Mystery Science Theater

Guys, I'm in a bit of a pickle.

So, Wednesday night I had a "date" with a dude. Here are his vitals:
- 28 years old
- stand-up comedian
- former US Marine
- and a dating coach ("yes, like Hitch," he said in his email)

You see why I had to go out with this man. He's a total unicorn. No, wait, he's like a chimera. Or the Easter Bunny--he's fucking mythical and mystical and I can't handle it.

I went into it differently than I used to go into dates. Instead of thinking, "oh god, is he going to like me? oh god, what if he's disappointed?" the loop in my head was, "please don't let him be lame, please don't let him be lame, please don't let him be lame." I liked this feeling. I had no doubt that I could hold up my end of the conversation, and that my baby blue Banana Republic top was working for me, but I couldn't vouch for this character. I was even quite annoyed, seeing as the plan was to check out his comedy show, then grab a drink afterwards. Was I really going to spend money to see this character? Luckily, the fee was nominal, and as a stand-up comedian myself, judging other comics brings me great joy.

I showed up, got my ticket, and sat inside the club, which was packed to the rafters with a total of 12 people.
Welcome to Awkward Town, population: ME.

He went on fairly early, and was actually pretty funny. After he performed, the next comedian came up and was like, "doesn't he look like Chandler Bing [Matthew Perry from Friends]?" I made a "wtf? no, not at all" face, and the comedian goes, "Dude, I'm about to get you laid by a hot black chick."

Shoot me now. Way to rock out on Date 1.

Unfortch, I had to sit through another 8 comics, only 2 of whom made me laugh out loud. One was a girl, and I sorta developed a friend-crush on her. After the show, I saw my "date" outside and the plan was to head to a bar with a few of the other comics (luckily my girl-crush was there). It was very casual, which actually made me feel more comfortable. As we walked to the bar, I demanded he tell me everything about dating coaching.

It turns out he was recruited by Mystery. THE Mystery, from VH1's "The Pick-Up Artist." Tell me you remember this show? Just in case, why don't I take your memory for a jog:

Mystery is a 6-foot-5-inch Canadian magician/illusionist who has perfected the art of bedding women. It involves alot of acronyms and inside phrases. Here's a bit of Mystery in action:




The man is an evil egomaniacal genius, and I am kind of obsessed with him.
I think he may have herpes--the gift that keeps on giving.

So, I was slightly giddy and starstruck, trying to get my "date" to tell me everything about Mystery and the process. As this is all happening, we're alternating between chatting with his comedy friends and doing our own thing. He keeps telling me how pretty I am and we're trading banter and being ridiculous. I don't like the idea of dating comedians, and found that to initially be more of a turn off than the dating coaching, because I feel like it's too much manic energy and neuroses put together. I also think that nothing could be worse than running into a guy who you dumped, or who dumped you, all around Manhattan in performance settings. Especially when your performance largely involves true stories of your own dating life.

This is one of the reasons I only date men in outer boroughs.

On the other hand, it's the ability to laugh for 4 hours straight and his ability to roll with every punch I throw (both literally and conversationally) that makes comics fun to hang out with and easy to crush on. I'm on the fence with this whole situation, and it's something I'm still sorting out, and I know that there are exceptions to every rule.

Anyway, throughout our good fun time, I couldn't help but think, "Shit, is he playing me Mystery-style?" I mean, I was actually nervous before we kissed--there were veritable butterflies, I tell you! That's crazy town. I mean, he doesn't even have red hair. How did he get me all in a tizzy?

When I got home, I was disheartened to get no "hope you got home safe/i had fun tonight" text message, and began to write him off. Yesterday afternoon I got a text that hinted at a second meeting. After waiting a cool, hip 30 minutes to reply, I AM STILL WAITING FOR A RESPONSE FROM HIM!!

Damn you, Mystery!!!

As I psychoanalyzed this via gchat with my one heterosexual male friend, he said, "Sojourner, you can't make him like you. You may be a blacktress, but you can't control every situation."

But the thing is, HE can make ME like HIM. This is the problem. He is a trained professional in the art of getting me to drop my panties. How do I handle this?!

Although he told me all about how he doesn't teach the same method with all those acronyms, and says he's looking for something more than a bar shag, how do I not know that's not more Mystery-approved dialogue?! Although we had a great time and he's super fun and I totes want to hang out again, will showing my interest simply make him think he has me? I feel like I have to play harder to get than I normally would just to put him in his place. According to Mystery, if all goes well, I should be naked by date 2 or 3. Clearly, I will not fall for these tricks.

Or will I????

I can't decide if I'm buying myself a ticket to the Shit Show, or to Ringling Brothers--The Greatest Show on Earth!

