Make Yourself At Home

The first month, if it last that long, is always the most telling of the way a dating relationship will progress. I guaran-damn-tee it!

Now, even though the first month of said union is generally filled with giggles, sighs, and down-right STOOPID utterances (Oh, please don’t EVEN try to tell me you haven’t uttered ‘Schmoopy’ at least once!) good/bad points can show themselves easily to the keen observer. For men, it seems that a good sign might be something like a woman with a great sense of humor combined with an encyclopedic knowledge of football. Not so good; finding a doodle she’s made of her name combined with your last name in every conceivable variation after 4 dates. With women, when he opens a door, that is good. He opens his fly for no reason not involving a right good make-out session, ya got trouble my friends, that’s right I say trouble with a capital T and that rhymes with P and that stands for Penile.

Since I’ve touched on the subject of open flies, I shall offer up the tale of ‘Naked Boy.’

Brian was introduced to me by a friend, and generally, friend introductions come with a tacit implication of said introductee’s degree of normalcy. If my friends like him/her, he/she can’t be all bad. Remember though, sometimes your friends turn into your parents when it comes to introductions, and find the perfect person they think you would be perfect with yet said ‘perfect person’ lulls you into thoughts of grouting tile with their mind-numbingly dull conversation.

Brian and I had a surprising amount in common, and he was a dead ringer for the actor Craig Sheiffer. His liabilities, a rather compact physique, (Kinda like he was supposed to be about 6 ‘4" but ended up getting inexplicably thrown into a drill press and was thrown into a 5’7" frame. Not a deal breaker, but is legitimate ammo for the ‘Throw away/oh please stay’ decision that generally comes after a few weeks of dates. You know…the time when you size up said object, and if you haven’t been won over, they can be dumped for reasons such as, ‘ I like him but….I’d really like my kids to be tall enough to see over a steering wheel eventually.’) a very intense-for-no-reason demeanor, ( like every word out of his mouth HAD to be intensely profound. This man could make ‘Would you like another Cosmopolitan’ sound like he was brokering world peace) and a bizarre cowlick that he attempted to pass off as a legitimate attempt at noveaux hairstyling. (Note, fellas: Women have been stuggling with bad hair days LONG before it was OK for men to wear mousse: Get back in line, buddy)

He also was an incredibly artistic person, and had produced a few straight-to-video movies (and NO, they weren’t porn! Porn occasionally has quality!) But his artistic nature and quiet demeanor appealed to me, and it seemed like we were getting comfortable around each other. In hindsight, that last part may not be such a good thing.

Our first date was a very casual evening at a West Port Watering Hole. We discovered a similarly off-center sense of humor, a thirst for current event discussions, and a mutual love of our adopted home of Kansas City. He was also a graduate student, so I figured he was aspiring to more than being a shift supervisor at KFC.

Several subsequent dates followed, and he was kind enough to bring roses by my office for my birthday. I was starting to think that I might actually see him past the usual 3 week shelf-life of previous suitors. And fellas, in case your wondering, flowers DO score you blazing points in the Keep Him Around category. Any chick that tells you differently is lying like a cheap rug in a 5 and dime.

Now, it was the point in a relationship where things can get dicey: The ‘Who invites who over first.’ Thankfully, Brian wanted to show me some film posters he had worked on. (I suppose it’s the B-movie producer equivalent to ‘Let me show you my sketches.’) He had a fairly nice, though incredibly junk-packed apartment, and something that should have sent me running for the hills: A cat he had shorn most of the hair from.

OK…let’s now get the chorus of ‘What were you thinking you dizzy Bee-atch when you went out with him after seeing that’ out of the way, shall we?

NOW…in my defense, and as any cat owner can attest to most of the time, his explanation was that the cat had gotten into some burrs and found it was easier to shear the animal down than fight for combing time. It sounded reasonable, and the cat didn’t seem traumatized. But then, they do prescribe Prozac for animals now, don’t they?

After venturing to Casa-De-Brian and having left his abode with his status as a gentleman intact, I assessed that it was safe to invite him to my North of the River crib. (It sounds so ‘street’ when you say it like that!) He had been wanting to show me one of his films (And using the term ‘film’ to describe one of his movies is a term used more loosely than a Jennifer Lopez marital commitment), so I invited him over on a Tuesday evening of pizza, beer and movies. Since it was a ‘school night,’ there was relative safety in the assumption that he wouldn’t be attempting a sleepover.

Brian shows up with an Imo’s pizza, 6 pack of MGD light, and his film. (In respecting his anonymity, I will not mention it here, but venture to say that, if you’ve seen it, you are perilously close to ‘Dumbass’ status and sure as hell don’t look for reading material any more complex than Haggar the Horrible) I was dressed in a sweatsuit, hair was pulled up, and minimum of make up. Suffice to say I was not in full throttle temptress mode that evening.

Now, while I normally feel that there are certain parts of my romantic encounters that aren’t up for column fodder (i.e., gettin’ busy time), I do need to stress the fact that Brian and I had not been intimate up to this point, nor had the topic been discussed. Trust me…this will become an important reference point in a few paragraphs.

