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Dating Ell-A: To Inner-Monologue or Not to Inner-Monologue

I had a first date with a music producer/writer named Jon at one of those hot new Hollywood restaurants that get all sorts of buzz and attention, but are really nothing more than haute dining chains for the rich and famous when they are in trendy cities.

Most women would swoon at the thought of eating at such an “it” place, but I was not too impressed.  I learned that it’s not easy listening to your date’s story about growing up in Peoria while Kim Kardashian nibbles on Peking Duck at the next table.  Frankly, I needed to get a good look at the heels she was wearing and his story about the French explorers who settled the Illinois town was not that riveting.

Anyway, since Jon was in town for an awards show, we were able to circumvent this potential hurdle by eating on the day after the ceremony, when everyone in Hollywood was nursing their post-party hangover. The restaurant was not even a fourth full and the only real celebrity in attendance other than Kim Kardashian, was Kathy Griffin, sitting in a corner table, munching wearily on chicken satay. Without any distractions (minus Kim K’s shoes and wondering where she bought them and hoping for a chance to ask her before we left the restaurant), the man I got to know over those two hours of food, conversation, and sake was confident, smart, savvy and surprisingly sensitive. I was hooked.

At the end of dinner Jon invited me back to his studio to listen to his music. I agreed, secretly hoping that “listening to music” wasn’t code for some weird, new sexual experience.

When we entered the studio, there was a bubbly intern standing in front of a large, neatly organized stack of CDs. “These are all my songs.” Jon said, with a fair amount of pride.  After having her find us some drinks and snacks, Jon sent the intern home and we began to listen to his music. By the time the opening chords of one of his love songs flowed through the speakers like an aphrodisiac, we were making out on the studio’s couch.

As one song gave way into another, I could feel Jon’s hand sliding up my thighs. This was a problem for a couple of reasons, not the least of which was that if his hand kept moving northward, in a very short time his fingers would find, not a pair of lacy, sexy panties, but instead the spandex shorts that I wore on first dates as a deterrent to giving “it” up too soon. It was time to stop the music—

“Can we slow things down? It’s only a first date and I want to get to know you more.”

“I’m so sorry.” He said with a genuine sensitivity.

“It’s okay.” I said. We started kissing again, falling instantly back into our previous rhythm. His amorous talents were tearing down my will power; I was ready to throw both my “no sex on a fist date” rule and the spandex shorts out the window.  Unintelligible sounds soon came from his mouth. At first I thought they were the moans and groans of pleasure, but then I listened more closely and realized they were words. He was mumbling to himself as he kissed my lips and nibbled on my neck and ear.

“I can’t expect sex on the first date.  We don’t even know each other very well.  I really can’t expect her to go ahead and have sex with someone she doesn’t really know. I mean, she doesn’t even know me…”

Her? Did he just refer to me in the third person? Convinced I misheard, I started to ask a question, but his inner monologue, like the Energizer Bunny, just kept on going and going and going…

“What was I thinking? She’s not the type to just jump into bed with me. She’s such a great girl, I hope I haven’t ruined things. I’m so stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid…”

Jon was quickly turning into a West L.A. Hamlet and I certainly didn’t want to become his Ophelia, so I slid off the couch, thanked him for the great evening and headed out as fast as I could.

Guys reading this blog take note: sensitivity is a plus, but saying inner monologues out loud will get you as far as a karaoke version “Jessie’s Girl.”

featured image credit: magandafille