Thunders Down Under

My moment of absolute embarrassment dates back to long before the date even started. I met this guy at one of the most popular gay clubs in West Hollywood during a drunken night. He was tall, lanky to be exact, had shaggy, brown hair and very intriguing brown eyes; he was very much the type of guy who would catch my attention opposed to his surrounding buff pole dancers and muscular, blonde Adonis. His name was Nate. We spoke for about ten minutes before he had to leave to the next bar with his girlfriends. We exchanged numbers and texted for a few days before deciding to go on a date. It was on the day of that I started to get really excited and texted my best friend, telling her all about Nate. In the heat of the excitement, nervousness, and anxiety, my stomach started to act out in a completely opposite manner of its usual sluggishness, prompting me to run to the restroom as my bowels contorted inside me. Eleven minutes later and four knocks to the bathroom door of that coffee shop, all I could think was “Thank God for the air freshener the owner provided for guests!”

“Oh my God! I don’t know what just happened, but the lord just blesesed me with the best sh&%*%&$%*% of my life. You’d be so jealous of how light I feel right now. I am so ready to meet with this guy…” I sent the message in haste, and like another close friend of mine says, haste makes waste! It only took seconds for me to realize that I had sent the message to Nate! I checked the message, wishing I could somehow make it magically disappear. There was nothing I could do, especially after seeing that he had read it. I immediately followed it up with “I am so sorry, that was not meant for you!”

“No!!!! I accidentally sent the guy I am meeting up with tonight a text about my latest bathroom escapade. It was meant for you. Why!?!?!?” I texted my friend, getting a response quickly after from her and not him reading “HAHAHAHAHAHA!!! You have to be more careful who you send this stuff to, bro! HAHAHAHA!” It was not funny. Not one bit. Especially when I finally got a response an hour later reading “No worries, it happens--ha!” That was his reaction and the last our messaging before our date.

We met up at this comfort food vegan restaurant on Fountain and Vine. While I’m not vegan, their ability to make imitation versions of southern food always impressed me and I figured it would do the same for Nate. He got there just in time; his punctuality was refreshing, if only I had felt at all refreshed after our last text. Instead, I felt that in his eyes, I was a cautionary tale of reasons never to use a public restroom. He looked great; he wore a striped, white shirt, khaki pants, and black, hipster glasses that complimented his lanky physique and bookish vocabulary. “Hey,” Nate said as he took a seat. He looked calm, which only made me more nervous. “Hey,” I repeated his greeting. My hands were sweaty. So were my arm pits. So were my toes. Sweat was running from all these unseen places as the young, red-headed waitress placed two menus in front of us. I wiped my hands on my jeans before reaching for the menu. I was too nervous to concentrate. “The Fried Chicken…” I started suggesting something on the menu before he stopped me with “I’ve been here once before, I like the chicken but I want to try something new.” He was looking down at the menu and not at me, he hadn’t looked at me at all since sitting down. I couldn’t even recall if he looked directly at me the moment he walked into the restaurant. Maybe he was disgusted, repulsed, ready to run out of that dim lit, slightly grungy establishment to throw up due to the mere thought of my second to last text hours prior.

“Can I get you started with something to drink?” came a young, red-headed waitress, looking down at her notepad. “I’ll take a Diet Coke,” said Nate. “Why did he have to get that dark-colored, gassy drink. Could he not get a Sprite, or Orange soda, or water! You can’t go wrong with water!” My inner thoughts were making my stomach gurgle and my anxiety skyrocket! “And you?” she asked, all eyes on me. “I’ll have water, just cold water.” Maybe cold water would shock me out my prolonged embarrassment.

