give me hoops or give me a death: a girlie's date during march madness
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He picks me up for our first date a little early. Although he catches me off guard in my monkey slippers, I quickly turn off my Hello Kitty vibrator and invite him in. He looks relatively somewhat sort of not really accurate to his online picture. I’m chill as a cucumber as I fling off the monkeys and slip in to cute strappy shoes. He stands there fidgeting and appears to be nervous as a mahfucker, rambling at light speed and sending my head in to a dizzy spell. Dude, pipe down – you’re makin’ a playa’ nervous.
He’s mapped three spots for us: Bamboo Hut, Tonga Room, and Lingba Lounge – ok, we got a li’l tiki theme goin’. I can dig it. I climb in to his rimless circa 1982 Honda CRX and nostalgia takes me to 9th grade. Are the two-toned unpainted side panels, bright red racing floor mats, and just-washed gleam supposed to impress? He rattles on about him, himself, and his buddy, him – while I sink lower in to the bucket seats and become one with the cheap vinyl interior. This fool is the Poster Child for the ultimate Proto-Type-A Personality. I want to grab him by the neck like a chicken, shake him ‘til feathers go flyin’, and politely say, “Please shut the fuck up for two seconds cuz you’re stressin’ out my cute shoes.” Breath. I did invest three solid minutes of putting expensive product in my hair and since I already saw the rerun SNL, I'll hang out with this lame ass version of the Ladies Man tonight.
We manage to find parking around the dirty stores in North Beach, hoof it up a San Francisco hill, and Bamboo Hut is closed. Damn. Since the Parking Gods had been kind to us, I suggest we walk around the area. He says he’s cold. I’m thinkin’, *fuckin’ pansy*, but the city has been known on rare occasion to be mildly chilly in the evenings, so I let it slide (although I’m still thinking, *fuckin’ pansy*). Next destination is the Tonga Room at the Fairmont. The closest available open lot is in San Jose and street parking – well, it’d be easier to find a supremacist in a white robe in Oakland. Next. Final destination is Lingba Lounge in the Hill. By this point, alcohol will be used as a weapon of mass destruction, ushering in utter belligerency.
Bottom’s up. I bust out the Cocktail Goggles and secure them tightly making sure my tray table is upright and seatbelt is fastened. *Damn, he’s cute* *Mmmm, he’s not that bad* *Yeah, he’s kinda cool actually* *Awww, his chatty ass is endearin* *Wow, what an awesome dude* Boys and girls – use Cocktail Goggles at your own discretion. Touchy-feely commences and he leans in for a kiss. Check please!
Fast forward to my crib. Un-strap cute strappy shoes, bee-line to fridge, grab a beer, and pop a squat on the couch. Perfect timing for SportsCenter highlights. It’s March, baby – bring the madness. NCAA tourney updates. Upsets. Brackets. Play of the Day. I’m so relieved to be with Stuart Scott. Only one problem, though. Pansy’s still here. Still crampin’ my style. The clueless fuck promptly ignores the clicker in my right hand, tattered paper stained-with-hot-wing-sauce-and-beer bracket in the other hand and proceeds to run the offense on a make-out session. Did he neglect to notice my pupils had transformed in to two basketballs? I keep one eye on the screen and the other on him. He asks, “Are you watching sports highlights?” and I answer “Yes.” I’m a multi-tasking queen – step off. He doesn’t seem to mind too much since he’s getting what he wants, and I sure as hell am getting what I want.
SportsCenter ends and we migrate to my bedroom. The Play of the Day highlight lasts longer than he does; a 20 second time out would have been 4 times as long; a kid moppin' up sweat on the hardwood has more skillz... you get my point. I want him to pick his clothes off *my* hardwood and exit quietly through the double doors. I want to use my Hello Kitty vibrator. On him. Fear the Kitty. I want to hear the stuttering CRX engine as the blast of his Classic Rock CD fades and Yosemite Sam mud-flaps disappear in the background. I want him out. Well, I got him out all right – out cold on my bed. He fucking falls asleep.
7:00 am – I’m ready to kick him out so I can watch hoops peacefully. 8:00 am – I accidentally purposely make a lot noise around the house. 9:00 am – the tourney starts. 9:01 am – homeboy’s still snoozin’ and I’m sittin’ around poppin’ my Hubba Bubba. 9:02 am – I’m silently cursing ever letting him in to my cyber, more or less, physical world. 9:30 am – though I immerse myself in hoops, really wish the guy in my bed would leave. 10:00 am – the roomie and I are full-fledged in to the games wishing there was one less jackass in the apartment. 10:30 am – reeeeally wishing this bastard would wake up and get the hell out. 10:45 am – needing this motherfucker to leave a girlie with her hoops and take his Type-A and peel out in his Poser-B slammed down CRX. 11:00 am – I hear Snow White awake in the bedroom, so I run in.
“Did you sleep well?” I ask. “I was hooootttttt.” He’s either too cold or too hot. Are you a man or Strawberry Shortcake? Do you want some cheese with that whine? Hearing him whine like a bitch made me want to hit him with my wooden hand-carved tourney bracket. So I say, “I’m sorry to hear you were hot – you could’ve taken the covers off.” He prolongs the agony by wanting a shower. Here’s a towel – go wash your ass and then get out. After the shower, he wants to get breakfast together. Sigh. I say, “Let’s just grab coffee, k?” He agrees. We get to the java spot and he wants to have his coffee and croissant there instead of getting it to go. Sigh. Then he has the audacity to say “Am I making you miss basketball?” when he knows damn well I eat and shit hoops during March. I want to yell, “YES MOTHERFUCKER – not only are you making me miss hoops, but I’m sexually frustrated, so leave me alone and forget you ever met me because I hate you!” This fucker was worse than a buzzer beater by an underdog that fucks up your brackets. You know that disgusting feeling you get when the #3 seed you picked to win it all is done by the first Saturday of the tourney? That's what every second of hanging out with this guy felt like.
I sit through a grueling half hour of listening to his bull-shit diarrhea of the mouth and make three trips to the bathroom to dry heave. After java, instead of dropping me off – he parks and proceeds to get out of his little automobile. If I had to endure OT with him, I was gonna pop a cap in his ass proper. I try to run a fast break, but he comes strong with the full-court press. I try to drive it down the lane for an easy lay-up and he commits a flagrant foul and gets a Tech. Get him outta here, ref! Where did he generate the gumption of assuming automatic advancement to the second round? I say, “Yeah sure that sounds great uh huh bears shit in the woods right ok gimme a call.” No translation needed.
In retrospect, what did this experience learn me? That I’m a dude in cute strappy shoes. I wondered to myself, is this how it feels to be a guy? During a make-out session, watching hoops out of the corner of your eye. Wanting to be left alone on the couch with beer and SportsCenter highlights. After a booty session, having no desire to cuddle and just wishing the bama would leave. Wanting to go to the sports bar to watch hoops all day with buddies over hot wings and beer. Having a strong desire to engage in an intense self abuse session the moment they leave. Never wanting to see the person again for the rest of your life. Hold on – let me check something. Yep. No penis. Is this normal?