Thursday night was my first date with The Brit. Those of you who read my Twitter account may remember I was dragging my heels in the final moments. The thought of actually having to go out there and have another first date with someone new depressed me. Thinking how just last week, I was still in the arms of Mr. Etiquette, as confused as he was, I still had hope that he might be the one I could spend endless days with into the future, some day at least. But nope, here I was back out on the dating blocks less than a week after feeling as if I’d figuratively had open-heart surgery.
I gave myself the pep talk: Mr. Etiquette is moving forward with Sara. You have to move forward too. Oddly enough, this made me even more reluctant to leave the house. I just wanted to cry into a pillow, perhaps watch Bridget Jones for 947th time. I tried again: Awesome things are happening in your life. You deserve to have fun for a night, meet someone new, swoon over that British accent. Yes, this started to perk my spirits up a bit.
I had Googled The Brit. He was brilliant, accomplished, cuter and funnier than I had remembered. His obvious intelligence (yes, I shamelessly read his CV in fine detail) actually turned me on quite a bit. I hopped in the car and said, “Drive, Jeeves, drive.” Well, that obviously would have been much cooler than “Drive, Dad”–unfortunately I couldn’t drive myself with certain medical restrictions and all…
I was a little early, so I sat at a table in the corner of the bar until The Brit arrived. I watched him walk in and look around anxiously for me. He turned and immediately smiled when he recognized me. Damn, he had a cute smile. We talked about his fascinating journey from Newcastle, England to Washington state to Indiana and finally to Connecticut. He told me about his intriguing focus of research in the psychology of politicians. We, of course , talked about football (soccer). He was self-deprecating, hilarious, very open, and the accent..*swoon*.
I told him about my journey from Connecticut to California to Connecticut to Las Vegas back to Connecticut. I told him about my various changes in careers. I told him what was next for me, in the most immediate future and what stood even further ahead. He looked at me with sparkling eyes and an encouraging smile as if he was just as fascinated with me as I with him. He was only a little apologetic for being nosy and asking probing questions about former relationships and dating, and I told him i was an open book, as long as he didn’t mind me being the nosy journalist right back at him.
Before I knew it, two hours had passed, and the bar was beginning Trivia Night. My parents had already been by an hour ago, and I had forgotten to even check my cell. The Brit asked if I was up for playing, and I said sure. We decided we’d give ourselves a clever but silly moniker that the guy running the show could not pronounce for the life of him. Every other round, we changed it slightly to mock his butchering of the name. We lost every round. Instead of getting frustrated and upset that he wasn’t winning, The Brit thought it was hilarious that he, a PhD, and I, a Stanford grad, were doing so miserably on so many of these ridiculous questions. It was so freakin’ fun.
I gave him a nice hug at the end. He said he had a really nice time. He was so glad I came out. And I couldn’t help thinking I might really like to see this guy again.
The next morning, my first official day of summer vacation, I decided to be spontaneous. All day long, there were World Cup games I had to watch, and I knew The Brit, off from classes for the summer to do research, would be watching them too. So I left him a message asking if he wanted to watch the England vs. Algeria game with me. He called back a half hour later and asked, “When should I show up?”
I nervously rushed to shower, get the downstairs a little cleaned up and threw some chili cheese dip in the oven. He arrived shortly with some German beer and as he stood there in the foyer grinning at me, something came over me as I went into hug him, I looked up at him, and he lay a big, hungry kiss on me. Wow, I totally wasn’t expecting that.
Afterward, I grinned as I showed him the first floor of the house. He was eager to see my cat, so I did. They very much approved of one another. Then we went to the kitchen, and The Brit apologetically informed me he was a vegetarian as I took the chili dip out of the oven. Argh, whoops. Fortunately, I had French onion dip he could eat.
We went to the living room, where we sat down to cheer on England. It was awesome to watch the game with The Brit. He had the skinny on all the gossip of the players, including the fact that one player had an affair with his best friend’s, another player, wife. He knew every player on the team and could give brilliant analysis on their performance. Everything he said was later repeated by the commentators.
At half time, he faced me with a big grin, and leaned over to kiss me. Who knew football was such a turn-on, but suddenly we were in full make-out mode. During the game, we sat touching, sometimes holding hands. It was sweet, but I wasn’t expecting the passion ahead. I began to laugh as the game started again. “Hey,” I said breathlessly, “I thought we were watching the game.”
It was fun and unexpected. He was sweet and tender. Best of all, he makes me laugh.
On a side note, I never know if it’s possible to train a man to be the kisser you most prefer. I think it might be possible, with compassionate coaching, what do you guys think?