For our first date, Buttcrack planned for us to go to a few places within walking distance of each other, in an area I don’t frequent much. I love when a dude makes plans, even as simple as taking me to eat someplace new. It shows they’re being thoughtful and making an effort, which I appreciate.
He told me he was 6 feet tall and described what he was wearing that night. When I walked into the bar, his back was to me and he was smaller than I expected. He was narrow and made 6 feet look petite, if you will… And I will.
The camo print shirt I was looking for sounded studly. In person, it was hipster camouflage – tiny, difficult to discern gray and blue print, on an extremely tight shirt. And I wish I was talking around his biceps. Mostly the shirt (and buttons) were doin’ work in the abdominal area.
The tight shirt should’ve been my first clue that the other days I’d see him, he’d be showing off his buttcrack. It’s not like he was overweight or obese, just average. But a hipster who wears tightass clothing appears much larger and in charger than they really are. Not to mention they look super uncomfortable and a bit fucking odd.
I would describe myself as an athletic/average built chick. I have big German arms, (muscley when flexed, loose when not) a ‘developed’ back, (per my mansseuse) and a defined chin, or three. So I am not saying his physique is unworthy by any means. I’m saying his wardrobe is. I guess this is the first man I’ve closely encountered that wears extremely tight shit. He was an inappropriate a-dult version of a boy navigating a major growth spurt. Or maybe an American trying to look Euro. Whatever way you slice it, his buttcrack was out of line. Get it?
Halfway through our first date, he informed me he took an Uber there. (That would be my idea a few dates later.) Luckily before we met, we happened to get on the topic of cars and he told me he had a BMW. He would subsequently send me a picture of it. Maybe a bit strange, but I appreciate a sharp vehicle so I was cool with it. I excused the weirdness of riding an Uber to our first date because I knew he did indeed have a nice car. (Maybe should’ve been clued into a possible drinking problem though? I can’t think of it all, you know.)
A few months ago, a guy friend of mine (who requested to be referred to as Stud in here – oh yessssss) gave me some excellent dating advice. He knew about Dating Piece of Sass and along with some other friends, we met one night at a bar to discuss my blog. Or rather, he and another crazy friend said they had some great thoughts that might change my case of singletude and dating wankers.
You know I’ll take all the help I can get, plus I enjoy a good drink, so I was in. Even if the help is from two old high school friends that still do burnouts in front of my cousin’s house and have narrowly escaped jail multiple times. Not even an exaggeration. When they get together, it’s like a live episode of Jackass. And that shit cracks me up, as long as my friend Wayne doesn’t end up dancing on me in leopard underwear.
So Koury…I’m sorry, Stud, said there are three things that will generally define the quality of a dude. They are as follows: his job, his car and his hobbies. This sounds simple but he explained his reasoning and I kind of bought in.
Stud told me that a guy’s job would show if he was driven and successful, it would speak to his work ethic and character. Conversely it could demonstrate a guy’s tendency to be complacent; on the extreme, possibly lazy and a freeloader. His car would exhibit how well he cares for and maintains things. It may also elude to how he’s carried through on said work ethic. His hobbies would demonstrate his depth, showing whether he was multifaceted or monochromatic, more of a simple guy. Could this guy put cars back together or did he prefer to video game with a queertooth on his head, alone in his basement? Simple is good, however I am anything but. It’s safe to say I almost always think that more is more. I definitely prefer a guy who can fix a car.
Data analyst was my first date after this conversation with my friends, so I wanted to see if Stud’s theory had any validity.
Once I learned what Buttcrack did at work, I surmised he had to be sharp and that he was successful in his work life. He drove a well maintained vehicle that I wouldn’t mind riding in the front seat of, without tinted windows; this was also a plus. I surmised he made good money from his career history and where he was at in life. He drove a mean looking motorcycle, which is manly and you know I’m definitely a fan of that as well. I’d also find out that he had some interesting hobbies.
He was a mentor for the college business program he graduated from; he could play drums, guitar and piano; he was a computer techie and he knew how to fix cars and things at home. Seemed like a pretty diverse set of things happening there.
In spite of ye ole’ analyst having adequate answers to test Stud’s hypothesis, I am now referring to him as Buttcrack. Because I’ve seen his buttcrack in public, on multiple occasions. The first time was when I drove us to get pizza one night and he got out of the passenger side of my car, holding the pizza box. Another day when we went to eat, he domineered the booth seat (rude) and while sliding into his spot, I saw the top of his ass again.
Listen, I know when my asscrack is out, I can feel the breeze. And unless this dude had some sort of incomplete spinal cord injury that fucked with his sensation, he could too. Let’s quit talking about it. The moral is, his clothes were all too friggin’ small and that’s how he liked it.
