I was going to call it my first date, but meeting a Swedish trust fund baby for a drink at midnight isn’t exactly that, is it?
So, no, I wasn’t thinking of it as a date. I met this guy out one night with Michael a couple weeks ago and we all chatted and exchanged numbers in a friendly way. With my Paris motto of being open and saying yes to (almost) everything, I agreed to meet him for a drink.
We arranged to meet at 11:30 as we were both out with other friends earlier in the night. He suggested we meet outside a pub right near my apartment, which was convenient to me. But he was late. And the pub is on Rue Saint-Denis. As I was just standing around, and it was on Rue Saint-Denis, I felt like a hooker. I didn’t look like a hooker (I don’t think), but that didn’t stop lecherous men from getting in my face. I was just about to text him and cancel when he called and told me to go to another bar and he’d be right there. Annoying. But I went with it. (Be open! Say yes!)
He got to the bar, ordered a drink and we were hanging out and chatting. He was a little manic, a little flirtatious, and then he leaned over and started making out with me. He wasn't a good kisser. But I went with it, still being open! Saying yes! Then he asked if we should go home (together) or go meet his friends at a bar. I laughed in his face and agreed to go for another drink.
So we left the bar, ostensibly to meet his friends (my bullshit sensor on high alert), and on the way were drawn into another bar by the music. We went in and I think—guessing from the bartender’s facial expressions—he was trying to mooch or sweet talk a free drink. She didn’t fall for it, and he ended up ordering one drink—vodka with mint liquor. It tasted like mouthwash. Because, yes, he ordered just one drink, didn’t ask me what I wanted, but he let me take sips of his. And he kept periodically leaning over and mauling me. But what can I say? It was one of those things where I was so aware of the absurdity of him and the situation, but I didn't care. (Be open! Say yes!) He also kept asking me, “Don't you want to go home with an arrogant bastard?? Don’t you want to be able to tell your friends you went home with a hot Parisian??' Seriously.
Finally, he wanted to go to one more bar, and we were walking further and further away from my apartment, and I was getting more and more wary, and his kissing was getting progressively fiercer and dumber. But I went along to one more bar, where I refused to do a shot with him. So he started getting all offended, and that was my cue that it was time to go. It was 1:15 and had my French lesson at 8:30, and I was done. So I told him I was going home, and he started insisting that I walk him to this club so I can get him in for free! He said I had to go to the club with him and then I could leave! Yeah, right. Finally I just left him at the bar and hustled home.
I got home, soooo happy, and my phone rang and he wanted to come over. Of course I said no thanks and goodbye.
But it keeps going.
I woke up to the ringing phone at 3:45 and ignored it. But it kept ringing. I looked and there were *12* missed calls. Not knowing how to turn my phone off (seriously), I dislodged the battery and fell back into bed.
Then, this morning, he called at 8:30. And asked if he should come over.
I am still laughing as I type this.