Despite the fact that after our first meeting, I went home with my Semi-Platonic Guy Friend for a drunken night of not being platonic or even semi-platonic, I agreed to go out on a second date with The Hungarian. On the first date, he was chivalrous enough to meet in my neighborhood, which I appreciated because most New Yorkers who don’t live in Queens, where The Hungarian lives, do not go to Queens. It’s not that Queens is bad, just that it’s so far away, so inconvenient, and so confusing. Every street address has two sets of building numbers. What the fuck is that about? I’m not a whiny princess but I did charm him into not making me go to Queens this time either. After all, I didn’t even know if I liked him. Even if I like you, I don’t want to go to Queens. Just so we’re clear.
We met at the bar of a restaurant for cocktails and appetizers. He’d shaved off his Brandon Flowers look. He seemed very happy to see me. He gave me the double-kiss, which always takes me by surprise because, well, I’m American. The resulting awkwardness was kind of cute until he actually made a rape joke. “I forget Americans aren’t used to kissing on both cheeks!” He laughed. “Sometimes, when I go for the other cheek I get a look like ‘Is he going to rape me?’”
“Oh!” I said. And, “Ha!” I said.
I gave him the benefit of the doubt because he’s foreign and he didn’t seem rape-y. But on what number date is it appropriate to tell someone that rape jokes may not be the best “in”?
Less than halfway through Date #2, I fully planned on getting drunk and fast-forwarding from the bar to the bed. He was cute and though there wasn’t a ton of chemistry, I figured it would be a fun romp. I don’t remember much of what we talked about. He did so much talking on our first date that at the start of the second he said, “OK, you do all the talking this time.” Then, guess what, he proceeded to do all the talking. I’m a sharp, feisty woman and I can hold my own in a conversation, but I didn’t try. I wasn’t into him enough for it to matter.
As we stood outside the restaurant at the end of the night, and there was that pregnant pause where you’re waiting to see who is going to suggest what, a cab rolled up in front of us and the driver nodded to me — like he knew. Next, we were careening towards my apartment with my hand on The Hungarian’s thigh and his hand on my cheek, kissing my neck. I just wanted to get laid. And I did. I can’t say for sure whether or not I’d go out with him a third time but, not for nothing, it wouldn’t be wrong to stop calling him The Hungarian, and just call him The Hung. #sorrynotsorry