I had the mindset of someone who wanted an interesting story to tell at post-grad cocktail parties.
Well, actually, I suggested hooking up over text message.
But Patrick, for some crazy reason I’ve still yet to figure out, thought that dinner would be more acceptable.
Yet somehow, about an hour before the actual date, my excitement over going out with and potentially fucking my former TF turned into total trepidation over going out with and potentially fucking my former TF. I knew next-to-nothing about Patrick, even less about what to expect out of the evening, and I was pretty sure that Jason was right when it came to me totally misinterpreting the situation.
By the time I got off the train to meet Patrick, I was ready to get right back on.
Nonetheless, I silently rejoiced every time I was assigned to his section, especially after I realized my piece of eye candy was a rather efficient and helpful teaching instructor and not merely a hot guy with a funny accent.
To Patrick, however, I was then just a sleepy student. By the time Patrick and I finally went out, it’d been over two months since I last saw him and even longer since he graded one of my mediocre papers.
Dinner was at a South End establishment with live music and dim lighting, the key facilitators to close-up conversation, which is like the foreplay to foreplay.
It was a relatively grown-up venue given my recent romps in fraternity houses and dorm rooms, and I realized early in the evening that I felt uncharacteristically nervous.
Discouragement was exactly what I needed to snap out of it.
“That’s the stupidest idea I’ve ever heard,” I declared. I’ll call you when the date is over.”About 30 seconds after the exchange with my truly unadventurous best friend, I found myself face-to-face with Patrick who looked considerably taller than I remembered and was dressed in decidedly un-academic clothing.
Maybe he thought that I’d be an easy lay, but then again, he always seemed so proper in class.