I went on a date last week. I took her to a restaurant. Waiting to be seated I noticed a loose thread on her dress.
I said, “Let me get that off you,” because I didn’t want to just start tugging at her.
She said, “Ok,” and she watched as I tugged the thread, and as it unbuckled along the seam, and her whole dress fell to the floor in clumps. So we were standing there, she was wearing a bra and an underskirt-thing, which apparently meant that I wasn’t going to get any sex that night, and all these people looking at us, and I felt so embarrassed.
My first act was to try and cover her with my body, but that felt wrong, so I took my top off to give her, but then we were half naked people in the restaurant, and people were staring at us.
I know they say to help public speaking you should imagine everyone in their underwear. First of all, why would everyone be in their underwear? That’s sounds weird. And what underwear would they be wearing? Boxers, briefs, boxers, briefs, commando? How does that help?
Anyway, my date was in her underwear and she seemed okay with public speaking, because she yelled a lot.
“Why did you have to help?” she yelled.
I said, “Because I was raised like that.”
My mother said she would never have raised me to get a woman undressed without buy her a drink first.
She was happy for me though. I could tell because she poured herself a double shot of gin. I want to make that sound like a lot, so I say double shot, but really, she normally has double shots. So this was more like a triple. I say triple, but really, it was more like whatever could fit in the glass. And it wasn’t gin. She was probably drunk when she went to the bottleshop. It was a bottle of vodka, and she complained, “It doesn’t taste right, it doesn’t taste right.”
I told her. I said, “That’s because it’s not gin.”
And she sort of agreed with me, saying, “Yeah, it’s not, is it, it’s not.” As thought critiquing the taste.
She laughed and I told her, “Well, the jokes on you, because I’m 50% of your DNA and 50% your parenting. So what I am is because of you.”
She looked at me and said, “Well, you’re 100% fucked then aren’t you,” and she laughed and somehow she felt she’d won that argument.
The women was okay though. I helped her scoop up the fragments of her dress and drape them around her until we found a late-night tailor. The guy there helped stitch the dress back together and now they’re engaged. So that’s good, isn’t it?