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He was huge with a shaved head to the skin. I could tell the top of his head was pink and if I were 6’3 I am sure I would find it shiny like a waxy fruit. In gentlemanly fashion, he had agreed to “swoop me up” for our Sunday lunch first date. Having had difficulty drumming up even one restaurant suggestion, it had became obvious that I had to step in to choose a local eatery. Once tucked into an uncomfortable little, I sat across from idea-man himself. He was strapping and so profoundly bald and he talked. A lot. He began,
“So, I don’t know if you saw on my profile that I ran for COngress, this last march…” Pregnant pause. In fact, I did know this but also had a sneaking suspicion that he ran on what I considered to be the wrong side of the ticket, morally, politically etc. He was clearly a staunch republican; I could smell the patriotism, the fiscal conservatism, and the racial insensitivity on him like teenage cloud for axe body spray.
“Yeah, cool. Do you want to tell me about that?” I asked cordially and he began to projectile vomit his entire experience, like an lengthy, unwelcome, monologue. He went on and on and on, I mean without a breathe. I was closing in on one of the final bites of my polo salad when he came to an abrupt halt in his unwelcome rant. Clearly, he had not had time to chew through his yapping, because his panini had turned, a cold meat and cheese frisbee of what it once was.
“Enough about me,” he offered and looked in my direction with the monotonous combination of both obligation and disinterest, “Well? Tell me about you...” He said it impatiently. He knew he had to tick the box of having “asked” about me, I suppose. What a dialogue. I am an Aquarius and I enjoy long walks on the beach, someone in my position might have said. Who knows? Neither of us was interested. So, I summarized myself in a few trite sentences. I must have mentioned my love for running and sunshine because in lieu of asking a follow-up question to signal any modicum of obligatory interest, he instead offered the originality of:
“Well, that explains the nice legs." An undeniably classy pivot that, in fact, despite the blaring signs of warning sounded sirens in my mind, I was unreasonably taken with him; I guess I was flattered enough by the single compliment, that I was oblivious to the apparent chauvinism of exchange.
You have to understand under normal circumstances I would have run for the hills, but in hindsight it is clear that in this moment, apparently no longer would my mind concern itself with pragmatism or morality. No matter how vile and indefensible, how douchey or aligned with Fox News, a man proved himself to be, it seemed my capacity for love could no longer be imprisoned by the pettiness of standards… of any kind.
So, I agreed to his proposition for an intimate movie night the next day in his downtown Gaslamp condo, WHICH HE OWNED- he had made sure to mention. When I looked at my phone later Sunday night, he had taken the repulsive liberty of sending me an unrequested (and faceless) body shot, stripped way down his boxer briefs—American fucking flag boxer briefs, might I add— which insinuated the shape and stiffness of his fully functioning congress member. And it was with the utter class of this message that then ensued this whirlwind of unrepentant patriotism and tone deaf cockiness, literally and figuratively.
The highlights:
His boxers were a sobering amuse bouche of what was to come in terms of his condo decor. When I say he was a proud American, I mean the flag in all of its unbridled glory— the stripes, the stars, the red and the blue— the white congress member had chosen to dominate his entire condo, was astounding to put it mildly. One flag, two flags. Nay, nay, nay. Th fact that July (and the 4th), at this point, was rearing its inevitable head, had no baring: this was clearly a year round commitment to his patriotism. Wall hangings, blankets, coasters, pillows, that flag shit was so pervasive, I had to respect his commitment to keeping things on brand. It was all-American flag orgy that had resulted in the whoopsies of a ton of flag babies, that continued almost in real-time to multiply and takeover more off his aesthetic as I looked around the room.
It is the intellectual stimulation that requires rapt attention of any viewer during any Oscar winning masterpiece of this caliber, that kept silent for the entire length of Suicide Squad.
After the movie, like the gentleman I am sometimes, rose to leave. However, with the social swag of someone a standard deviation shy of autism, he in one caveman is he move, he threw me like an unusually small sack of potatoes (for any grown woman) over his left shoulder and marched across the browned carpet, to the“master” bedroom. What ensued then was the climax of our torrid love affair, which lasted about ½ taco Tuesday date more
