While first living in Brooklyn with my roomie, I met Lobster. He was living a short ride away on the illusive G train. Though the distance was short, we never actually went out after meeting and maintained a connection through text messages. Fast forward to the present and I agreed to a date…my first official date in a long while.
Things began at Hospoda, a semi-fancy restaurant on the Upper East Side. The food wasn’t a thrill for me, small portions and cranberry foam – bleck! But, the restaurant brews its own beer and has an awesome sampler. Go for the beer and stay for…well, the beer. Things got off to a decent start, Lobster admitted to having a cocktail beforehand to calm his nerves. It was kind of cute/funny considering it felt more like hanging out with an old friend than a first date.
After dinner we landed around the corner at Canyon Road for margaritas! As we chatted it became clear that Lobster fit into the mold of past dates. A nice guy, interested in romance, not into the gay scene, looking for love. This is a recipe for disaster. Other guys I’ve dated that fit this description: Biker Boy, the Mormon, etc. And what happened to them? The Mormon gained fifty pounds after we broke up and then told everyone it was my fault. Biker Boy threw a snowball at my window and pretty much hates my guts.
To be fair I have warned Lobster of all this and my nasty habits, bordering on compulsions. Like the others he believes that I’m overselling my wicked ways. What he has failed to realize is that even as we sat in the bar and he tried to get his arm around me, the red flag went up telling me to run. It went off a second time when it came to the goodnight kiss. I wish we could trade the goodnight kiss for a punch or something.
Lobster is set on trying to date me, so I wish him good luck. He better bring dynamite and a pickax if he wants to start mining his way through these walls. He should probably also keep vodka, band-aids and a helmet handy for his own protection.