The most bizarre thing happened to me after my encounter with the saucy Egyptian exchange student from last week’s episode. Within one day of our pathetic ‘farewell romp’, I had received a message in my inbox from a young man named Ty who seemed quite keen on my profile photo and blurb. We chatted a bit, and he seemed quite excited to meet me for a date. Initially, I was a bit uneasy given his overactive keen nature, but given my previous stance of “Why the hell not?” I went out on a limb.
We met at Granville Station, where he had just come from a job interview. My first ‘no' sign should have been his conversation startup, which was him telling me how stupid the people who interviewed him were, and how group interviews are such bullshit because he didn’t get a chance to “shine as bright” as he should have. This felt like it was going to be a long night, so I thought I’d suggest going for a drink. “Oh no, I can’t drink,” he said. “I was out last night with a forty year old, and out the night before that with another guy. I’m taking a night off.”
Slightly offended, I inquired into his week of serial dating. “So, what? You are just going on a week of first dates?” His reply was pretty shocked. “What? I spent four months being single and now I’m back in the game. Besides, tomorrow is my last one. Four of four.” Unbelievable.
We settled on The Templeton for dinner, one of my favourite chomping grounds. Starved after a day of work, I ordered a Portobello mushroom burger with soup. I was shocked when he ordered a large vanilla milkshake and a plate of French fries. “Aren’t you hungry?” I asked. “Oh, I’m starving,” he professed. “But I hate eating.”
He then went on to tell me that he despised eating: the act of putting food in his mouth, chewing it, and having to digest it was not a fact of life he enjoyed. Watching people eat, cooking, food culture: it was all a bore, and more so, repulsive. His diet, apparently, consisted of ‘white’ things: potatoes, oatmeal, rice. I asked if the choice was a vegetarian one, and he said ‘no.’ When I asked about meat, he grimaced. However, the same face went for tofu.
After a few minutes of this, he told me he was “bored” and railroaded the conversation to a plethora of ‘gay’ topics that I knew nothing about. “You know that episode of Top Model where that girl starts crying, and…?” No, sorry. “Or that time on 90210 when Tori Spelling…?” Nope! “Well, surely you’ve seen Tyra’s new music video?” What? NO.
Now, I’m not one to say that gays are either ‘gay acting’ or ‘straight acting.’ There are lots of levels on that meter, and I hover somewhere in the middle. I love some Gwen Stefani and Gossip Girl, but I also don’t parade down Davie Street waving my rainbow coloured flag singing Kylie songs. This conversation was far too over my head, and it made me a bit nauseous. I guess he could tell I wasn’t really interested in what he was saying, and with a frown, he said, “I thought you’d be more fun.”
I laughed a bit, and asked, in a cynical nature, what gave him that idea. “That’s what Mohammed said.” With a raised eyebrow, I questioned him. Was he actually referencing the same guy I’d been out with just a week before? “We’re friends. He told me about you.” I was pretty unimpressed at this, but I suppose not too surprised. Any guy I’ve ever been out with has likely dated another one I’ve seen, at some point. Typical, as sad as it is. He continued the assault with, “Yeah, after he ended it with you, I figured it was fair game. He seemed to like you a lot, so I thought I’d give you a spin.” Suddenly I was a used car on a lot, being passed off from one jerk to the next, in a fit of reckless abandonment.
Somehow, I could not shake this date, as unappeased as I was. We ended up at Starbucks, where he (of course) refused to get anything, and also hinted at me being a corporate sheep by ordering the seasonal ‘pumpkin spice’ drink. After this, I'd had all I could take, and bid adieu. I walked my stomach full of food (you know, the non-white variety?) home across the Granville Street bridge.
We met at Granville Station, where he had just come from a job interview. My first ‘no' sign should have been his conversation startup, which was him telling me how stupid the people who interviewed him were, and how group interviews are such bullshit because he didn’t get a chance to “shine as bright” as he should have. This felt like it was going to be a long night, so I thought I’d suggest going for a drink. “Oh no, I can’t drink,” he said. “I was out last night with a forty year old, and out the night before that with another guy. I’m taking a night off.”
Slightly offended, I inquired into his week of serial dating. “So, what? You are just going on a week of first dates?” His reply was pretty shocked. “What? I spent four months being single and now I’m back in the game. Besides, tomorrow is my last one. Four of four.” Unbelievable.
We settled on The Templeton for dinner, one of my favourite chomping grounds. Starved after a day of work, I ordered a Portobello mushroom burger with soup. I was shocked when he ordered a large vanilla milkshake and a plate of French fries. “Aren’t you hungry?” I asked. “Oh, I’m starving,” he professed. “But I hate eating.”
He then went on to tell me that he despised eating: the act of putting food in his mouth, chewing it, and having to digest it was not a fact of life he enjoyed. Watching people eat, cooking, food culture: it was all a bore, and more so, repulsive. His diet, apparently, consisted of ‘white’ things: potatoes, oatmeal, rice. I asked if the choice was a vegetarian one, and he said ‘no.’ When I asked about meat, he grimaced. However, the same face went for tofu.
After a few minutes of this, he told me he was “bored” and railroaded the conversation to a plethora of ‘gay’ topics that I knew nothing about. “You know that episode of Top Model where that girl starts crying, and…?” No, sorry. “Or that time on 90210 when Tori Spelling…?” Nope! “Well, surely you’ve seen Tyra’s new music video?” What? NO.
Now, I’m not one to say that gays are either ‘gay acting’ or ‘straight acting.’ There are lots of levels on that meter, and I hover somewhere in the middle. I love some Gwen Stefani and Gossip Girl, but I also don’t parade down Davie Street waving my rainbow coloured flag singing Kylie songs. This conversation was far too over my head, and it made me a bit nauseous. I guess he could tell I wasn’t really interested in what he was saying, and with a frown, he said, “I thought you’d be more fun.”
I laughed a bit, and asked, in a cynical nature, what gave him that idea. “That’s what Mohammed said.” With a raised eyebrow, I questioned him. Was he actually referencing the same guy I’d been out with just a week before? “We’re friends. He told me about you.” I was pretty unimpressed at this, but I suppose not too surprised. Any guy I’ve ever been out with has likely dated another one I’ve seen, at some point. Typical, as sad as it is. He continued the assault with, “Yeah, after he ended it with you, I figured it was fair game. He seemed to like you a lot, so I thought I’d give you a spin.” Suddenly I was a used car on a lot, being passed off from one jerk to the next, in a fit of reckless abandonment.
Somehow, I could not shake this date, as unappeased as I was. We ended up at Starbucks, where he (of course) refused to get anything, and also hinted at me being a corporate sheep by ordering the seasonal ‘pumpkin spice’ drink. After this, I'd had all I could take, and bid adieu. I walked my stomach full of food (you know, the non-white variety?) home across the Granville Street bridge.
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