Am I getting a one-way ticket to Sadtown or Idiot Village? What about Unexpected Pregnancy Township? Maybe I'm getting a roundtrip ticket from Sanity City to Hot Mess Country, but I'll make it back to Sanity City before too much damage is done.

Who AM I and how do I find these people?

One ticket to the shit show/Be Careful Who You Cougar

I make all this fuss about needing followers and then take 5 days to put up a new post. I have begged you to come to me, then shirked my duties. I am behaving like a typical heterosexual male, and for that I apologize.

Basically, I've been coming home late and slightly stressed, and haven't really had anything blog worthy--or so I thought.

The first random surprise was last Sunday, when I received the following textual eruption:

[blacktress!] how r u?i nicked your no from jason,hope u don't mind,if u do dont worry, just don't txt back.howz life?what u been up2?sos bout other wk,i was a mess.simon

What the hell?! I was so confused reading this; it took me about 10 minutes to decipher the abbreviations before I could even assess who was sending it. I mean, I don't know any 12-year-old girls who like to abbreviate and have Lisa Frank posters on their walls--who could this be? Once I cracked the DaVinci Code that was the text itself, I still had no idea which Simon would be calling me and apologizing. I know one Simon here in Oz, but he's a random gay man I met at a bar who pulled out his iPhone and facebook-friended me on the spot. I haven't seen him since that fateful night, so I'm sure there was nothing "the other week" he had to apologize for.

I racked my brain for nearly an hour before I realized that Simon was the 20 year old I accidentally cougared it up with!!! OH EM GEE!!!

What was he doing texting me? Not only had it been over a month since our one and only interaction, but neither of us had a particularly good time. Besides, what's with the abbreviations?! I know he's young, but has he really not mastered T-9 prediction?

Once I realized who it was, I laughed wholeheartedly, and texted back, saying it was okay to say hi. After all, I don't dislike him as a person, and was very interested to see how this was going to play out. I mean, what excuse can you possibly have for falling off for a month? And why would you want to get in touch with me again after I scurried out of your home, getting a ride from your flatmate?

Unfortunately, writing back has led to a ridiculous series of texts that amount to nothing. I really don't like the concept of text message conversations, and it really gets my billy goat when people text back and forth. If you're interested in seeing me again, make it happen. Pick up the phone and ask me out for a malt at the soda shoppe like it's 1956 (only without the pesky racial segregation). Come to my home, state your intentions, and let's share a drink with two straws.

Do not text me all week asking we "what r u up2?" and "howz your wkend?" I don't really want to give you a play-by-play, cause we're not mates. Besides, what are you getting at? He clearly wants to see me again, but lacks the testicles to ask me. This doesn't really bother me because I'm still in mourning over my redhaired loss and so uninterested in getting embroiled in drama/getting my feelings hurt that even a silly 20 year old offers no hope for fun.

*****Note: it has taken me 2 days to write this post. In the interim, I went to The Colombian, a gay bar on Oxford Street, where I was told I was gorgeous 50 times, and "oh my god, when you smile you look like Whitney Houston!"
For serious. Luckily, he amended it with, "pre-crack Whitney, late-80s, 'I wanna dance with somebody,' so it was okay.
Anyway, the 20-year-old showed up at the bar. I will go on*******************

So, he rocks up with two of his English friends after a day of drinking at an outdoor music festival. I have no ill will towards him, so we do the hug and fake cheek-kiss and I meet his mates. He's clearly so wasted and I wonder how wasted I must have been the first time we hooked up. Other than a winning smile, he is a hot mess of a man-boy in every sense of the word. He says to me, "long time no see, stranger!" and then scolds me for not responding to his asenine texts. I explain my stance on textual eruptions, and he proceeds to ask me the same questions over and over: "When are you going home? What are you going to do when you get there? Are you going to miss Sydney?"

My friend arrives, and the club is so loud I'm able to stand 10 centimeters from him and explain to her exactly who he is without him paying attention. Her response:
"Um, he's gay."
I KNOW!!!!
"And he's clearly on a pill of some sort."
I KNOW!!!
Dude, The Colombian is like a Studio 54 wannabe 25 years too late. People are taking E like it's pez, and then getting overly touchy in a way that makes me fear for my womb. I mean, we arrived at 6pm and it was already full on--who starts using a hallucinogen before it's even dark outside?

My gal pal and I left, and I waved goodbye to the crew. We get about 3 blocks up the street when a flash of bright pink appears in my path. Simon has run after us!
"Wheerrrrreeee aaaaarrreee youoooooouuuuu going?" he asks, all strung out.
"Um, we're heading to another place, but we'll be back." I think it's okay to lie to people I don't really like when they are intoxicated, because they won't remember.

Content with this response, he leaves us alone. My friend looks at me.
"Total shit show," she says.
I KNOW!!!