“I went on a date with an actor/bartender because I felt like, ‘Why not?’ I found out why. By Cat Damon.
Main image by Shaniqwa Jarvis
Actors are dramatic. I realized this with my whole body smashed against the side of fancy restaurant in town. The 6’4” beauty currently licking my face was simultaneously trying to lift me into the air so he could pin me against the wall at a better height for him. He was almost crouching, trying to figure the best way to throw me into the air. I moved my feet apart and locked my knees. I think at one point I might have lifted off the ground a few inches, but I made my body go limp—I was dead weight, leaving him no choice but to put me down.
Ten minutes later, he was in the passenger side of my car and we were still making out. “You’ve got me so HAAAAARRRDDDD,” the actor yelped with his hand gripping my crotch like it was a Frisbee he was going to fling into space. We were listening to The Ultimate Phil Spector, and his left hand was grabbing my left tit. I wondered if a cop would stop by my car, or whether anyone would notice if I drove him out to the country and left him there. No other woman should have to hear about his MFA in acting, or his threesomes with married women, or his adult braces. I thought about a mercy killing.
I wondered how I ended up in my car at midnight on a Monday, listening to the Crystals, getting partially felt up by a self-described sociopath. I quickly remembered it’s because I have low self-esteem in regards to dating. Plus, I like a good story, and the actor looked like a Civil War soldier with a buzz cut. None of these were good enough reasons to take him home, or allow him to continue squeezing my left breast like it was a stress ball.
I had agreed to go out with him simply because he asked me. In February, I had been dating a man named John who I thought would become my boyfriend, since he was smart and good at sex and had eyelashes like box hedges. John instead dumped me over the phone while I was at a conference in New York, asking “How does that feel?” after he told me there was just really nothing about me that attracted him. I had pursued him relentlessly since November. I was always the initiator and felt fiercely dedicated to making it work, even when he slept through brunch with my best friends and showed up at 6 PM instead of 11 AM.
Our last date was at the bar where the actor was working. John physically recoiled from me the entire time, which I chalked up to him being a physicist and socially illiterate. The actor bought my drinks for me even though I was clearly on a predatory date, which should have been a warning sign. John split the bill with me and I had to pay for his not-free drinks, which was another warning sign. When I went back to the bar a week after getting dumped, I had the feeling the actor would be there and I would get more free drinks. He was there, I got more free drinks, and this time he asked for my phone number. He texted me to get a drink, and said “I bet we could have a good time ;).” I did not want to have a good time with someone who used winky-face emojis, but I agreed anyway.
I don’t like being pursued. I don’t trust men who pursue me, because I feel like they must not have good taste. The actor was incredibly tall, broad-shouldered, stupidly attractive, and clearly has been swimming in pussy since high school. In many ways, I still see myself as a turtleneck-wearing virgin with wispy bangs who could only get my sister’s friends to make out with me until age 19. When a man pursues me, I feel divorced from my body and my sexuality. I step outside of myself and critically look at what I could offer someone who has cheekbones like Tilda Swinton and excellent taste in jeans. When I try to objectify myself, the object just doesn’t look that good.
I agreed to go out with him because dating is supposed to be about getting out of your comfort zone and being vulnerable and trying on all sorts of bullshit new attitudes. I thought it could be an exercise in doing things I don’t like— actors, being asked out, wearing an underwire bra. Instead, it was an exercise in misandry and confusion, so basically a normal Monday night. I asked him lots of probing questions about his childhood in order to feel like I had the upper hand, after hearing him talk about how many women had thrown drinks in his face and the fast-paced lifestyle of bartending in New York City. I kept thinking, “I just hate you.”
After I kicked him out of my car, I felt like I had to towel off my face and squeegee my soul. I had been assessed, objectified, thrown against walls, groped, licked, and squeezed for three hours. I felt like a thing, and I decided that trying on actors and aggressive men would likely set me up for a benzo addiction. When he texted me asking to get drinks a few days later, I told him no. Later that week, when John asked to get a drink while we exchanged books we lent each other, I also said no.
So many good stories come from saying yes, and personal growth or development or whatever often comes from a “fuck it” mentality. For me, sometimes my anxiety just needs a good string of “no’s” in order to feel like an adult human and not a semi-professional dater. “Fuck it” is not the same thing as fucking It, It being a bald actor who tosses you around like a human softball. No matter many free Greyhounds he makes for you.
Read Cat Damon’s previous post for Slutever, “That Moment You Realize You Prefer Gay Tinder,” HERE :)