It's a comedy I wrote for school.

Dates Are a Drag

It’s because I’m so polite that this whole mess got started. I mean, seriously. I physically cannot say no unless an affirmative answer would cause someone or something harm. And even then I have a difficult time doing it.

So, when my friend called and told me he knew this great girl and asked if I’d like a date, I said sure. He said, “Great, Matthew. You can go dancing.”

Great. Thanks, Friend. Let the guy with two left feet take your “great girl” dancing. So I asked him if we could just go to dinner instead. He said we could do that, too.

And that is why I put on a nice pair of pants and a stupid looking pink shirt (he recommended it) and drove my shiny, yellow Volvo down to Ay Caramba, a Mexican restaurant on the totally opposite side of town. My friend had said it was her favorite and I am incapable of not being polite, so I said yes, even though Mexican food makes me feel like I’ve just consumed a keg of beer.

I checked my hair in the rearview mirror before I got out of the car. Since I was early, I’d probably have time to do that inside, but it couldn’t hurt.

I told them I was Matthew. The host gave me a weird smile before leading me to my table. What, just because I’m a Jew in a Mexican restaurant, you’re going to look at me funny?

There was someone sitting at the table already.

OH MY GOD. MY DATE WAS EARLIER THAN ME!

Maybe my friends were right. Maybe she is great. Maybe she’s just as polite as I am and therefore won’t be repulsed by my utter inability to talk about myself or anything I enjoy.

As I approached the table, she turned and smiled at me. I nearly gagged. She was wearing so much makeup, it looked like her face was painted on. I heard the host chuckle as I slid into my seat and grabbed the menu.

“Hi, I’m Matthew,” I said, holding out my hand. There was something really strange about her painted-face.

“Nice to meet you, Matthew.” And her voice was really scratchy. “I’m glad you could come.” Almost...masculinely scratchy. “I’m Carlos.”

CARLOS?!

ISN’T THAT A MAN’S NAME?!

“Carlos!?” I squeaked. She(?) nodded. To see if she was just extremely masculine, I looked at her chest.

NOTHING.

ZERO.

NO BREASTS.

NOTHING TO INDICATE THAT THE PERSON SITTING IN FRONT OF ME COULD SOMEDAY, THEORETICALLY, GIVE BIRTH TO AND NOURISH A CHILD.

I think she/he noticed that I was in shock, since she/he leaned forward a bit, looking concerned and revealing her hairy man-chest.

“Matthew, honey, are you alright?” he asked.

“Hairy man-chest,” I mumbled. He squinted.

“What was that?”

“I LIKE YOUR BREASTS!” I half shouted. People turned and stared. Oh, for the love of God. I am the most awkward person I have ever met.

Carlos blushed. It clashed horribly with his platinum blonde cascade of plastic curls and excessive amounts of rouge and concealer.

“I have to go to the bathroom,” I said, leaping as politely as possible from the table and bolting to the nearest men’s room.

Once there, I stared at my pasty reflection in the mirror. Do I look gay? My hair is black and unattractively messy. My eyes are boring and grey. My neck had stupid-looking stubble on it. I was a polite idiot with no fashion sense whatsoever.

OH MY GOD.

That’s why he told me to wear the pink shirt.

BECAUSE WHAT HETEROSEXUAL IN HIS RIGHT MIND WEARS PINK ON A FIRST DATE?

NONE!

WHY AM I SO GULLIBLE? WHY AM I SO DAMN...

...POLITE?

Damn it.

Well, I couldn’t exactly leave. Carlos might feel like he did something wrong. He might get the wrong impression.

Not that thinking I’m gay is the right impression, but thinking I’m rude is even worse. I think.

I think I’m ready.

I went back out and smiled at Carlos, who smiled back in a relieved sort of way. I was about to tell him I was sorry, that I get random panic attacks, when the waiter came over and took our drink order.

“I’ll have a martini,” Carlos said, winking at me. Um. Ew.

“Club soda with lime,” I said, gulping. Carlos looked kind of disappointed. Oh dear.

“Right away, Senor, Senora.”

“Ah, Senorita,” Carlos corrected him, pursing his lips at me “sexily.” I tried to hide my shudder.

When the waiter finally left, Carlos turned his full attention toward me. It was a little bit daunting.

“So, what do you do, Matthew?” he asked, batting his false eyelashes.

I gulped again.

“I’m a photographer.”

“A photographer? How cute!” He reached over and pinched my cheek with a vibrantly orange talon.

“So, uh, Carlos, what do you do?” Small talk is good. Small talk is very good.

“I am a manicurist at Heavenly Nails.”

A manicurist.

“That sounds...intriguing.” Intriguing? What the heck?

“You could come by my place sometime and I could give you a private pedicure and leg massage.” He licked his lips. Ew. Ew. Ew.

EW.

“I’m very ticklish,” I lied quickly. Lying is only impolite if someone catches you.

“I’ll be gentle,” he said, giggling mannishly.

“Uh. Well. Years of practice has made me uncomfortable with people touching my feet.” LIE. I love foot massages.

“Aw, well, maybe your hands, then?”

“I don’t think I’m the nail color kind of guy.” Not a lie. My conscience felt a little bit better.

“No?” And before I could stop him, he grabbed one of my hands and started examining it, all the while rubbing my wrists. Someone, SAVE ME.

“You’re right. Your nails are short and dry. What do you do to them, sweetheart?”

I blinked. “Bite them?”

I think that what was about to come out of his mouth was a huge lecture on beauty techniques but, luckily, the waiter came back with our drinks and the intent to take our orders. Carlos ordered something rapidly and in Spanish. I ordered a quesadilla. At least quesadillas are plain-ish. There is a reason I don’t drink or eat Mexican food.

