Dinner with HPP

I have to say, I wasn’t in the mood. Last week, when I was all zipiddy-doo-da, dinner with a stranger would have been fun. This week, I am spit warmed over and feeling too morose for friendly banter. And not having heard from HPP since last Tuesday, I began to suspect that he had somehow found my blog, since most people come upon WPM by googling “sex with diapers” or “little people penises.” In my warped little imagination, HPP was reading my blog in absolute horror, wondering how on earth he got mixed up with such an insane bag of crazy.

But then I get an encouraging text reconfirming our dinner at a swanky Japanese restaurant. Game on, baby! I instant message my friend at work. We come up with a plan for dinner that cheers me up. The plan includes:

- Politely asking the waiter to go the fuck back to China where he came from
- Talking animatedly about “fold cheese” while chunks of sushi fall casually from my mouth
- Discussing the “vaginal rejuvenation” surgery I’m hoping he’ll fund on my next trip to Venezuela

I immediately feel better about things, and head over to the restaurant. HPP is nowhere to be found. I make my way to the bar, upon which several models and their modelizer boyfriends are draped. I am immediately accosted by a hairy Brazilian with five days of stubble who is desperately channeling Armand Asante – and not in a good way. He is joined by two desperately gawky Germans who flank me, forming a low-fat, low-carb retard sandwich. I am stuck. Then the Hairy Brazilian does the drill. I hate the drill. The drill makes me extremely twitchy and annoyed. The drill goes something like this:

Where are you from? (Meaningless)
Where did you go to school? (Also meaningless)
Where do you live? (Hopelessly irrelevant)
What do you do for a living? Please recite your CV. (Guaranteed conversation stopper)

I can’t be bothered to answer any of these questions truthfully, because the real answers are so stultifyingly dull that they would surely have a soporific effect on everyone at the bar. I hate the drill because it involves direct questions - the answers to which are completely meaningless. So I lie. I make up ridiculous answers to amuse myself, and then reveal that I am looking for my dinner companion. The Hairy Brazilian assumes that this is blind date. “HOW EMBARRASSING,” he chortles. I give him a withering look, turn heel and find HPP, who has just entered the bar.

HPP is 34, slight and objectively attractive. He is an academic and a shrink with a social conscience – an open-minded, compassionate man with a sensitive face. Fortunately, there is no sexual tension between us - no one wants to rip anyone’s clothes off, and this is an excellent thing. Nevertheless, HPP is nervous, possibly because he is facing an entire dinner with the Big Bag of Crazy, who has decided – out of compassion and fellow-feeling - not to launch into favorite topics of conversation (the evils of circumcision, possession rituals in Sudan, fold cheese). It doesn’t help matters when the Hairy Brazilian comes up behind me, puts his hands on my shoulders and stage whispers into my ear, “HOW’S THE BLIND DATE GOING?”

“It’s great. We’re about to have sex. Thanks!”

Poor HPP.

We manage to have a lovely time, with the help of Kettle One (HPP) and Jameson on the rocks (courtesy of the Hairy Brazilian). After the Tourettic outburst, I am on my best behavior. After all, I would like HPP to be my friend.