I had a coffee date with El Finance Dude/Mister Anti-Sugar a couple of weeks way back before the second date. We had met up in a midtown Starbucks coffee shop. He seemed so nice. So nice indeed but so utterly boring—too boring that I could have just sat there and drank my coffee and think that I need to pee soon from all that dark diuretic substance that I was intoxicating myself with. Too bad it did not consist with a little bit of alcohol—if it was, I could have been a bit dizzy after drinking the whole cup and sanely “alcoholically” high to the point that I could just stare at El Finance Dude/Mister Anti-Sugar. I would then be able to produce my sweet smile and inhumanely gawk at him while he melts away from my sticky stares.
But El Finance Dude/Mister Anti-Sugar is cute. He had nice warm brown eyes, and when he smiled–his perfectly aligned white teeth would flash right before my eyes. (I am tempted to ask, “Colgate, anyone?”)
He had traveled here and there and I was excited to chat about his travels. But he wasn’t too keen on even bringing that topic up and even had just briefly touched up on it when asked. I was thinking then that he did not absorb his travels–he merely spent days on a Costa Rican beach…..drank wine in Italy…breathed the damn air….and rode a stupid white horse by the beach…and that was it—perhaps–but then again, these are just my thoughts. I just expected from him as what were many of the people that I had met either on the plane, in a boat, at an airport, during a safari, etc. etc. — who had soaked in so much of their travels that their memories are as vivid as if they had just left the place the day before they met me. The place had become part of them–but I sense that El Finance Dude/Mister Anti-Sugar was lacking this type of connection to the places that he had been to–or perhaps was it because something bizarre occurred during his travels that it merely became “hush-hush”. Well, who knows……lest he disclose everything.
Instead of his travels, he talked more about going to the gym–all this goodness of being “fit”. He talked about his artwork–that he placed the brightly colored paintings in the living room while the ones with “subtle colors” he placed in the bedroom. When he stated “bedroom”, he looked at me. I could feel the intensity of each letter in that word –“B-E-D-R-O-O-M”. I acted nonchalant as if I did not even understand what a “bedroom” is (Yo no hablo ingles durante este momento!) Thinking about it now — the terms “subtle” colors and “bedroom”–evokes the image of Edvard Munch’s “The Scream” in my head–of that painting hanging over his bed in his manly “bedroom”. But I caught the drift — I caught what he was trying to imply — of course, my brain is already polluted with “these things”.
Wow…that’s a long intro for this story…I got off track….
Okay, back to the evening with El Finance Dude/Mister Anti-Sugar—
I was to meet El Finance Dude/Mister Anti-Sugar for the second time. He said 77th street. Our meeting time was 8:30 pm and I was already 15 minutes late and still wandering the streets of the Upper West Side looking for that damn bar restaurant that he told me about. Then he called (*finally!*) I could not hear what he was saying about his whereabouts as I was passing by some bar restaurants that had begun playing their music that boomed from their premises. I was like “Whaaat? Whaaaat?” (like a deaf old lady). He shouted the name of the street over the phone. Apparently, he gave me the wrong street. It wasn’t my fault I couldn’t find it and he didn’t have to shout at me over the phone–I really hated being shouted at either on the phone or in person. .
I finally found the stupid bar and I took my time ordering a drink. I finally decided what drink to order—a nasty cocktail that had a nasty after taste. I tried to survive the evening drinking it bit by bit while trying to stir up a conversation with El Finance Dude/Mister Anti-Sugar.
After the casual chatting of how our day went, of how he got laid off from his finance job, he asked me what types of drink I like. I replied with a sudden burst of enthusiasm that I like amaretto, baileys, and of course, sweet wines (white or red).
“You like sweet drinks don’t you?” He stated.
I nodded my head with honest enthusiasm.
“You must be a dessert person.” He bluntly remarked.
He must have noticed my cheesecaked breasts, my chocolate-moussed butt, and my over-sugared thighs…and oh yes, my lovehandles that mercilessly evolved from ice cream.
I said, “Yes” But it is true, I am a dessert person. I even uphold the statement printed on the shirt of one of my high school friends back in the days–“Life is too short, eat dessert first.”
El Finance Dude/Mister Anti-Sugar went on and on how he liked to be “fit” and go to the gym–because he feels good about himself by being “fit” and by doing all these exercises. (In retrospect, we should have just had a date in one of these New York City gyms!).
I grew silent as the night wore on. The alcohol was going into my head and into my veins but I did not want to talk anymore about “fitness”; and I did not want to go against sugar and pretend that I am pro Sweet n Low or that I am actually a Splenda girl. I love sugar. I want sugar in my cheesecake….sugar in my coffee…and whip cream that’s high in fat and sugar.
El Finance Dude/Mister Anti-Sugar grew bored I think, because his conversation topics narrowed down to a bar tender’s appearance and why a particular man who sat near us went to this bar alone and how he could never be able to do that — go to a bar alone.
So….who cares? I didn’t care. I wanted to go home. I did not want to see El Finance Dude/Mister Anti-Sugar ever again.
“You want to go now?” He politely queried. I nodded my head.
He walked with me to the nearest subway station.
I breathed heavily. It wasn’t because I had walked fast (which would be the result of NOT having had regular exercise!) but it was because the alcohol from that stupid nasty cocktail drink that I had was creeping into my system. I could feel my body warm up and I could feel my heart pumping faster.
“You walked only that far and now you are out of breath?” He remarked.
I wanted to roll my eyes and say out loud how stupid he is. I kept quiet.
He continued to say, “You would have a hard time to go up to my apartment then because there’s no elevator.”
I wish I could tell him then that I could fly–that sugar makes me fly and that I would never go to the apartment of a man who hates sugar. I would never even have sex with him. He must have barbells for his pillows.
I bid him good night and I did not forget my civilities so I thanked him for the (nasty) drink–then I walked away from him….Anti-Sugar Free at last!
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