roses, vomit and romance

[Title] fabulous disposition: queer life, love and drama in this prairie town
[Deck] roses, vomit and romance
[Byline] sean manson

First dates are some of the trickiest beasts I have ever had to deal with. From my early forays into romance at the ripe old age of fourteen, I can remember their potentially disastrous nature. After testing out the ‘fake-yawn-arm-around-the-shoulder’ move with my first girlfriend at the movie theatre, I accidentally elbowed her in the side of the face. That and the fact that I was a raging homo made it clear our love was not meant to be. Be it thirteen or eighty-two, the prospect of new romance can be equally as terrifying as it can be magically delicious. This next story is about a first date that went so wrong, it turned out alright.

That and the fact that I was a raging homo made it clear our love was not meant to be.

After flirting with the option to refer to the date in question as ‘Dreamboat,’ upon further consideration I have decided upon ‘Jack’ instead. (I also realized that I am not a twelve-year-old-girl.) After meeting a couple of times, Jack and I set our first date a week in advance: 8:00 pm, his place, the following Saturday night. If my math is right, I had just less than 10,000 minutes to stress about it. After consenting to a personal mental agreement not get too worked up about it, I spent the next days doing exactly that.

Once the day had finally arrived I had successfully shaved, naired, clipped, exfoliated, and detoxified everything above and below the neck. Denying the fact that my before and after shots looked exactly the same, I removed my narcissistic self from in front of the mirror. But tragedy had struck! I looked great but did not feel it. My stomach was in knots and I blamed it on the nerves. Taking deep yoga breaths I tried to calm myself. But I ended up cursing whoever came up with that cutesy butterflies saying instead.

Arriving casually but totally intentionally late at his place, I decided a glass of red was just what I needed to kill the vicious butterfly suckers in my stomach. Like an alcoholic who had just relapsed, I drank to ignore the pain. But alas I reached the point-of-no-return. Twenty-minutes into our date I apologized, excused myself, and proceeded to be sick in his washroom. Watching my first impression flush down the drain, I longed to escape the literal and figurative mess I had just created.

Asking me if I was alright, Jack knocked on the door. As I walked over to open it, I found him standing there with the benevolent offer of mouthwash. Gladly accepting, the only thing I could think to say in return was, “that’s one way to draw attention to my mouth.” Unbelievably afterwards, I felt better and we carried on to have an excellent night. Of course jokingly I reassured him that I generally only throw-up to lose weight.

All in all I learned two things: the first being that if it’s meant to work out it probably will. And second, don’t ever confuse butterflies with the flu.

Published: Outwords Inc. #150 February 2008