Dating Disasters, Part 4

by Simone Westfall — May 24, 2007

I know that women are by tradition and by custom supposedly the more mysterious sex, but I've had a number of dates that have made me wonder about the curious circuitry of the male mind. These fall under the category of "What on earth was he thinking?" and I offer here a couple of examples.

I met Gregory for a drink last fall and kinda sorta liked him immediately. He was tall and gangly with a big beamish smile and an appealingly candid manner. He had started his career in Hollywood, where he tried to earn a living making documentary films; after about a decade on the West Coast, he burned out on that scene and returned to his roots in Brooklyn, where he was then working as a filmmaker for the board of education (I have a dim memory of his mentioning a movie about head lice). "It's not what I want to be doing forever," he told me with a shrug, "but it's a living." Date number one went smoothly enough that we agreed on a second. As a member of the Screen Actors Guild, he got free passes to screenings at a theater on West 57th Street and asked if I'd like to see The Good Shepherd a few weeks in advance of its release. Well, of course.

As soon as we were seated, I noticed a peculiar smell and quickly realized it was emanating from Gregory as there were few other people around us. Not to put too fine a point on it, this was a real medley of stinks; my nostrils discerned pungently ripe body odor over which he had apparently splashed cheap men's cologne (I think it was something like Aqua Velva). I could scarcely breathe, but tried to keep up some small talk before the film started. At one point, he leaned in close and whispered, "You know what I'd really like to do after the movie? I'd like to go back to my apartment, put on some music, and slow dance with you."

My stomach heaved. And in fact continued heaving and roiling for about another hour; even averting my head did little good to squelch the nausea. I tugged at his sleeve and said as apologetically as possible, "I'm sorry, but I have to leave...I'm suddenly very very sick."

Once on the street, after my gut had begun to calm down, I called his cell from my cell: "Look, I really have to tell you, whatever aftershave you're using is really awful. I think I may have an allergy to it." Maybe this was not the most politic way to handle the situation, but I thought he might want to know. Of course, I never heard from him again.

One lonely afternoon last winter, after my swim buddy canceled on me, I took out a spontaneous ad on Craigslist: "Dinner and a Movie Tonight?" my headline read. And the text detailed the situation: A friend punked out on me at the last moment. How about a date with a tall funny redhead?

I got several offers during the course of the afternoon, but the most appealing came from Peter, a lighting designer who lived on the Upper East Side, and was at that moment in the process of making a beef stew. He sent a photo of himself and one of the view from his apartment: a twinkling skyline nightscape looking west toward Central Park. We chatted briefly and I suggested meeting first at a bar so that I could eyeball him and be assured he wouldn't hack me up and throw me in the pot with the stew. We met at a wine bar in his neighborhood, and I think were both pleasantly surprised to find we were attractive people of a certain age. Peter was tall and slender and balding, with a neatly trimmed salt-and-pepper beard and bright blue eyes. We exchanged life stories, and he told me about his previous career racing motorcycles, which sounded rather dangerous and sexy.

After an hour or so, we repaired to his apartment around the corner. One glance at the contents of his refrigerator and it was clear this man was a serious foodie: he had on hand about eight different types of cheese and several varieties of mustard and flavored vinegars. By nine the stew was ready to go, and we ate that and a salad and bread at the table overlooking his splendid view. And polished off a nice bottle of pinot noir. By ten-thirty we moved to the sofa and fell to necking furiously (Simone does have a great fondness for good kissing) and by ten-thirty it seemed to me I'd better get my tush in a taxi fast or I'd wind up falling into the sack with yet another near-stranger.

I emailed him later telling him how much I'd enjoyed the evening and expressing a desire to see him again. He emailed back the next day: "I'd love to go to a museum with you sometime, but I don't think we'd make good romantic partners."

"Well then why," I shot back, "were your hands all over my anatomy last night?"

I never did get an explanation.

As said, What on earth was he thinking?

Simone Westfall is the pen name of a novelist and critic in New York City. To read all of Simone's posts in "The Dating Life," click here.