“How was your day?” I finally blurted out. I had to blurt out something. Anything. “It went well, ran some errands,” Nate answered as he kept his eyes on the menu. If he could only make up his mind quicker and look up at me once. Just once to reassure me he wasn’t completely nauseated by the sight of me. The young, red-headed waitress came back quicker than expected with our drinks—his brown-colored, gassy drink and my cold, shock-inducing water—and took out her notepad once again. “What can I get you boys?” I had no idea. I had just looked at the menu items repeatedly without processing any of their names or descriptions. “Can I have the BBQ Pulled Pork,” Nate answered immediately, obviously having used the time the young, red-headed waitress had given us, along with awkward silence, to explore the menu. I hated keeping the wait staff waiting whenever I dined out, so I answered “I’ll have the Pot Roast.”

The food took forever to arrive; a wait that made my stomach gurgle further as Nate looked at me and spoke so softly that I could hear the cook by the expo line preparing our food. And everything that came out of his mouth were one sentence responses such as “I went to UCLA; I am from Orange County; my favorite author is Dostoevsky.” I counted down every one of the twenty-three minutes before our food arrived.

“BBQ Pulled Pork for you, and the Pot Roast for you,” said the young, red-headed waitress as she placed both dishes in front of us. “Want a side of gravy,” she asked as she turned to look at me. No, no I did not! The plate was already slathered in brownish gravy and the imitation soy beef was so brown and the skin on the red skinned potatoes looked brown doused in the gravy. I did not need more brown liquid on that plate or before my eyes or running through my thoughts. “No, thank you,” I said as Nate grabbed his sandwich and started eating it. The BBQ sauce dripped onto the fries, it was watery and way too dark for BBQ sauce. “What gives!” I kept thinking to myself. “BBQ sauce isn’t supposed to have brownish tinges to it. Is the line cook trying to give me a full-blown panic attack!” My thoughts were ranting non-stop oppose to me or Nate. “This is good,” Nate said as he took the third bite of his brownish sandwich. “Are you vegan?” he asked while still chewing. “I’m not, just really like the food here,” I answered, feeling like I was lying considering the sudden nausea looking down at my plate gave me; brown, watery gravy covering everything from the brownish red skinned potatoes to the brownish soy beef. I picked up my fork and managed to restrain my gag reflex as I took a forkful of brown lump and put it into my mouth. I chewed it; it was salty, chewy, delicious like always, and still—I had force myself to swallow it as that text came back to mind.

We talked for the twenty-six minutes of our meal about anything that could consist of small talk. We talked more about his time at UCLA as an English Lit. major; we talked about my time studying the same major at Cal State Long Beach; we had that much in common. We also talked about his time exploring West Hollywood, which wasn’t long. Nate was twenty-three and came out at the age of twenty-one, he also expressed that he wasn’t much of a drinker aside from occasional weekends and dates. Then we had one other thing in common which I wish we hadn’t: dessert. He started to look over at the dessert case even before he took the last bite of his BBQ slathered fries and asked “Want to share a brownie?” I would have said yes in a heartbeat during any other date, any other person, any other reality; but something about sharing a chocolaty brownie stirred up my stomach in the ugliest of ways. Nevertheless…

“Sure,” I answered. Small talk or not, Nate was attractive and he had an appeal to him that made me want to extend that small talk to a night chatter over drinks. “Want it warmed-up?” asked the young, red-headed waitress as she took down our dessert order. “Yes,” said Nate before I had the chance to object. I usually didn’t mind dominance, but in this case, I did, especially after our chocolaty dessert came out in the form of a brown, mushy mountain. She put two forks in front of us and walked away, leaving us to dig in. “You first,” he said. I usually found gallantry like that charming, attractive, a deal sealer—but this time I wish I would have taken the first and every bite of it. I felt like I was going to be sick to my stomach as that text replayed itself in my head as I grabbed a fork and took my first spoonful. “Umm,” I said as I chewed it; it was indeed delicious, just like every time I had previously ordered it—but that damn text message kept replaying itself in my head! If only I had been more careful! If only I had…

“Had I not known beforehand about this place, I’d swear this is the real stuff full of gluten and dairy,” said Nate as he enjoyed his first bite. He took bite after bite as I struggled to take a second one, and only did after Nate asked “You don’t like it?” “I do,” I answered. Then it hit me. I started feeling it down there, the urge. I needed to go to the bathroom. Not number two, but I had to go nonetheless. But how? How could I could without stirring up the memories of that last text once again. I tried holding it in, but that only lasted so long as Nate waved down the young, red-headed waitress to get the check. I had to go then and there before I shared yet another embarrassing moment with Nate in less than twenty-four hours.

