it! I would've had to go all Ross and the Dirty Girl and do it in the mess! Nooooo thank you. It would've taken me a lot longer than a year and a half to wash the memory of banging that slob from my mind. Not worth it. And that is why the third date is not always the sex date.