The complete absence of furniture in the house should have been my first tip that something was amiss. Or, failing that, the girl curled in the kitchen cabinet sucking on a gin and juice through a crazy straw was also a good indicator that I had stumbled into an unusual situation. Alas, I wrote both of these off as eccentricities when in fact they were klaxons alerting me to some Crazy Shit going on.
I was blinded because he was Hot.
My first date with The Model had been a subdued affair, coffee and conversation. His were the too-perfect good looks that instantly thrust me into the realm of self-deficiency: bright green eyes set in a flawlessly rich, Mediterranean skin tone, and two careful lip piercings to give just a titillating air of Bad Boy. He was an art student, and I stumbled my way through my extremely limited knowledge of art history, non-committal nods giving way to imperceptible flashes of recognition when he mentioned an artist or style I knew only through Snapple bottle caps. He’d mention an artist who changed his world and opened his eyes to new avenues of creative expression, and I’d sip my coffee, fixated on his artfully styled hair, painstakingly coiffed for an affected indifference. Only his faux vintage tee, strategically distressed jeans, and crisp skater shoes belied his affected disregard for physical appearance. I felt shamed by my own appearance, my hair not knowing the touch of a comb for years and jeans—horribly baggy and now in their fifth year of continued wear—having come straight from the rack at Target.
I am not a romantic. Though I enjoy the occasional romantic comedy, I find I need none of the theatrics in my own life. Flowers are sweet, and I’ll appreciate the gesture, but immediately after receiving them I’ll remember I don’t own a vase and the flowers end up in either a souvenir Houston Rodeo cup or salad dressing shaker. I’ve never enjoyed candy, so chocolates in a clichéd heart-shaped box end up in the trash as soon as my beau walks out the door. To make my heart flutter, a man need only crack open a domestic beer and say he wants to load up a zombie flick on the DVD player.
Yet I resolved to flex my long-atrophied romance muscle for the second date with The Model. He was A Catch, and I knew I had to step up my game. I suggested an outdoor screening of a silent film, complete with intimate picnic dinner. He agreed, and I realized I had nothing with which to put together said picnic dinner. My kitchen is atypically Spartan in terms of domestic accessories. I have perhaps two pots, a mismatched collection of dishware, and an old potholder that has been repurposed into a dishrag. My Martha Stewart nesting gene is noticeably deficient.
I tried to cobble together a romantic picnic to woo my potential boy, by the task was daunting. In hindsight, I realize that Costco is not the best source for epicurean delights. Economical, yes. Sensual, no. Lacking a picnic basket, I loaded my two pounds of kiwi (“It’s an aphrodisiac,” I told myself), off-brand box of red wine, and pallet of string cheese into a plastic shopping bag. Bag bulging, I patiently awaited The Model to whisk me away to the park and fall madly in love with me.
He called me only after he was thirty minutes late and I’d begun to depressively gnaw on a still-fuzzy kiwi. “He’s lost,” I rationalized, “He needs directions and called only once he realized he couldn’t find my house without help”
“Hey dude, change of plans.” He sounded unconcerned about his tardiness. Or his abrupt decision to derail my careful plans.
Change of plans? Was that valid? Can you change plans when they weren’t yours to begin with? But, my level of flexibility and understanding is directly proportional to how much the sparkle in your eyes makes my heart flutter. I began to unpack the shopping bags. I resolved to be optimistic. He was Artsy and Creative; he probably had a much better plan for our second date.
“Okay, what’s the plan?”
* * *
Thirty minutes later found me coasting through an unfamiliar neighborhood in the suburbs of Houston. The Model’s friends were having a house party and the invite had been extended for us to join. Though I’d hoped he would pick me up and chivalrously ferry me to the party, he was already there when he’d called to suggest the change in plans. I ordered a gag on the logical corner of my brain demanding to acknowledge this discrepancy, but again: eyes sparkle, heart flutter. I parked, desperately trying to distinguish each house from its clone neighbor and cursing the designer who’d decided street numbers are best when hidden like Waldo.
When I finally found the house, tucked indistinguishably off the street, I realized I was three hours late for a party that had been going on since late afternoon. Though guests still in attendance were remarkably few, the array of empty bottles on the counter suggested an entire fraternity had vacated only moments before. It would have been impossible not to notice my entrance into the house, as I represented a substantial increase in the number of party-goers and I knew immediately that a subtle retreat was now impossible.
