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“I just really think we need to get back to those days, you know?”
I stare at my cup, wondering how it got empty so quickly. I’m pretty sure this cocktail was full just a minute ago.
The silence at the table has me realizing that I missed something that my date said. Shit. What was the last thing he said? Oh, he was droning on about how women aren’t very feminine anymore. It appears I’m getting another vodka soda. I see our waiter across the room and hold up my cup, motioning towards it so he knows exactly what I need right now. That’s likely the only thing that will help me get through the rest of this date.
I start wondering exactly how many cocktails it would take me to agree with any of the bull this guy is spewing out of his mouth. “I’ve gotta be honest with you Calvin,” I say, choosing not to suppress the big belch that has worked its way up to my sternum. He thinks women aren’t feminine anymore? I guess there’s no point in trying, then. He’s got all of us figured out.
“The problem isn't the women,” I assure him. “Do you know how much effort I put into this date tonight? Do you know how long it takes to shave every inch of these legs? No, no forget that. Do you know how difficult it is to shave your crotch when you can’t even fully see it? The angles you have to twist yourself into to make sure that the razor reaches everywhere without shaving off any necessary bits? And for this ? Do you even eat pussy?”
“Excuse me?”
“Pussy. Do you eat it . Because based on this conversation, I’m kind of getting the feeling that you probably don’t. And this is a big fucking waste of my time if that’s the case. I give phenomenal head, but if you’re not going to reciprocate, then this is going to end like any other date I’ve had. With me unfulfilled.” Shit. When am I going to remember that vodka makes me lose my filter?
“I have in the past, yes,” he utters, looking very not confident with his answer. Then he gathers his courage. “This is exactly what I’m talking about. It is highly unattractive to hear a woman speak about such things in public.”
I get a spark of inspiration. “Let’s call up one of your exes. I’m gonna need a review before I can continue this date. I need to know exactly what I’m getting myself into, to see if it’s worth dealing with the irritation of your voice.” I get my phone out “What’s her name? Phone number? How long were you together?”
Calvin sputters. “Are you serious right now? How the hell do you think this is appropriate date behavior?”
The waiter blessedly drops off a refill of my drink, and I’m quick to slam it down. The alcohol goes straight to my bloodstream, leaving me so much happier than I was just a second ago. “Do you realize you’ve been droning on for close to forty minutes now, extolling the virtues of a strong male? Do you know how many times you’ve belittled women? How many misogynistic remarks you’ve made, thinking they’re socially acceptable opinions? Because I’ve been keeping a mental tally. I’ve got to say, you might not be the worst person I’ve gone out with, but you very well might be the last. This might be the date that turns me off of men indefinitely.”
“I think we’re done here,” he says. “Dinner’s on me; enjoy.” He throws his napkin down.
“Wait!” I yell. “I’ve been in this situation before. I will pay my way, because if I don’t, you’re going to think it’s okay to call me up next week and remind me that you bought me a meal, and you’re going to think that I owe you something for it. I’m not I’m playing that game again.” I thrust some bills back at him and he storms off. Good riddance.
And then I’m left at my sad little table for two by myself, and I’m just over it. All I feel like doing now is getting shit faced and making bad decisions. So basically, like many other Tuesday past.
If only I wasn’t wired to be attracted to men. They’re such…downers. Total buzzkills.
I’ve done everything they say you’re supposed to do; I’ve gotten my career in a stable place, I own a condo, I exercise three times a week, I eat right, and I go on date after date after date . Every time I think I’ve met the worst single man, I’m miraculously proven wrong.
Remind me; what does it take for a girl to meet somebody that will show up on time and put forth a little effort into their appearance? Why is it so damn hard to find somebody interested in an actual relationship, and not a quick hook up? Somebody more interested in getting to know me than the sound of their own voice?
Well, that alcohol is really…yep, it’s working. My waiter stops by to drop off the bill. “He seemed like an interesting fellow…”
“He wasn’t, I promise you.”
“I’ve seen you in here a few times before, and you’re always with somebody new. No luck finding someone you want to keep?”
Is this guy a waiter or therapist? “At this point, I think I’ve lost hope for the male gender as a whole.”
“My wife always says she took the last good one off the market,” he replies with a wink.
Great. Another happy person. “She might be right about that,” I mumble, counting out some bills for a tip and dropping them on the table.
He doesn’t leave quite yet though. “Hey this really isn’t my business, and it’s pretty crazy, but have you thought about that recruitment program the government rolled out? I only bring it up because I’ve heard my cousin complain about dating, and she’s about your age as well. She snapped and signed herself up, had a brief courtship and then they whisked her away. She claims those aliens are nothing like human men.”
Did not see this going there. I stand up and collect my things, wobbling only slightly from numerous shots of alcohol consumed since I sat down. “Great. Thanks for the advice?” If even the server is recognizing me and telling me my life is a shithole and that I’d be better off seeking love somewhere other than earth, I think I might have hit rock bottom. “Tell your wife she’s a bitch,” I tell him as I start to walk off.
He looks at me, shocked. And I can’t help laughing. “I mean for taking the last good guy,” I amend. “I’m going to leave. I’ll pick a new restaurant next time.”
I stumble out of the restaurant, completely drunk now. I decide to interview a couple people on the street on the way home, asking them if I should give up all hope of finding a man that deserves me and go bang an alien instead. There’s a certain charm to it, for sure. The results are mixed and quite possibly highly skewed by my alcohol-induced emotional state, but still informative.