Now as promised, on his cheapness… The first date night we went to two different spots. He paid for our drinks at the first place and then I paid for a round of drinks at the second place (because I was 15 minutes late for our date and felt bad).
The next time he asked me out we met on a Sunday and went to eat first and for drinks after. When the waiter came out with the bill for brunch, he asked if he should split it and Buttcrack said, “sure.” The waitress did the same at the second place and he agreed again. This fucking modern world…
After our waitress took payment from us both, I informed him how I was not down with the chick paying. He thought this was interesting and we talked about it for a few minutes. I shared my perspective. When a man pays, he is making an effort to care for me, demonstrating chivalry and acting like a gentleman. And I love a gentleman. He talked some shit about how he wants women to feel empowered and on an equal playing field. Well fuck all that. I am empowered all on my own. I do not need to, and will not, pay for myself in order to feel empowered. My counter argument was much more articulate than that and I was proud of myself for not writing him off after this convo. Lesson learned, I won’t be that fucking charitable again.
He thanked me for explaining my perspective to him and said, “Thanks for telling me Andrea, that is good to know.” What I heard: I will pay from now on because I am a gentleman and want to impress you.
What he meant: I’m a cheap mother fucker and even though I make really good money, you’re going to pay for yourself. On the first second and third ‘dates’, beeyotch.
I will affirm that on the above occasions, we were out in Minneapolis – apparent city of progressives. That shit would not happen on the east side of St. Paul. We’re proudly blue collar and I believe the majority of us find gratification in taking care of each other. That’s why we have yard signs that say: “Eastside Pride” y’all. Represent. And also, don’t fuck with us.
He asked me out for a last minute dinner a few nights after our brunch day and I was bored, so I agreed. We met at a St. Paul restaurant that I picked. When the bill came (together on one tab, thank you St. Paul) he looked at me and said, “How do you want to do this?” I looked at him incredulously and said, “Are you kidding me?” He replied, “Do you know how expensive going out can get?”
I almost bitch slapped him, but instead I seethed: “Oh my word. Do you know this is our 3rd date?” I had been standing on his side of a high top table at this point and I almost shit. I immediately moved away from him, got stone-faced and put my card on the table. He picked up on none of these cues and when I got home, he texted me: Good to see you tonight, I had fun. Call me tomorrow. Sleep well!
I gave myself 20 minutes and then could resist no longer. My response was something to this effect: I am miffed about what happened this evening. I told you explicitly a few nights ago about how I felt about a man making an effort and paying, and then you want me to pay again tonight? On top of that, you have the audacity to insinuate that I’m getting expensive during our first week of dating? That is unreal to me. Clearly you didn’t hear anything I was telling you and I have nothing to say to you right now.
He wrote back, I’m sorry you feel that way. I didn’t even think about that conversation and I think we should talk about this in person as it’s a complicated subject. I told him: I already talked to you about this and it’s not that fucking complicated.
He ended up calling me and explaining how he was confused by what I said. I was pretty indifferent at this point but he seemed to really be hanging on. He said, “Andrea let me take you on another date and I promise I’ll show you I’m the gentleman you’re looking for.” This is how he asked me over for dinner at his place, our last non-date.
If you read my last post: Deuces, 2017, you know what happened after the gourmet meal at his place. I got the fuck out. That evening when I saw and confirmed what an oddball this dude was, after all the slack I had given him, that was fucking it.
The best part of this story is that one evening Buttcrack asked about my hobbies and I told him about my blog. He was interested and wanted to know what it was about. I proudly explained it to him, even revealing the name. He looked it up and I think he possibly bookmarked it. I should feel bad about the fact that he could be reading this, but no, I fucking don’t.
In fact, Buttcrack if you are reading this, (you stalker) you’re cheap. And maybe if I was a feminist or a mousy lil shadow of a woman, I’d be okay with it. But I am not. Your clothes are two sizes too small and I couldn’t take your bobble-head douchey eyebrow laugh. So you my friend, can stick it up your tight-wad ass.
We have yet to find out if Stud’s hypothesis is valid, as this is only one data point to assess. Stay tuned, unfortunately I’m sure I’ll have a few more dudes to test it out on.
Wayne, the next time we get together, you better have quality shit to contribute or you’re off my Man Blog Advice Panel. No more of this garbage: “Andrea, maybe you could meet a guy at a liquor store. I happened to meet my next door neighbor because I saw her brother riding to the liquor store on his lawn mower. I had to go talk to him. That was badass.”