“I’ll be right back, here’s my card,” I said, putting my debit card on the table as I stood and ran to the bathroom. There’s was someone in there. Jesus Christ! I just needed to go number one, it was supposed to be quick but the longer the person in there took, the longer it would take me to get in, do my business and get out before Nate suspected a repeat of earlier in the day. Except this time, he’d fear a detailed, in-person report. Finally, after six minutes of waiting in line, the line cook came out, wiping his hands on his apron. Disgusting! I dashed in, battled against urinal shyness even though I was the only distressed soul in there, washed my hands and sprinted back to the table.

“Sorry about that, there was someone in there,” I tried explaining myself to Nate as I took a seat again. He looked down at the bill and signed, handing me back my card. “I’ve got the one, you can cover me for drinks.” Another act of gallantry. I would have been head over heels for him during any other occasion, but this time—all I could do was feel guilty as Nate probably thought he was on a date with a cautionary tale for “do’s and dont’s” of a first date. We sat another few minutes as he checked a text message, responding, probably telling one of his girlfriends how shi%&%*%*y of a date he was on. He got up and looked at me as I remained still, his tallness exerting dominance over me. “Want to get going?” he asked, demanding I get up through simply looking at me with those brown, powerful eyes. I did as he non-verbally instructed and we made our way out as the young, red-headed waitress yelled “Thank you boys, see you soon!” Soon did not seem to be in the cards for me, at least not with Nate. We got in his car, a red Jeep--the perfect color--and sat there as he turned to look at me and asked “Want to grab drinks?” “Really?” I thought to myself as I sat frozen. He still wanted to continue the date despite the foul aftertaste of that text and that prolonged bathroom break which he probably thought was an extension of my earlier evacuation.

“Sure,” I answered again as he turned on his engine. Soon enough we were on the road. It was complete silence aside from his IPhone playlist consisting of “Muse,” “The Smiths,” and some classical music. We passed street by street in silence aside from his favorite artists playing; Highland, La Brea, Curson, Fairfax, each passing street and each passing moment of unspoken thoughts were making my stomach churn along with every thought in my head. Finally, we miraculously found a spot on Santa Monica Blvd despite the busyness of that Friday night. We sat for a second in silence as he unbuckled his belt. It was too much, I had to say something, anything to end the torture my mind and that text and my prolonged bathroom trip at the restaurant were having on me. As I started to open my mouth, I was interrupted by a thunderous sound…coming from Nate’s car seat. It was loud, powerful like Nate’s stature and gaze, and reeked of sulfur and whatever other plant-based ingredients were in his recently consumed dinner. Again, silence fell. But it wasn’t for long…

“Sorry,” Nate said as he pulled down his window, but turned to look at me unapologetically. I couldn’t hold it in anymore just like him. Laughter exploded. First me, then him. We both laughed like hyenas by the ice breaker, not deal breaker, that had just stormed our date. “I was so embarrassed by…” I started, then I kept laughing. Nate kept laughing. We laughed and laughed non-stop for a whole minute before we looked at each other intently for the first time that night, and finally, went in for a kiss. His lips were a little rough, but felt good nonetheless; his saliva still had hints of BBQ sauce, but I was ok with that. Kissing him tasted good, and I would dare say he thought the same as the kiss lasted almost ten minutes before we got out of his red Jeep and started making our way down the Blvd hand in hand. We continued hand in hand for the remainder of that night and the one that followed.

So there you have it. That’s my story of, to date, my most embarrassing date. But hey, I have no regrets because I learned that even the most cringe worthy, regretful moment can be ripped out of existence by an even more embarrassing, thunderous moment, and then something good might follow. Or in my case, something great.