And then there he was beside me in his Urban Outfitter graphic tee, tousled hair tucked into ironic trucker cap, taking my hand to lead me into the kitchen to meet the other guests. Two stood in the kitchen, standing over the stove and eating cold pizza directly from the delivery box. Another was taking a can of Pabst Blue Ribbon from a fridge stocked with nothing but cheap beer and a box of baking soda. I was introduced to Maggie, a stocky blonde who sat cross-legged under the kitchen counter as if there was no other place than an empty cabinet that one should drink gin and juice. The Model led me into the dining room, where a couple was enthusiastically making out on the pristine cherry hardwood floors as a disinterested girl sat watching and shoveling chips into her mouth.
“That’s Robert and Amy,” The Model said, tapping the intertwined legs of the dry humpers with his toe. “And this is Alyssandra.” Alyssandra grunted in my direction, her version of a polite handshake, I assumed. An unsettling air hung around her, as if she hadn’t bathed in a week and took it as a personal challenge to see how long she could go before anyone called it to her attention.
Alyssandra shook an empty jar at The Model, “We’re out of fucking salsa,” she managed through a mouthful of chips.
“I have some kiwi in my car,” I offered, unsure of the proper response. “I bought them fresh today.” The look of such extreme revulsion skittering across her face told me this girl could only be satisfied with another jar of fucking salsa.
As The Model headed back into the kitchen in search of salsa—a futile task, I was sure, I’d seen only liquor and pizza to this point—I lowered myself to join Alyssandra sitting on the floor. There were no chairs or tables in the room, and a look over my shoulder confirmed that there were none in the kitchen either. The living room had not a single couch or armchair, with only curtains hanging around the sliding glass doors. Maybe I’d never realized that furniture was so bourgeoisie, I thought. I wanted to show The Model I could get along with his Bohemian friends and their way of life. A foot away, the lovers writhed and moaned.
“Are you two dating?” she shrugged her shoulder in The Model’s direction, who I desperately wished would hurry and find the salsa.
“This is our second date.”
“The two of you fucked yet?” She licked salt and tortilla crumbs from her fingers.
“We’ve only been out once.”
“Not my question, Sugar Teats.”
I shuddered involuntarily. I am, by nature, an intensely private person, reluctant to let anyone see me naked let alone discuss the finer points of my sex life with a total stranger. Especially when my lack of details made me look like a Victorian coquette.
I was saved by The Model, who reappeared with a bottle of beer in one hand and bag of candy in the other. “There wasn’t any salsa,” he said. “But I found you some Twizzlers.” Alyssandra snatched the offering bag from his hand, accepting the substitute. He turned those panty-dropping eyes in my direction, “Do you want to get out of here?”
I nearly leapt into his arms in a show of my unbridled enthusiasm. “Sure, whatever you want,” I managed to return coolly.
Unfortunately, his idea of getting out of the party was literally stepping into the back yard, also conspicuously devoid of any decoration and ornamentation—minus a slightly incongruous swing set. The swings barely held our adult mass, creaking in protest, but we sat and watched the pink glow of urban light pollution to the east. I waited for the conversation to unfold, but the silence remained oppressive. Surely there should be something for us to talk about? Maybe he just wanted to be alone to make out.
“Are you having a good time?” he asked.
I scanned my memory banks for the appropriate canned response. “Yeah, your friends seem really nice.”
“I don’t really know anyone in there. Just Maggie.”
“The girl in the cabinet?”
“Yeah, she’s fun.”
Or drunk. Half a dozen of one, six of another. “You don’t know that girl Alyssandra? She seemed pretty interested in whether we were together or not,” I said.
He chuckled. “That’s weird. Just because I invite you to a party doesn’t necessarily mean we’re hooking up.”
I tried to not let the crushing disappointment read too obviously on my face. “Yeah. Crazy.” The conversation wasn’t unfolding as I’d hoped. If we’d stuck with the original plan, at least the movie would have filled the awkward pauses.
Alyssandra, ears apparently burning like the Hindenburg, stuck her head out of the back door. “Hey, we’re about to play a game. You boys want in?”
I am a fiercely competitive person. I’ve lost friends over an evening of Cranium, and in college I once dislocated a girl’s shoulder while playing Red Rover. Put me in a situation where there is the possibility of winning and I will abandon all scruples and sense of decorum in the quest for that sweet, sweet victory. When Alyssandra offered up the prospect of a game, I knew I could play it one of two ways: I could dominate the game and prove to The Model that I was a prize worth keeping, or I could lay low and end the evening with my dignity in tact. Crossing back into the house, I decided I would play to win and snag a victory kiss from The Model. I understood this crowd, and knew that, without a doubt, we’d be playing some variation of a drinking game. No matter. Cajun blood runs in my veins, my people are no strangers to the drink, and I’d spent a fair share of my years in academia displaying an Olympian prowess in Beer Pong and Quarters.
