Life Lesson #2: Stealth Bangers: Taquito Stealers Make Bad Partners

So I had a date the other night with The Brit.

I met him last week at a new bar in the midtown area. I actually had been doing some guest bartending earlier that evening, so it’s safe to say I was not exactly sober by the time I finally met up with my friends. And I was definitely not by the time The Brit had made his way over to chat.

We talked for a little while – I remember laughing quite a bit and impressing him with my ‘Oh, I lived overseas for a few years myself,’ shtick. He bought me a drink and introduced me to a few of his friends he was there with.

Clearly, I was going to give this guy my number.

Flash forward to date night and I was nervous. I vaguely remembered tall, blond, British accent. Maybe something about being a soccer coach, but I’ve got crappy, vodka-soda-soaked memory and a penchant for generalizing. But when I tried to focus on what his face looked like, his features stubbornly refused to stay still. And while I could quickly confirm the accent during our brief phone conversation, requesting he remind me of his appearance seemed shallow at the very least.

He came to pick me up at my apartment. I opened the door and let out a quick sigh of relief. The Picasso image stuck in my head was not at all like The Brit standing in front of me. He’s cute in an overseas - but definitely not Eurotrash - kind of way.

The Brit passed the first test: greeting my Official Wingwoman, Madonna, in a polite and appropriate manner. I could tell she was pleased that he’s not like some of the disasters I wind up inviting over.

I got the vague ‘I’ll eat anything’ answer to the ‘where would you like to go eat’ question. This kind of annoyed me because really, would you eat gorilla balls if I suggested it? But then he came up with Mexican, which I appreciated. I could narrow down our choices and find a nice place in walking distance. So off we went.

Walking to the restaurant, he breezed through the second test: holding up a normal conversation during the initial moments of a first date. No awkwardness, casual talk, poking fun at the level of intoxication on both our parts when we first met. All in all, I’m impressed.

At the restaurant (which by the way is so freakin’ hot I feared pit stains at any moment) The Brit ordered us Stellas and asked if I’d like to split an appetizer with our entrees. I liked his thinking and suggested a few things based on past experience. He went with the chicken taquitos.

This is when things started going wrong.

Enter taquitos – two of them.

"Well, I thought we might get a few more here,” remarked The Brit.

“So did I. Oh well. I’m sure we’ll get the main dishes soon though,” I answered.

“So, tell me again, what do you do?” asked The Brit, taking taquito # 1.

“I assume you mean job wise? Well…,” and I began explaining my line of work.

I suddenly paused. I noticed taquito #1 has vanished and The Brit had now started on taquito #2 (which in case you forgot, is also the only other taquito). I’m shocked. Should I mention that he was the one who suggested sharing an appetizer and thus taquito #2 was rightfully mine? But I figure he’s really hungry and I’m trying to not be such a fat ass in 2006, so really, I could do without said taquitos, and thus let it go.

The rest of dinner was fine and went without incident, although I can’t help thinking how I really would have liked that taquito. After a few more beers, the check comes and I offer to pay half. He accepts. Sure, sharing the bill evenly is, unlike the taquitos, quite easy for him.

Although a rare moment of clarity warns me I really don’t need another, we go to a nearby bar for one last drink. My stomach began the ‘even though you just ate, I want pizza’ growl so I decide to call it a night.

The Brit kindly walked me the few blocks back to my apartment. He has to use the bathroom, I kind of want to make out, and so the invite upstairs was granted. One more drink and this girl’s ready for bed – partner or not.

Partner it is.

And here is where everything comes to a crashing halt. In six minutes. Yep, in just six minutes The Brit managed to completely satisfy himself (while protected I might add – making me wonder if he had that thing wrapped the whole night?) and promptly PASSED OUT.

I’m left there in a state of shock – not really sure whether anything even happened or if I had hallucinated. But the pain in my hips from being violently assaulted like Carrie Bradshaw in the jack rabbit episode reminded me that indeed, something did happen.

Sweet Jesus, sleep couldn’t come fast enough. Luckily, it did. When The Brit’s phone alarm goes off a few hours later, I barely mumbled goodbye when I realized I’m not the only one who thought six minutes was pathetically short. He’s at it again.

It sucked just as much as the first time. Only plus is that I’m pretty sure that it was even shorter than round one. Exit self satisfied Brit at 6: 30 am. Enter sore, dazed me with an epiphany at 6:31:

Life Lesson # 2: People who eat your share of food without a moment’s hesitation will be just as selfish (and quick) in bed. They’re only in it for themselves; the name of their game, Instant Gratification. And while at times I appreciate a quick romp, I think you’ll agree that no one wants a sex partner like that.

And maybe there’s a part two to this lesson. Maybe it’s a good idea to have sex on the first date. Because you really only have yourself to blame if you’ve invested any more time, only to wind up with a selfish European with stealth like distraction tactics and a sex drive rivaled only by seventeen year olds. I say find out sooner, not later.