You cute
It was my first “first date” in a while. I had been dating a Frenchy for a couple of months and then took a short break.
My date’s profile mainly was sexy pics and the fact that he lived in the West Village. I was tired of overthinking and screening and said, “wtf, sure, let’s meet for a drink.”
I think the reason I like to go on first dates is that I get to discover places I would never choose on my own. We met at a bar on Houston Street. This one was a complete dude den: beers, cheap stiff drinks, and rock and roll. The bartender looked like a cross between Elton John and Tom Petty, and the waitress was adorable in a grunge, “I-have-seen-it-all” style.
My date arrived. Late as hell, and surprised that I wasn’t upset. And why should I be? I had a great book and meager expectations about the evening. I was already tasting in my head the Korean BBQ chicken I was going to get if he didn’t come. I was actually a bit disappointed when he showed up.
He was handsome and, as the night advanced, sort of smart as well. He was a “woke” stand-up Comedian, and we had quite an interesting discussion… until he drank his second vodka straight. Then all his intellectual dialogue seemed to be reduced to two words, “You cute.”
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Believe me, I like to be told I am cute, pretty, sexy, or beautiful. I even settle for interesting on some days. So, perhaps it was the missing verb or the cadence of the repetition; but the “compliment” started to grate on my nerves to the point that not even alcohol could soothe.
Every time I tried to bring the conversation back to at least a six-grade level, I was derailed by another round of “You cute,” peppered by a kiss or two (hey, he was good looking after all)
I started to feel uncomfortable. This limiting of my attractiveness to “you cute” hit a nerve. I have the perception men tend to assume women are less intelligent than they are. Evolved men sometimes think that we are equally brilliant. Still, it takes a rare specimen of the male gender to glimpse that a woman can be more intelligent than they are.
Or perhaps he was just not a great kisser.
So when he revealed he didn’t live in the Village but in some far out part of town he was ashamed to acknowledge (the shame being the part that bothered me) and the Elton-John-Tom-Petty like bartender already knew him enough to split the check without asking, this little cutie called it quits with a polite smile and a quick exit.
As I walked away, I kept hearing, “Hey, you cute, wait, you cute…”