I managed to dissuade him from talking about my hands by bringing up Johnny Depp, who Carlos, apparently, loves. Thank God.

“You know, I was the photographer at his brother in law’s fortieth birthday party.”

“OH MY GOSH!”

I jumped and the entire restaurant stared at us. Carlos didn’t seem to notice. He actually seemed like he was about to have an orgasm right there on the table. I really, really hoped he didn’t.

“DID YOU GET TO MEET JOHNNY?”

“He wasn’t there,” I whispered to the table.

Carlos immediately sobered up and took a sip of his margarita.

“So. Does his brother look like him?”

“It was his brother-in-law, not his brother,” I corrected.

“Damn.”

I am entirely unsure how we made it through the next fifteen minutes waiting for our food. It involved a lot of me evading cleverly phrased questions and asking things like “So what’s your favorite band?”

I was saved when the food finally came, because it is unforgivably rude to talk while eating. So that was twenty minutes of conversation lost. Thank God. I’d have to remember to kill my friends when I got out of this.

No, wait. I no longer have any friends.

I’d have to remember to kill the guy who set me up and all who supported him.

I really hoped that Mexican food didn’t do to Carlos what it did to me. That could be slightly traumatic. I’d have to tie him to a wall when we went dancing.

HOLY MOTHER OF GOD.

WE’RE GOING DANCING AFTER DINNER.

---

The club I followed him to was called “Rainbow.” Oh my God.

“It’s just a little place I know, I think you’ll like it,” he said as we walked in. I got the full span of his outfit this way; short, tight, orange-leather skirt, baby blue halter, and thigh-high, furry brown boots. I was with an advertisement for a party store.

We walked in and there was absolutely no women. None!

THE MAN HAD TAKEN ME TO A GAY BAR.

I CAN’T BELIEVE I EVEN AGREED TO THIS DATE.

NEVER AGAIN WILL I LISTEN TO ANYONE WHO CALLS HIMSELF MY FRIEND.

We walked in and Carlos greeted a few people. It seemed that my drag queen was a regular here. And not the only drag queen. There were some who were dressed much more tastefully, wearing all black or one pale color as opposed to orange, but then there were some who were dressed much, much worse, utilizing colors like hot pink, red, and orange.

But now, thankfully, there was the problem of me not being able to dance.

“I don’t dance,” I said, smiling placidly when Carlos had led us to a spot on the dance floor.

“Everyone dances, Matthew.”

“I don’t.” I made sure I was as rigid as can be.

“Just relax your hips, sweetheart, it’ll come naturally when you do,” Carlos said, his hands already plastered to my stiff hips.

“I don’t think I can,” I replied, my voice sounding unnaturally high. He squeezed them. Help.

“Come on, stiff, did you come here to dance or to stand there?”

“I came to stand here, actually.” Standing was just fine with me. Really.

“Alright, Matthew, I’ll just have to loosen you up myself.” He grabbed my hands and, with quite a bit more force than expected, slammed our pelvic areas together.

I squeaked very masculinely.

“Then dance, you goof!”

I AM NOT A GOOF. I AM JUST NOT A GAY, EITHER.

“Carla!” Carlos turned around.

“Hey, honey, how are you doin’?” He and the new queen embraced. This one was wearing bright green. I think I’m blind.

“I’m wonderful! Does your friend need help loosening up?” He winked at me and licked his lips. Why can’t any women do that when they see me?

“You bet he does!”

And, before I could blink, I was crushed between to men grinding on either side of me. This officially replaces the one time in middle school as the most uncomfortable moment of my life.

“I HAVE TO GO TO THE BATHROOM,” I shouted.

Carlos looked at me pityingly. “GOOD LUCK.”

I managed to squeeze out between them and they immediately began dancing with each other.

The bathroom line was about a hundred miles long. I stood for forty-five minutes. It was the best forty-five minutes of the entire evening. I mean, I was hit on by a few men, but it was ok, because I either told them I was straight or I had a date. They mostly left me alone.

I guess I hadn’t noticed the food taking hold of my brain when I was standing in line since I wasn’t really moving. Once I got into open air, though, I definitely did. I couldn’t sit down. I needed to get to my car.

I never thought I’d be so happy to get sick from Mexican food in my life.

I stumbled out to Carlos. Once I was on the dance floor, walking was easier since there were so many people to keep me upright.

“Carlos!” I hollered.

“Baby! You’re back!” He immediately got off of some other guy and came over.

“Carlos, I’m not feeling so well. I’m gonna head out, alright?” I lurched and clapped a hand to my forehead. Carlos grabbed me and steadied me.

“Thanks.”

“Alright, sweetheart, I’ll walk you to your car.”

That’s fine by me, Carlos. We never have to see each other again after this.

He walked me to my car with his arm around my waist the whole time. It was awkward, but my treacherous legs welcomed the support, so I couldn’t do anything. Finally, we made it to my lovely little Volvo.

“Well, good night, Carlos,” I said politely.

He smiled tenderly at me. Oh no.

“Good night, Matthew.”

I smiled nervously back and tried to duck into my car, but he deftly grabbed my face and gave me a big, smacking kiss on the lips. AAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHH.

“Have a safe drive home.” He did the thing that girls do when they want to keep a guy guessing and turned and walked away with his hips swinging. I almost vomited on the street.

I fumbled with the door and managed to get in. It took another five minutes for me to get everything turned on properly, and then I was peeling out of there faster than I’ve ever peeled out of anywhere.

I will never trust another human being with my love life ever again.

---

So.

What did you think? D