Because You Like Him

I wipe the sweat off my hands onto my skinny jeans and command them to stop trembling. Why didn’t I ask him what kind of wine he drinks? I think to myself as I awkwardly stand ogling all the different wines in the middle of Safeway.

“I’ll bring the food, you bring the wine?” he’d asked, sarcastically, since he’s cooking me dinner at his house. And I’d just laughed at the joke, agreed, and we’d parted ways. What if I get a red and he drinks white? Ugh, do I even want to date a guy who drinks white? I think that’s a deal-breaker. What if I get both and he thinks I’m an alcoholic? What if I get both and it turns out he drinks Rosé?

Maybe I’ll just get the wine I like, and if he doesn’t like it, he’ll...judge me, probably. I wipe my hands on my jeans again before picking up a Merlot bottle. My fingers begin tracing the intricate roses on the label, feeling the delicate gold print, the smooth texture calming my anxiety ever so slightly.

I don’t know why I even agreed to this date in the first place - I’m enough of a mess just picking out the wine. Something so simple shouldn’t be this complicated.

“Goddamn anxiety,” I said out loud as I continued to stare and trace.

My last date hadn’t turned out so well, so why in the world do I keep doing this to myself?

That date, two whole years ago, had been with a guy I’d seen for a few weeks, but that "relationship" had ended badly after he became fed up with the fact that I didn’t want to touch him. As though I thought there was something wrong with him. There wasn’t; quite the opposite in fact.

The quizzes I’d found online had told me I’m a “Gray Area Asexual” (Ace), whatever that means. My lack of interest in sexual activity with either sex had prompted me to look it up. I mean, all my friends lost their virginities in high school while I had my first kiss when I was 22. Meanwhile,I’m standing here in the wine aisle tracing a Merlot label as a 25-year-old virgin.

Those quizzes and research were supposed to give me an answer as to why I never wanted to...go there. Or apparently even say it to myself. If I were 100% ace, then I’d have a reason to tell people if they ever found out I’m still a virgin (though it’s not really a secret), but I’ve grown out of the age that people ask, now they just assume I’m not. The wide range of reactions I’ve gotten when they find out have ranged from disgusted shock to high fives. My personal feelings fall somewhere in the middle.

It’s not like I need a man. I’m a perfectly fine, independent woman! “I am kayak, hear me roar!” I chuckle to myself as I scream the Gilmore Girls quote in my head. I don’t need a man (or anyone else) to help steer the canoe because I’m in a kayak. I steer by myself.

So why did I even agree to this date?! I’m typically very happy being single. Everything is always right where I left it and I have unlimited bathroom access! Plus, you know, there’s the fact that I’m apparently unable to feel physical/sexual attraction to other humans, hence the online asexual quiz thing.

Because you like him. Oh, right. That. Why do humans have emotions? Life would be a whole lot simpler if we just...didn’t. Or if we could delete particular emotions - that would be cool. I’d delete crushes and loneliness. Without those, I'd be living on Cloud 9.

Dating has never gone well for me, obviously, beginning with the lack of sexual attraction, but also because I’m awkward. Sexual jokes and innuendos fly right over my head.

“Why are you guys laughing? I don’t get it!” I yelled at my three friends, laughing so hard tears were visible. We’d been having a conversation about weird talents and I’d just been showing them that I can move my nose, ears, eyebrows, and do various tricks with my tongue.

“You said you are talented with your tongue!” one of my chortling friends could barely choke out through the laughs.

“Yeah, I am…” I had been referring to the fact that I can flip it both ways, roll it, and make a clover.

Once it had dawned on me why they’d been laughing for the past 5 minutes, humiliation enveloped me like I’d been dunked in a pool of ice water. I’d then made an excuse to leave and cried on the whole drive home, completely mortified that a) I’d even said that in the first place, b) it hadn’t occurred to me that it could be taken as a perverted joke, and c) none of my “friends” had told me why they were laughing at me.

That sort of thing happened a lot more when I was younger, and had younger friends. Hopefully my date won’t make any perverted jokes I won’t get tonight. That’s more of a second date thing, right? And let’s face it, getting one of those is doubtful, mostly because I’m sure I won’t like him. I might like him at first, but if he tries to kiss me I’ll become disgusted. Or I’ll try to convince myself I like him, maybe even let him cuddle with me, but I won’t be into it and I’ll eventually end it, just like all the others.

I wipe my sweaty hands one at a time on my pants again and pull out my phone. I have 13 minutes before I’m supposed to be there, I should’ve left Safeway 5 minutes ago. Punctuality is another source of anxiety, so I hoof it to the checkout with the bottle in my hand - no more time to brood over it.

I chat with the cashier without hearing a word she says, all I can focus on is how nervous I am.

I set the bottle haphazardly in the passenger seat while I start my car and try to steady my breathing. I have 9 minutes to get to his house before I’m late. Google Maps says it’ll take 7 minutes to get there.

I stifle the nagging thought in the back of my mind that going to a man's house alone is a bad idea. My taser is tucked comfortably in my purse, so I have no excuse to not go. My anxiety clobbers me with memories from that last guy the whole drive - the argument over the nearly-nude Snapchats he'd sent me and the fact that I didn't like them, the time he tried to get me to kiss him rather than him kissing me and I just couldn't do it, the last text he'd sent telling me he'd lost interest without giving me a reason (I had a pretty good guess, though).

It feels like 2 seconds before I’m pulling up to his house. It’s one story, maroon with dark wooden trim, a little statue of a peacock sits in front of the stairs leading up to a large porch with a swing. The lights are on inside, giving it a very warm and welcoming ambience, even from outside. I hope it’s like that inside, too.

I turn the car off and resist the nausea that rears its ugly head due to nerves. My anxiety decides to remind me of the last guy one more time, how when he kissed me I did nothing. I was completely indifferent to it. I didn’t know what to do with my hands.

Will it be like that if this guy kisses me? Will I let him? I honestly don’t understand why people like it so much. Personally, the idea of sharing saliva with another human is a little repulsive.

I picture my new date’s face, smiling at me and try to imagine what it might be like to kiss him. Nothing comes to mind. I know he’s cute, but do I want to touch him? It’s difficult to analyze without his physical presence.

With a deep breath, I grab the bottle and get out of the car. I gingerly walk up the stairs, admiring the large porch. Sitting out here with a glass of wine on a summer evening must be heaven. I ring the doorbell.

The same smile I’d just pictured greets me as he opens the door wearing a crisp, navy blue button down shirt and dark jeans - very nice to look at. The nausea is immediately replaced by hunger as a delicious smell wafts out the door like a hug. A smile creeps onto my face as I’m reminded that I actually do like and trust this guy.

“Hey! You’re right on time, dinner’s just about ready.” He holds out a hand, which I take without hesitation.

“I hope you like Merlot.” I hold up the bottle.

His smile gets bigger. “It’s my favorite wine.”

This is gonna be just fine.

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