I have to walk by the capitol building to get to my condo, and when it comes into view, the server’s words ring in my head, and a certain purple machine installed near the building catches my eye. An accord was reached with the species alliance, and there’s an alien race that has vowed that they will be peaceful with us, if they’re allowed to try and recruit mates from our planet. It's all completely voluntary, and these machines are a means of communication.
Giggling, I approach the screen and touch buttons. “Hello?” I call out as I try to make sense of the screen, reading through the questions. Am I single? Yes. Any children that need to be included in this agreement? No, no kids. “Oh look, there’re different packages! I can take my time and get rid of my shit myself, or I can sign my life away now and someone else will do it all. Bonus!”
Wow they’re really reaching, aren’t they? If I sign up right now, all that money will just go to a bunch of foster kids. How do you even say no to that? Slow courtship and manual labor? That sounds awful.
I click some buttons, and a voice starts speaking back to me.
“Erm, hello?”
The voice is heavily accented, and in my drunk ass state, it sounds like friggin’ music.
Dreamily, I answer destiny’s call. “Hello future husband. I just want you to know I am ready. I am ready right now. Does this thing have a camera? I look so hot right now.” I back up in case there is a camera, smoothing down the dress I'm wearing, fluffing up my short hair, tipping my glasses down my nose and wagging my eyebrows.
There's the sound of scuffling and groaning noises, but I feel too far away from them. I place my hands on either side of the screen and lean forward, wondering if I'll be able to see who’s making the noises if I look hard enough.
“Love, you're giving us a straight shot down your cleavage right now. If that's not your intention, you might want to straighten that posture up a bit.”
I look down to see my boobs fully on display and bring my shoulders together to squish them together even more. “Not sure that'll help,” I tell the voice in the box. “My boobs are pretty massive. So is my ass, now that I think about it.” I step forward and turn around, trying to show my ass to them, only to end up spinning in circles a few times because it's hard to see it myself. “Anyway. The moon is so pretty right now.”
“We just... that is, a notification was just...”
A heavier, rougher voice interrupts. “You clicked yes and hit submit. You wish to be mated, human woman?”
“This is hilarious! So fun! Do you know how many times I’ve walked past this box? The men down here suck. Pleeease take me with you.” I give them my best pout, then remember that I’m trying to impress them. “No, no, no, that's not— what I meant to say is, I’ll be such a good mate, and look, I can entertain you! Not to brag, but I was a baton twirler for like three years in elementary school.”
I turn around and find a stick on the ground, bending over to reach it. They groan again, leaving little doubt that there’s a camera. I look around the screen, trying to see where the lens might be.
“Up here love,” the gentler voice comes back and says. “I believe there's a large green arrow next to it that says ‘camera’.”
“Hey-O! So it does!” This is so funny to me. I laugh, because how did I miss that? Oh right, alcohol.
I wag my finger at them. “Stop trying to distract me. I was going to show you how useful I can be.” I start my routine, trying to twirl the stick that's just not weighted correctly, and end up smacking myself in the face. Lovely. “Usually I’m better at this.”
“This is… wonderful,” another voice says, slightly amused. “This attribute, is highly prized down there, yes?”
“ I’m highly prized down here. The men? Not so much. What’s shakin’ up there?”
“I'm sorry, did you intend to submit a mating request?”
“Who's talking? I like your voice. It's all rrrough.”
“I'm Owiin, my lady. You're beautiful.”
“See? Already better than the date I was just on.”
A growl sounds through the tiny speaker, making my skin flush.
“Oh look, flashing colors! Let's see. Do I agree to have a translation chip implanted upon my arrival in my new spaceship home? That would be pretty difficult to talk to you otherwise, wouldn’t it? Yes.
“Does the thought of large penises and a high sex drive make me uncomfortable? Ha! Hell to the no. Am I interested in expedited contact?” I look up at the screen squinting, even though I've already established I can't see them. “Am I interested in expedited contact?”
“Um, my lady?”
“, at your service,” I say with a classy bow. We're not going to talk about the fact that I also hit my forehead on the machine as I do so.
“, beautiful. If I may, our ship is very near your planet right now. Not to rush you, but this is the last night we're allowed to be this close. Another ship will be taking our place tomorrow. If you wish to meet us, expedited contact is kind of our only choice. Otherwise, we'd have to wait six more months to come back.”
“I don't want anybody else, sign me up!” I click some more buttons because they're green and shiny, the screen blurring a bit as I work.
“? You're not going to regret this. We'll be wonderful mates to you. We'll take great care of you; we'll make you happy.”
“Happy, yes. Why is the machine beeping at me? Oh, it wants my hand. Why does it want my hand?” A little door opens up with a glass screen and a laser moving up and down. Even in my non-sober state I can figure out the diagram on the screen is telling me to put my palm on the glass. I high-five the machine, and it bites me. “Motherfucker! What the hell? Why is my hand stuck?”
“? Are you alright?”
“Fine, fine.” A giant yawn escapes me, which I'm sure must be super attractive. “It's been so lovely chatting to you dears. Must confess I need to get to bed though. Have a lovely night.” I turn around with every intention of stumbling out of the park, but the machine begins angrily beeping at me. I spare one last glace to find a giant red flashing button on the touch screen, but my eyes are too sleepy to read all the tiny words on it. In an effort to make the annoying noise stop, I press the button.
Confetti sprays out of the top of the machine, and then the Bridal March starts playing, which is weird.
The men I was talking to are calling my name, but they're not louder than the call of my bed. With fluffy pillows taking over my thoughts, I blow them a kiss and begin to muddle my way home, ditching my heels halfway there, because fuck them.