The Date Debate: Part Deux

Ah, I know. You are sitting on the edge of your seats with anticipation as you read. You are asking yourself, "How did the date go?!" "Skip the intro stuff! Just get to the details!"

The date went, well, great. It wasn't awkward nor was I uncomfortable considering the circumstances we had met each other under. By circumstances I mean the drunken state we were in.

Remember that toga party I mentioned about a month ago? (If I even did mention it? Oh, well, I don't know. But I can get some pictures here to post of me in my lovely little Toga and Versace skirt!) Anyhow, that is where we met. I noticed his toga seemed slightly different than everyone else's standard bedsheets, some with flowers, some tattered, some Martha Stewart 300 thread count. His stood out. His appeared to be a...hospital bedsheet?

Indeed. I felt the urge to go up the complete stranger and ask him, "Where did you get your sheet?" I tried to sound as "there" as I could, seeing as how my good friend Tequila and were inseperable that night. He laughed. "How'd you know?"

We started talking. We talked for the remainder of the night. After the torch races and beer-drinking triatholon (in honor of the Olmypics returning to Athens) we'd come back to each other to chat it up. Each time, I was getting drunker and drunker. As we engaged in meaningless conversation near the "bar" (or countertop, however you want to look at it) the tiny dixie cups of bittersweetness never left my hands. And what do you think happened next?

No, not yet. I will get to that.

WE DECIDE TO GO DANCING! HOLLA!

We hit it up club style. Arriving by Anthony's taxi service, picking up our good friend Harley on the way, with Gina in tow, we show up tp our favorite club, as fabulous, and, as drunk as ever. (Anthony was DD that night.)

We trip up the stairs to the dancefloor. Gina is holding onto my skirt. Harley is slightly tipsy from the miniature bottles of alcohol I forced him to consume in the parking lot. I am inebriated. I didn't know my name. I thought my name was Versace.

I try to dance with Anthony and Gina. They won't let me in. So I start dancing by myself, in tiny circles, around the dancefloor.

There's a tap on my shoulder.

It was hospital-sheet-clad toga boy, sans toga. I turn around and start dancing with him. Now somewhere in between David Bowie Remasters and Abba's "Dancing Queen" we were left alone on the dance floor. To make complete fools of ourselves.

I fell on the dancefloor.

I heard through the grapevine (or from Anthony's mouth) that he COULD NOT dance for the life of him.

After dancing our little hearts out it was time to return to the toga party. Without my toga. In my Versace skirt. Without Gina, Anthony and Harley.

I walked past him on the patio. He was BBQ-ing. I was on my phone. I walked back into the party, oblivious, holding a bottle of the cigar smokers' cognac. Life was a blur, at that moment. And it was good.

I didn't see him again that night. Maybe it was due to the fact that I walked into the other room with Sean and passed out. Maybe it was because I puked in a litter box. I don't know.

But was I suprised to hear my phone ring and hear his voice on the other end the next day.

So, after four weeks of phone tag, we finally made an offical date. It was nice.

There was food, laughter, great conversation. Sugar and spice, and all the other crap.

Will there be a second date?

I think so.

 

*shakes butt*

 

I still got it!