Editor's Note: I wrote this to submit to Nerve.com for their "People I Never Intended to Sleep With" Contest. while my submission was late, I thought I'd post it here for your enjoyment.
Admittedly, I am a music snob, so my internal Wild Flag should have started waving immediately. We met at the bar the night of the Archers of Loaf show. Impressed by my beer-and-bourbon order, we talked about this and that, discovered we had an affinity for other single (barrel) music fans, and exchanged numbers. He had never heard of the Archers, but was in a good company of fans, so I let it slide.
After about 2 weeks of much idiotic texting (apparently no one calls anyone anymore), we decided to meet for a date – a drink and a show. The Love Language. I know, how romantic. During our pre-show beers, he made the following fatal mistake.
He asked me, “So, who’s your favorite band?” I hate this question. It’s the one you ask when you have nothing else to say. I struggled, producing bands I’ve been into for years, and threw in a few I thought he might know. As a Michigander, I expected him to be a fan of The White Stripes. “No, not really,” he grimaced. Instead, he revealed that he was in fact a fan of Kid Rock “not even ironically!” I cringed inside, especially when he said he couldn’t find anyone to go with him to the show in a few weeks, and put his hand on my knee smiling as if I would find this charming.
I did not, but I was pretty horny. After a few beers, we headed to see the band. After a few more beers and a bourbon, I let him slide his hands around my waist. After another bourbon, I felt myself leaning against his Midwestern-Kid-Rock-loving chest. After another bourbon, I let him talk me into going home with him on the premise that he would “pay for a cab in the morning.”
That part I didn’t remember as well until the next morning when he handed me a $20. I chirped, “oh yeah, thanks” trying not to feel like a prostitute and continued to fumble around for my clothes. Well, before that exchange, we had some fairly unremarkable sex (in which when I suggested he “slow down a little,” he replied “I don’t have much time” having to be at work in 30 minutes). After he came (and I was nowhere near it) we took a shower and I prepped myself for the trip home in the harsh light of a sober Saturday morning. Made harsher still by the fact that my underwear was nowhere to be found and I was wearing jeans.
He sent me a text a week later that said “guess what I found?!” looking to see if I’d come to collect. Since I’d kept the money and walked home, I figured he’d paid for my loss. Though I was tempted as I did really like that pair of underwear. Far more than the hairy, bad-in-bed man I left on the doorstep.
Hopefully he found solace in his favorite band, I always do.