“How do you keep finding out-of-towners?” GFC prodded, three Mondays ago after I told her about this guy that had friended me on facebook that morning. I was out with Ginger for a random Sunday Funday the day before. Even though I was still tired from the Saturday night before when I went to bed at sun-up; only Ginger knew why. The why: Ginger and I left together from GFN’s birthday party at a club Saturday night and when I stopped to switch out my shoes on the sidewalk, a very tall man commented on said (fabulous) shoes. Said man was 6’4” with brown hair, blue eyes and a beard. And the thickest North Carolina accent I’ve ever heard: He was from out of town, so of course I was interested.
Ginger, still pondering where her car was, interjected to tell him – in front of his friend and his friend’s girlfriend – that I’m rarely interested in anyone and that he should talk to me; go home with me. Ginger is an insistent little leprechaun at 2 in the morning. His friends also encouraged him. So off Ging went to get her car and I sat on the sidewalk waiting with – who Ginger would rename the following day to – Mountain Goat Herder. This name, of course, based solely on his very thick accent which somehow attributed an entire separate syllable to my name that shouldn’t be there. But he was kind; adorable. Tall.
Ginger pulled up in her Fiat 500 and we put the 6’4” Mountain Man in the back - the hilariousness of which we would only truly realize the next day during Sunday Funday while driving around after brunch. I looked in the back seat noting the small size of it and immediately burst into tearing laughter recounting the evening before when I looked back and saw a giant with his knees at his chin riding in a car with strangers to some random blonde’s bed.
But once in my bed we slept, and only slept – aside from making out – because I told him I was actually interested in him. The real reason, however, probably leaned more towards a rule I have: In an attempt to not end up on Maury Povich, I think it best to only sleep with one guy per cycle just in case you end up knocked up - and Pretty had already claimed that month. Not that I’ve ever really had to use this rule much before, but maybe I did really like him. Or just realized each time I take and out-of-towner to town, I just get frustrated I can’t have them again. Or maybe I'm sticking to my renewed celibacy. Who knows. And so, we snogged a bit until the sun came up and he asked me to take him back to his hotel in the morning to pack up and catch his flight.
But this wasn’t even the guy GFC referred to; the guy that found me on Facebook, I met that Sunday. Because after dropping off the Mountain Man, I texted Ginger and we were off to Sunday brunchies. We giggled about the night before and happy on mimosas, she wanted to continue the day. So after grabbing a coffee (to stave off my fatigue from missing out on sleep thanks to a goat herding giant in my bed), we headed off to her favorite part of Sunday: The part where she has a bartender crush, but when we got there, that bar was closed.
In loo of her bar, we went across the street. ER had texted me while I was in line for coffee and I told him to join us. Soon after we arrived, he found us at the bar while Ginger was checking out some males to hit on. They looked normal, tall and attractive – and sans affliction t-shirts. “Yes,” I remarked, “they look good. I approve. Go for it.” And off she went.
About 10 minutes into their conversation the bald guy of the group motioned to me – still sitting beside ER – to come over. They told me they needed help figuring out what Ginger did for a living - as she had made it into a game - but it was fairly transparent from the way the guy looked at my ass, that he just wanted a reason to chat. I talked to the three of them: an attractive baldy, a tall pornstache, and a DC shorty, for a bit until Ginger got frustrated with the conversation and ER and I decided it was time to relocate. I gave my new friends a hug each and we were on our way.
The next morning I had a new friend request. It was Pornstache. I accepted the request, quite curious how he had found me on Facebook. Turns out, he put in my first name planning to just search for a while and hope to get lucky and mine was the second to pop up; a coincidence, perhaps that I had discussed the proper spelling with baldy the day before. After a few messages back and forth he asked if I’d have dinner with him next time he was in town.
“Sure,” I responded. And then later used this as proof in a discussion with ER of something I feel like I tell him on constant rotation; something that has made my dating life 100 times easier since I realized and accepted the fact: If someone likes you and wants to see you, they’re going to make it happen.
Pornstache was my living, breathing, Facebooking proof of this theory – even if we never go to dinner. I barely talked to him; he didn’t have my number or even know my last name. And yet he found a way to find me to ask me out. But, oh yea, he lives in Phoenix.
Tourist season has got to end.