The dating pool on the east coast is like a cesspool. I honestly don’t know why I bother at times. I’m sure I gain more satisfaction out of doing my damn laundry. But if trying my luck at dating leads to nothing else, it’s for sheer entertainment…
I stumbled across an executive chef in the city seventeen years my senior. Instantly, of course I’m swooning (heart emoji eyes and all). An older, white chef that can make five-star meals while I lie in bed, uh yes please? Too good to be true right? Absolutely! I’m starting to see my ‘Disney, fairytale’ trends here. Like men, I’m impulsive with my fantasies. I find that I have yet to fall for the person someone truly is, I fall for my optimism of who they could be.
So “Executive Chef” had a number of red flags I chose to overlook. The number one was kids. Cardinal rule number one: I never date a man with kids for more than one reason. In his case, these reasons were cheerleading games and weekend babysitting duty. With him having two impressionable young girls, I know how much of a handful this could become. I’d never want a situation to arise when my Beau had to choose between time with me and time with his kids, because I am selfish enough to expect him to choose me. Mr. Chef sees his kids two times a week, and they live in another city with the ‘crazy’ ex-wife the other five (the woman’s always crazy, never the man according to them). This may work… I figured why not give it a try? We’re only having conversation at the moment.
Wrong, completely and utterly wrong. I soon learned the kids were the least of my problems. The more we talked, the more I realized how much of a hardcore freak he was. Granted, he’s obviously a veteran in the sexual endeavors department, but some things made me question his heterosexual preference. Apparently, watching transsexual porn was his thing. He didn’t think he was gay, but I didn’t think this was one hundred percent straight either (red flag number 2).
Despite the red flags and kiddie tote baggage, we agreed to meet for drinks. Throughout our text exchanges, flag number three was signaling me down like a trooper on the express way. (One would think at 45 he wasn’t much for texting….he was King of New Age Communication). This man made me hot all the damn time! I don’t mind being someone’s vixen, but I do mind not being seen as anything more. Call me a feminist, but I have other things to do than spend my time being hot and bothered in the middle of the work day. Our conversations always led back to sex, or my body, or how hot I was. Yes, nice. I get it. But let’s talk about something else, please.
So I’d divert the conversations back to his craft; cooking. He was all mouth in telling me of new concoctions he’d created in the kitchen. Thank goodness. Like a bad cycle, I’m swooning and at my peak for different reasons. Funny how much comfort we looked for in one another. He was in it for my body, I was in it for his food. I didn’t care much about him or his kids, just tell me about your plans to open your second restaurant. Tell me about the Asian chicken salad you’re creating for a new grab and go item at work. Talk food to me sir. As far as I was concerned, the only common ground I had with his daughters was our love of the Food channel. That was all I needed.
Nevertheless, our initial date was just the way I like it; completely and utterly unconventional and one he’ll never forget. We made plans for a local, overpriced bar. I sat down ready to order and waiting for him to arrive but I couldn’t find my I.D! As much of a compliment this was to still get carded, it was not the time to be card-less for the first date. I did my usual ‘boob feel’ check. As my date walks up behind me, there I am in the midst of groping my breasts and going back and forth between my Burberry work bag. Chef smirks watching the exchange between the bartender and I.
“You forgot your I.D didn’t you?” He sees the discomfort in my sultry face. (Never remove the sultry look from your face, especially when you’re caught in the act of feeling on your breasts in a public.) “Let’s go somewhere else,” Chef suggests. He’s definetly the fatherly type. There was calmness and protection in his voice. It was the voice that could lead you astray if you didn’t stand firmly on ground. He wasn’t the best looker I ever came across (I’d say about a 6). But his persionality, 6’2 height, trendy comb-over hairstyle and Warby Parker glasses made up for the lack of youthful face. I drove us over to bar number 2 which was only a minute away with my gas light reminding me to stop and get some soon. Even if I was 30 miles to empty, my car does me the favor of being just as paranoid as I am. (I guess that was his red flag number 2. He already has two daughters, I don’t think he was in the market for another).
In the second bar, I’m a regular. I knew the female bartender and felt at home like I had a wingman on my date. I took my blazer off, and watched him take off his jacket. The handsome-ness peaked through a little more. His dark-washed jeans with a classic Ralph Lauren sweater echoed “old man” swagger. Sharp old man. Just my type. The hair, the glasses and the Omega watch he pulled out of his stash were my kind of old-man infatuations. All he needed was a pipe sticking out of the side of his mouth and I would’ve been Julia Roberts in “Pretty Woman” (after Rodeo Drive of course).
I won’t give away too much. A girl has to keep some things for her memory box. However, we did have a great time. Great dinner and great laughs. He was gentleman enough to pump my gas for me in the frigid cold which was nice because I might’ve chanced the ride home on E. Ultimately, I just had to follow the red flags and throw in the towel after that. Here, this old, newly bachelor was a horny teenaged boy all over again. I wanted him to respect me as he’d want a man to respect his daughters, and he just wouldn’t understand. Hopefully, he does before one of his girls’ brings home a man 17 years their senior. That’s when he’ll remember me because karma likes to work that way. If Karma’s a woman as I suspect, she’ll hit his ass with an old hornball coming to his door wanting to date his daughter wearing a classic Ralph Lauren sweater and dark-washed denim jeans. Just the way I like them, minus the transsexual porn-loving horn ball part. That’s just way too much kink for me.
Can’t teach an old dog new tricks dolls. Don’t waste your time trying.