The Cup of Tea that Wasn’t Really ft. The Australian



It’s October and I’m bored. I have recently had a summer dating situation fizzle pretty hard, and I’m listening to a lot of Whitney Houston. I miss having someone to be Whitney-Houston-singing level mad at. I miss having a predetermined date to things. I miss having someone to cuddle with when I’m hungover. I start to Tinder. I’m chatting to a man who is 25, meaning he’s two years younger than me. He says he works a lot, but has today off, and wants to grab tea. I’m so, so, so, desperately hungover from the night before, which makes me not want to go, but also exacerbates how lonely I feel today. We agree on tea at 7pm. It’s fall, and I think I can get away with a sweater, a big scarf, and my hair up. It’s tea after all.

He picks me up in the most ridiculous custom painted sports car I have ever seen. I wish I could tell you what it was, but I have no idea. It’s painted in a way a 14 year old might pick out for a car on a video game. He’s tall, he’s handsome, hes Australian, he’s…wearing a three piece suit?! I’m very aware that I am wearing a sports bra.

He drives like an asshole. He tail gates, his music is incredibly loud, and he’s speeding excessively. I am intrigued with how poorly we are matched. I turn his music down and say, “I can’t hear a word you’re saying.” He laughs, turns it back up, and keeps talking. I’m yelling now, “I KNOW YOU’RE TALKING, BUT I CAN’T HEAR YOU SO I CAN’T ANSWER YOU.” He drives around town for a while in no apparent direction. Eventually he takes us to the highway. We are going 160km in a 90km zone, and I’m horrified. I ask him if he’s an organ donor, but he can’t hear me on account of his music. I turn down his music and ask him to please, please slow down. He says he, “gets bored a lot, and use to race cars.” He slows down to a saucy 130km, and I don’t have the guts to tell him to slow down more. He takes me to Bear Mountain, to an over the top fancy restaurant. I’m thinking about my sports bra again, and how the smell of food is going to make me hangover hurl. What happened to tea? He asks if I’ve been here before and I say, “no, I’m poor.” He says, “not me.”

Sports bra.

He orders an appetizer, a meal, a scotch, and I order a pot of tea. He insists I eat something. I say “no, I feel sick.” He orders me soup.

Sports bra.
He mentions money 95 times in ten minutes. It just won’t stop. He tells me his parents are loaded, and he had an incredible education, and now has a subsequent high paying job. He explains what he does, but I don’t understand, so I file him under ‘business guy,’ in my brain. He doesn’t really ask about me, but I’m okay with that because I want to dissolve into the soup I don’t want, and take this sports bra with me. He’s not particularly warm, but he’s disarmingly good looking, and he has an accent so I feel like I should be impressing him. I should be wearing heels. I should have highlighted my cheekbones and had my hair down. I want this deplorable dick bag to like me, and I’m not sure that I appreciate his company. He pays, I offer to pay for myself, and he laughs in a condescending way and says “nurses make shit money.” Back in his car and back to driving irresponsibly, turning his music loud, and talking about money. He is taking me on an indirect route home, which I find obnoxious. I have headache, and I want to go home. The 45 minutes I allotted for this date has already turned into 2ish hours, and my patience all at once runs out. I tell him I can’t handle any more money talk, and he needs to slow down. (We’re going 170km). He says he “knows how he comes across,” and that sometimes he’s “covering his own insecurities.” He also says he is often used by women for his money. Those two statements are in such a wildly different tone from the rest of the night that I start to care about what he’ll say next. He tells me why he’s in Canada, and about a girl who broke his heart. He talks about his stressful job. The only two things he knows about me at this juncture are my address, and the fact that I’m hungover. I could be any person in this car.

He takes me to a beach near his house and drives us down a secluded ramp, and we’re out of public view. This date is getting to be four hours long. He turns off his car. I say, “I have to go home and let my dog out.” He says, “your dog is okay, you leave it when you’re at work right?” He awkwardly puts his hand on my thigh and I say, “mmmmnope.” There’s a really long uncomfortable silence that I decide needs to be filled, so I spew out a non-stop stream of words with the thesis being ‘I’m not having sex with you.’ He says, “I like when you’re uncomfortable, it’s cute, but you’re making shit up.” He turns the car on and drives like an ambulance back to my condo. We agree to see each other again, but I’m pretty sure we repulse each other.

