Date #63 was Date #62 turned the party scene from Anchorman. If you’ll recall, we had gone on a date and watched one of his friends rock it like a hurricane. It was on that date that I found out he had a policy of being completely honest. About everything. Always.
Date #63 was Date #62 turned the party scene from Anchorman. If you’ll recall, we had gone on a date and watched one of his friends rock it like a hurricane. It was on that date that I found out he had a policy of being completely honest. About everything. Always. Through a series of emails after that first date, I got the scoop. He said that he had been married previously and was terribly unhappy. After the divorce, he visited a shrink who advised him that he was unhappy because he wasn’t honest with himself and the people in his life. According to the emails, he started being honest about everything that very day.
Late to work? Tell the boss you overslept because you got drunk the night before.
“Does this dress make me look fat?”
Want to sexytimes a girl but not date her? Tell her, “I wanna say something. I’m gonna put it out there. If you like it, you can take it. If you don’t, send it right back. I want to be on you.”
The honesty seemed to be working for him, but I was raised to tell little white lies to save feelings and big fat lies to stay out of trouble. He refused to “go back to that life.” His last email of the night wondered if I could handle it. Tone was hard to read, but it felt a bit like a challenge, and I rarely back down from one of those. I replied that I thought I could and told him I’d see him the next weekend for the party he had invited me to.
The party’s guest list consisted of me, the hostess, Date #63 and three of his female “friends,” along with Juice (the friend whose band I had seen play) and his wife. Now, this guy was no Ron Burgundy, and I was no Veronica Corningstone, but when I arrived at the party, the crowd was fast and loose and there was a whole lotta hottubbing goin’ on. At least by the ladies. The two boys were grilling meats and debating the best band ever. When I feigned disappointment about not bringing a bathing suit, one of the girls drunkenly slurred, “That’s okay, sweetie. We won’t look!” and they all laughed.
My goal was to avoid Juice’s wife, having met his pregnant girlfriend (that’s right, a wife AND a married, pregnant girlfriend) at the show. I was told by Date #63 that they knew about each other, but it was a subject best not discussed. Like I wanted to broach that!
I saw Juice’s wife giving me the side-eye several times as I sat in a deck chair and nervously spoke with the other women who were soaking up the chlorine, bacteria, and good vibes. I spoke quickly to avoid giving her a chance to interrupt. Finally, too many beers meant I had to visit the ladies room, and she was standing by the door when I walked out.
“I heard you met THAT GIRL,” she said, “What’s she like?”
Was there an appropriate answer?
She told me that Juice was a big believer in Date #63’s new religion of honesty and had met the girlfriend after a gig. He told his wife about her, admitting “We’ll probably be hanging out.” She said that she knew that was how musicians lived and felt she had no choice but to accept that part of him to keep the peace. Fine. Whatever. I’m not so naive not to know we all make deals with the devil, some are just more blatant.
When we returned, the other ladies of the party were sitting around the hot tub, talking. I sat down, having no idea what I was walking into. After a few seconds, I realized the girls were discussing the sexploits they had engaged in with Date #63. A cute, younger one was just finishing a story about a BJ under the pier at a local beach. The hostess, who looked to be maybe five years older than I loudly added, “Well, he came over and crawled into bed with me a couple of nights ago after the symphony.”
Amy, the one who had attended the symphony with him laughed and said, “I wondered why he dropped me off so early!”
I was completely shocked. Call me old-fashioned, but several women casually discussing one penis that they had all ridden, sometimes within hours of each other, was just too much. I feigned receiving an urgent text message and got the hell outta there. No man, whether or not he was kind of a big deal, was worth becoming part of a communal pants party. You stay classy, rock star.