Brian and I settle onto my living room floor for a comfy little carpet picnic. (Hey…get your mind outta the gutter: I’m talking wall to wall carpet here!) He sits down, then says ‘Do you mind if I get a glass of water?’ My response, and words that I have learned to never again utter to anyone without whom I share a genetic bond or a mortgage, was ‘Sure, Make yourself at home.’

Now, while this seems like a purely innocuous phrase, I suppose that it could be taken in a number of ways. None that I was familiar with outside of kicking off ones shoes, filling a glass, and getting your own damned drink, but I suppose different strokes for different folks.

Brian had decidedly different strokes.

He asked if I meant that. My puzzled expression and momentary lapse of memory regarding his shorn cat only managed a ‘Uh..sure’ response. Now, logic would have told me that the response to my offer to attempt a reasonable degree of comfort in my four walls should have been met with something along the lines of ‘Thanks,’ or ‘OK.’ But I didn’t get the need for reassurance of my offer. It’s not like I was offering a kidney or anything. Truth be told, I was feeling too damned lazy to fix him a glass like Martha Stewart probably would have.

I am busying myself with prepping the celluloid entertainment for the evening, so wasn’t aware of any out of the ordinary activity going on behind me. Had I known what I was about to encounter, I would have frozen in my place and never looked around.

Brian comes in with a glass of water in one hand, a beer in the other, and pants that had magically disappeared. Nothing…nada…no fig leaf, no Haynes, No Fruit of the looms. However, he was sporting foreskin, which just added a further sense of ‘What the HELL’ to the whole matter.

There are few events in this world that will do the impossible and render me speechless. This was one of them. Aside from the surreal attempt at nudity now displayed before me, (He was also wearing socks in addition to his shirt. That’s just wrong anyway!) Brian seemed genuinely perplexed that I was dumbfounded at his attempt at making himself comfortable. I logged the fastest transition from bewilderment to outright rage I will definitely ever experience.

"What in the WORLD are you doing?’ I shout. He explained that this was how he was comfortable in his home, and that he assumed I would be OK with that, since I said he could make himself at home. Now, this is where the earlier paragraph referencing the act of ‘gettin busy’ comes into play. That subject had not been approached at that time. Although it was an unexpected bonus that I got to see the merchandise beforehand, as having THAT be one of the benefits of waiting would have made the wait agonizingly fruitless.

Trying to convey the greatest sense of ‘I can and will inflict heinous fury on your soul’ that my 5’4" frame and incredibly weakened position (I’m sitting on the floor with a half naked man towering over me: You try to remember your Tai-Bo at that moment!) could convey. And idiot me had bothered to clean up before he showed up, putting my normally ever present-on-the-end table nail file uselessly out of reach for it’s alternative purpose of self defense. (If ya can’t take it on an airplane, it can maim you in some way)

Thankfully, his passive nature didn’t 180 to ax-murderer, contrary to the image a beer-toting-half-naked-sport-sock wearing man would normally have you believe. He was genuinely perplexed at my reaction, as if partial nudity was kosher among today’s more hip hostesses. But he did put his pants on and leave my apartment in the 30 seconds I afforded him once the sense of ‘What the HELL’ wore off. It was perhaps one of the shortest dates I have ever had, clocking in I know at under 10 minutes. Facilidate Schmiladate!

Now, suffice to say Naked Boy had indeed managed to get ousted in under one month. Granted, he made the decision mere child’s play with his apparent aversion to pants, but at least I gave him what I felt was a fair shot.

But what is a ‘fair shot’ when the potential object of your affection isn’t dangling their junk in an attempt to get comfy? Some people are afraid to admit that attraction tends to be largely physical initially. They think it makes them ‘Shallow.’ I am unashamed to admit that I have to be attracted to someone on several levels, physically being one. Now, I have gotten to the point where someone who is physically very attractive, say like a squished down Craig Sheiffer. (It sounds repulsive, but he was actually pretty sexy when fully dressed) Who, as I got to know them, just didn’t gel with me.

Brian and I just didn’t mesh well, personality wise…but I am glad that my experience has taught me that the looks only get ‘em so far. There has to be something worth delving into past the first giddy ‘He is SUCH a cute boy!’ phase! Otherwise, you are stuck with a really nice looking person who is dumb as a post, (Not one of the smart men I’ve dated ever de-pantsed without express invitation to do so!) and has radically different ideas of how to spend down time. (I shudder to think what would have happened had he wanted to do like so many men and cuddle by the fire. EWWWWW!!!!)

I see no harm in admitting that physical attraction is important. I see nothing wrong with basing the decision of getting to know someone because they appeal to your aesthetic sense. It’s only when you let the hot-I-tude they possess compensate for their lack of something else you find too important in a potential dating relationship that you venture into ‘shallow’ waters.

It also helps to have a little patience with the ‘getting to know’ you phase. If you rush things, trust me…little details (like shorn cats!) can get overlooked that would have saved you both time and intellectual investment. Patience is a virtue, especially when you are talking about involving someone in something as important as your life.

Keep your pants on: Truer words were never spoken!