Sports bra.
A few weeks pass and we don’t speak. The man from summer and I reconnect briefly, just long enough to make it sting again when things inevitably don’t work. I call the Australian and tell him I want to go out again. Now. He asks what I would like to do, and I say there is a show about a transgender woman downtown in an hour. He agrees, I’m surprised. I wear my ‘vegan leather’ pants because they are my second date pants, and they make me feel like bad Sandy. He wears a three piece suit. The show is excellent, he laughs at all the right parts, and gives a poignant critique after. He is a level of rich that I can’t relate to, and don’t understand. He has a homophobic driver, named Butters, who he ends phone conversations with by saying, “Okay, thanks baby, I love you.” Who is this guy? We get into his car and he drives like we are on a go-cart track. People flip us off constantly. We’re at a stop sign by a group of people out side of a pub, and I recognize one of the guys to be a guy who had sex with me a few weeks ago, and then instantly told me he ‘doesn’t date.’ I think he can see me too. Sucker. Look how boss I am in this boss car in my vegan pants.

We go to a pub I didn’t know existed. It’s pricey, and has every kind of scotch you can imagine. He’s good at chatting to the bartender and the servers. He’s friendly and polite. We drink about 200$ worth of scotch, and my brain is out of focus. We leave his car and take a cab to a bar on the 18th story of a building, and sit in a big window room. He asks me to stand with him across the room for a second at a look out point, because the view is really incredible. It is. His hands are on my shoulders. I have a zit exactly where he’s touching me and I’m super aware of it. One hand moves to my waist, and the other tilts my head and he kisses me. I think it should be romantic, but it feels so orchestrated. I know I’m one of many who has had that kiss. I’m so drunk. He orders meatballs, and I eat one. I could eat 17 more, but my vegan leather pants disagree. He says, “I want to show you my house.”

He has an ocean view penthouse in one of the most expensive parts of town. He also has two Tibetan Mastiffs that are the size of lions. The house looks like it has just been moved out of. There’s no art on the walls, no clocks, no pictures. There are a few couches, an x-box, and a dining table. Butters is there with his girlfriend feeding the dogs, and they leave when we arrive. Butters thinks we’ve already met before. Hm. His bedroom is massive, and looks like a fancy hotel. The entire back wall is a view of the city. There’s art in here, there’s some kind of special lighting. He wants to cuddle. I want to vomit scotch and meatball. I say, “if we have sex I’ll puke, no offence.” I haven’t shaved my legs which is how sober me helps remind drunk me to leave my vegan pants on. Within 20 minutes we’re both naked. Well, I’m naked, he’s pant-less, but still wearing a collared shirt. His tie is undone, at least. I tell him I’m not sure that sex is the best idea, and that I should go. We’re kissing, and maybe I’m not being particularly thoughtful, but I like the attention. I’m thinking about the guy from summer. We start to have sex when he pushes himself on me, and I think I should care more, but I don’t. After a few minutes of laying on my back thinking about how I can’t wait to puke, and wondering if I have any sourdough bread left at home, I stand up. I go to the bathroom. I take my phone and see that guy from the summer is texting me. He’s out, he’s been drinking, he wonders what I’m ‘up to.’ I tell him to “go outside the bar in twenty minutes and I’ll pick him up in a cab.” I leave the bathroom without vomiting or peeing, both of which were imperative at the time. I dress quickly and ask his address for my cab. He asks why I’m leaving so suddenly, and says he wants to cuddle. I lie and say I’m too tired. He walks me to the cab and kisses me goodnight, which I don’t really care for, but seems rude to shirk off now. The cab driver asks me if that was my boyfriend and I say, “no,” and then we don’t talk anymore. We pick up the guy from summer outside the bar. He’s chatting up a girl outside and keeps touching her when he talks. I’m yelling at him to get into the cab, but he hasn’t heard me yet. Finally he sees, comes over, and gets in the back seat. He sloppy kisses me hello and says he, “can’t wait to get me home.” The cab driver scoffs just loud enough for me to hear.


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