Back in the dining room, a few collapsible lawn chairs had been arranged into a circle, all facing outwards. “I don’t think I know this game,” I told my date.
The Model looked at me like he might a small child stepping off the short bus. “Don’t you see? We’re going to play Musical Chairs!”
I hadn’t played Musical Chairs since I was at a schoolmate’s birthday party in third grade, and I’m pretty certain that even then I found it juvenile and childish. “Oh.” At least this was a game I could win; as an adult male, I was capable of feats of strength and brutality my frail boyhood self could only dream.
I searched for an adequate follow-up, to somehow assure my date—and in no small part myself—that there was nothing I wanted to do more than play childhood party games, but the only thought racing through my brain centered on the fact that I was surrounded by a group of twenty-somethings, drunk beyond all reason, raring to play Musical Chairs.
“Come on! Let’s get started!”
From a corner I hadn’t noticed before, music began blaring. Of course, it only made sense in a house with no furniture or decorations there should be an enormous DJ mixing table and amp system. Something unreservedly house/trance/techno began pouring out of the speakers and The Model urged me around the circle. He was giddy with anticipation of the music stopping and seemed physically anxious when away from the safety of a seat. The music cut and we all rushed for a chair. Alyssandra, bereft of a chair, sulked away, presumably to renew the hunt for some fucking salsa.
The game continued, our small band of revelers cut down to just three battling it out for two chairs: The Model, myself, and the girl who only moments ago had been writhing on a hardwood floor. I lost the round. I’d love to say I did it in a heroic show of chivalry, sacrificing myself so The Model could stay in the game. But the truth is that The Model shoved me out of the way and I tumbled to the ground, splayed out on the floor in a pose reminiscent of 50% of the Lovers from earlier in the evening. I slunk off the game floor, dusting off my bruised knees and ego.
Maggie stopped me by the kitchen. “I’m so glad you could come to my party.”
I didn’t know she was the hostess, and I found my opportunity to clarify something that had been bugging me for the past hour. “Are you just moving in? I notice you don’t have much furniture.”
She tittered. “This isn’t my house, silly! My mom is a real estate agent trying to sell it. I just used her code to open the lock box on the front door.”
The party fell away, the cheering for the Musical Chair champion impossibly distant. I am unabashedly a Good Boy, and can count on one hand the number of times I’ve ever broken a rule—though even in the counting I risk an elevated heart rate and hyperventilation. I still remember with haunting clarity the one time my mother caught me slicing open the tape on Christmas presents with the precision and stealth of a CIA agent. I’ve never done it since.
“So, we’re breaking and entering?” I squeaked.
She tittered. Again. That wasn’t an answer. I could hear police sirens in the distance. I would be taken away in handcuffs, mug shot taken, I’d lose my job as a teacher as a result of my criminal history. Sweat began beading on my forehead and rolling down my neck and back. My mouth felt dry and I began planning the quickest exit in the sure event the police began beating down the door.
“Hey,” The Model was beside me now, sneaking up unnoticed like an experienced felon. “We’re going to play Twister in a second. You in?”
“Did you know that no one lives here?” I yelped. “That we’re here illegally?”
He laughed. “Yeah, we do this all the time. Didn’t I tell you that?”
It was over for me. There is only so far down the spectrum of criminal activity an eye sparkle is able to move me, especially when that sparkle is dulled by gin. “I should be going,” I told him. A rigid Good Boy to the core, I couldn’t maneuver my body into the positions he needed on a Twister mat or in an empty cabinet. I assuredly wasn’t flexible enough for a wrap sheet.
He didn’t miss a beat, didn’t beg me to stay, didn’t offer to come with me and finally have that picnic. “Cool. I’ll catch you on the flip flop, dude!” And he skipped back to the gathering group to play Twister.
On my drive home, I noticed a police car in my rearview mirror. I sat straighter in the driver’s seat, smoothed my hair, and practiced my speech for the inevitable moment when the cop pulled me over: “I’m sorry officer, I didn’t know I was breaking the law! I would never have played Musical Chairs if I knew jail time was the only prize. It was for a guy. An artist. And I don’t even like art! Or Urban Outfitters! Can I interest you in a kiwi?”
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