Third Date

I remember the first night I made sweet, awkward, uncomfortable, love. I was 21 years old when Frederick Davenport arrived at my character apartment on Westminster Drive. With bright blue eyes and a red Trans Am, Frederick was the first gentleman caller to steal my heart. Knocking on the door, I remember feeling faint as I invited him in. This light-headedness, I recall, was due to the fact I hadn’t eaten in days.

“Can I take your coat?” I asked him, steadying myself against the door frame.

I had dreamed of this moment, ever since the day I stumbled out of the closet and took the entire clothes rack with me. Liberated from the doomed fate of having to disappoint a woman in bed, I was grateful for the opportunity to live my honest life. Even if the mechanics of being with another man took some getting used to; it still couldn’t be anymore painful than high school.

“Would you like a drink?” I offered my suitor, moving to the fridge to get myself a glass of orange juice before passing out.

“No thanks,” he replied, heading straight to the bedroom.

Following in his direction, I hit play on my five-disc CD player. Diana Krall’s album “The Look of Love” danced across the air. Lighting a candle on the nightstand, I joined Frederick under the covers.

As the Winnipeg winter howled outside my window, the steam heat from the radiators banged and hissed. Looking down from my Brokeback Mountain poster, the solemn faces of Heath and Jake respectfully turned their eyes away. Everything was going exactly as I planned, until seconds before the final score. Just as I was rounding third base, my stereo system went rogue. Within seconds, Diana was gone, and it was too late to turn back. As I reached home base, the turntable shuffled, and I lost my virginity to the song lyrics “It’s Britney b*tch.”

“I could take the car into the wash and order the works no problem.”

…

Fast-forward fifteen years, and you will find me at the Fox Den, getting ready for my third date with Theodore. Scurrying about, I put the finishing touches on every last-minute detail. Lighting a candle in the washroom, I set out two cocktail glasses on the kitchen counter, and kindly asked Google to play my favourite playlist. Turning on the air diffuser, I misted the living room with the relaxing scent of eucalyptus and took a deep breath. It was then I heard a knock at my door.

Inviting Mr. J. Nelson inside, I offered to take his coat as he removed his mask. Passing me his Ted Baker blazer, I found the best hanger on the rack.

“Can I pour you a drink?” I asked.

“Only if you are having.”

Retrieving two large ice cubes from the freezer, I measured out equal parts gin, Campari, and red vermouth. As I gave each cocktail a twirl, I suddenly felt faint. This time, however, it was all nerves. Now that I knew how to adult, I no longer had to starve myself prior to each date. I could take the car into the wash and order the works no problem.

“I really like this music,” remarked Theodore.

Outside, the setting October sun cast a chill in the air. Sliding the balcony door shut, the two of us took a seat on the couch and became further acquainted. As the night sky fell with the leaves to the ground, our cocktails dissipated into melting cubes of ice.

“Shall we?” I asked.

“After you,” he replied, following me three steps to the bedroom.

Now, I will spare you any further details because my Uncle Curt is reading this; but wouldn’t you know that history has a gosh darn it way of repeating itself.

With steamy tracks by SAULT, Masego, and Mac Miller streaming, I prided myself with nailing the soundtrack of the evening. And then, it happened again! In the throes of passion, Google took on a mind of its own. Canceling my playlist, the speakers started casting Joni Mitchell’s 1991 album, “Night Ride Home.” I wanted to scream out, “Okay, Google stop!” but I was terrified I would compromise the heat of the moment.

Seven acoustic guitar tracks later, I reached over, and hit pause the first second I could. Rolling over, I tried to wipe the mortified look off my face. Then, Theodore burst out laughing.

“I didn’t realize you were so into Joni Mitchell,” he said, a gigantic grin beaming across his face.

“I don’t think I can ever listen to her the same way again,” I blushed, burying my head deep into his chest.