Date #5— Andy, King of the Drunken Booty Call

So it’s about 7pm, and you know those nights when someone’s number comes up on the call display and you’re not really sure if you should answer it. Well, it was one of those nights and I should never have answered my phone. A buddy of mine who I have had some somewhat platonic sleepovers with (and later some not so platonic casual boredom sex) – we’ll call him Andy because that’s his name (and y’all should know better than to think if you do something like this that I’ll keep the story quiet – Hah!), calls me up from Scarborough and wants to go for a drink. He’s in Scarborough – I would want a drink too if I was there. I had already seen this week’s Buffy on Tuesday night, so, what the hell, my liver didn’t really need a recovery day anyways. We make plans to meet downtown at the Duke, against my better judgment mostly because my last time there I got food poisoning (in retrospect, I’m sensing a trend). I’m not really sure if this is supposed to be a date or not, but I primp a little bit because there certainly had been trends towards something more in the past, and this was the first time he had ever called me to ask me out, rather than simply running into each other at the pub.

So I’m late, but Andy is later. I even made the effort of changing my shirt, because the previous one had fish pie on it. The things I do for my so-called dates. He finally arrives and seems in a great mood. He’s making jokes, asking me about my previous night’s adventures, and if I had been to Karaoke at Kramer’s (I had) and what songs I had sung (I hadn’t). I mean, I end up at karaoke almost every weekend, against my better judgment (wait, it’s apparent now that I have no judgment), but no one has ever heard me sing. People seem quite charmed simply by my surly presence and disparaging and catty remarks about Bradford’s spectacular mullet of death and everyone’s lack of listenable singing voices. We then proceed to have this same conversation three times in a row. I don’t know the staff at the Duke too well, but he’s in fine form, calling them over one by one to tell them he loves them. This seems a little bit odd, especially after the first five times or so. It dawns on me. He’s drunk. He had been out with one of his other fellow ex-pats that afternoon (hence Scarborough) and wanted to continue his night. What’s worse, he’s hit the third stage of the four stages of drunkenness:

1. I’m tipsy and giggly.
2. I am interesting and deep, and I have a lot to say.
3. I love you.
4. I’m passed out in the bathtub.

I’m halfway through my second pint and he grabs the bill. He’s also asking me about my psycho-stalker ex-boyfriend and if he’s gone away yet (he hasn’t). He wants to ensure that I know that he’ll always be there to protect me etc., etc., etc. So then comes the question of the evening: Are you going somewhere else or should we get a cab back up to your place? It’s suddenly all clear. I’m the drunken booty call. Having given me an out, I mention that I had promised a friend who works around the corner from there that I would drop by to see him. Exiting swiftly, I try to usher my large, lilting and obviously lost buddy into a cab. He’s belligerent. Why am I not taking him home with me? I start walking and the cab zooms away.

My cell phone rings. Guess who? I send it to voicemail.
My cell phone rings, again. Guess who? I send it to voicemail.
My cell phone rings, again. Guess who? I send it to voicemail.

I get on the subway and go home. When once again above ground, my cell phone rings, again. Guess who? I send it to voicemail and turn off the phone. For someone so concerned about my psycho-stalker ex he’s certainly not concerned about the whole psycho-stalker self thing. A sweeping generalization, but men often seem to be missing a few connections sometimes.

I get home, double lock the door and watch The Real Sex in the City. At least my dating life makes theirs look routine, pedestrian and positively dull. I have as many pairs of shoes as Carrie Bradshaw, and a devoted posse of overweight and socially awkward Glaswegians. What more could a woman want?