Last week, my good friend and photographer Roger Wingman invited me to his gallery opening at G-Lounge, Be Mine (running through March 1). When I matched with K on Tinder the following day, and he asked me out, it seemed like fate that we should go together.
Previously, I had a terrible date at G-Lounge. After about fifteen minutes of conversation, he admitted to being fifteen years older than he’d told me, married to a woman, and asked if he could jerk me off.
Suffice it to say, all of this made little Midwest me uncomfortable, and I left immediately. It was time to make a good memory at G Lounge.
The promo for the collection was a man sporting a kinky leather harness, so I wore my Topman leather and silver-studded version. G-Lounge lends itself to photography presentation well, the walls lined with photos from Roger’s new series. The theme: bondage.
I met K inside, and we got margaritas. A first date at a bondage photography gallery. There were photos of boys with chocolate smeared on their lips; photos of boys with dog masks and tails (I couldn’t tell if the tail was attached to a harness, or if it was a butt plug); and, my favorite, photos of boys tied up with beautifully intricate knots, done by Master J.
Drinks in hand, we made our way through the bar to find Roger and congratulate him on the opening, when I heard a familiar voice behind me: “Well, look who it is.”
I turned around, and there was O, a boy I’d been on a date with a few weeks ago. We didn’t make it to a second date, and I hadn’t seen him since.
“Good to see you,” I said, kissing him on the cheek.
“Same.” He turned to K. “And who is this? On another date?” I blushed.
K, unaware of the circumstances, smiled wide and said, “Yes!”, his margarita glass empty. I chugged the rest of mine.
“Well, it certainly is an … original date, huh?” He continued.
“First date!” K clarified. I bit my lip nervously.
“What did you do with the flowers I got you?” O continued.
I hesitated. “I kept them until they died. They lasted until a few days ago.”
“What kind of flowers?” K asked, still oblivious.
“Roses,” O smiled bitterly.
“Time for another drink!” I announced, ushering K to the bar for our buy-one-get-one margarita. “It was great seeing you.”
After our second margarita (but thankfully no more run-ins with anyone I’ve dated), we went out to dinner. Now drunk, I only wanted one thing: Chipotle. Tequila subdued my shame, and I insisted.
So we ended the date how all dates should end: with a delicious burrito. A surefire way to get a second date with me.