A Date with A Unicorn Pt7: The Third Date

As the cab approached Adams Morgan I wondered where we were going. I knew Mr. Unicorn was a big fan of Adams Morgan. I had been too. Once upon a time- between the ages of 14 (with an excellent fake ID back when anyone could get in anywhere) and about the age of 25. I love Adam's Morgan. I really do. It's a beautiful neighborhood and nothing quite beats a French martini on the roof of the Reef in the late Spring or early Fall and I have danced my soul out at Madam's Organ to the right band or ended a night burning that sweet sweet Hookah in my lungs. But sometimes it feels as those the men keep getting older, the women keep getting younger and the bars just stay the same. Let's just say I was beginning to get really tired of being confused with a regular every day AdMo Skank. Frankly, my DDD boobs are a masterpiece and I don't take too kindly to strangers getting their dirty paws on them uninvited. It'd be like rubbing your hands across the Mona Lisa. I'm convinced the greasy fingerprints might cause them to sag or something like the painting might slowly disintegrate. But I digress...

Mr. Unicorn loves Adam's Morgan. I was growing tired of it. Little did I know that he decided to kill two birds (or possibly three) with one night of drinking. He decided to take me somewhere I've never been (which is hard to do for a girl that's lived in DC for her entire life), (2) take me somewhere that would change my mind about AdMo and (3) take me to a place that he really liked and spent a lot of his time so that I could learn and experience something about him. Where did he take me then?

He took me to Bourbon. What a smart, smart man he is ain't he? In case you hadn't noticed, my name is Toddy. Bourbon, Toddy. And I'm not some girl that thinks it's cool to say I like Bourbon. No, no, I could suck a bottle of Maker's down like it was my bottle. Hold the nog, heavy on the bourbon. Woodford Reserve me baby, I'm done. Or just getting started...

Bourbon has an extensive collection of...shockingly enough...BOURBON!!!! And bourbon wasn't the only thing waiting for me at this bar, but several of Mr. U's "couple friends." Yes ladies and gents, it was only the third date, but I had found myself in the be approved by the friends zone. Deep breath girl. Deep breath.

But all my anxiety was unfounded. Before I knew it, I was in the center of the girls. Asking them questions and talking about the boys like we were in 6th grade passing notes and writing our initials in hearts on our pink binders. Occasionally Mr. U or the other beaus would come over to check on us. We would squeal and insist, "Get out of here. We're talking about you." They'd say, "I bet you are," and duck away. The men over there talking about who knows what. Me and the girlfriends, talking about what color one was painting the apartment she and her boyfriend just bought and moved into in their dining room. The only other time the men bothered us was to bring us drinks, then quickly dart away. Now to be fair, they were clearly escaping the insanity of female conversation. But on the other hand, that "checking in," that hand on the back, that bringing me another drink without asking. I felt taken care of. And I felt like I was in a group of men who deeply cared about the women they were with. Beyond sex. Beyond status symbols. It was like being in a room full of Unicorns.

Oh my god, I thought to myself in a bar full of noise and dark lights and shuffling. I've been doing it all wrong. I've been with the wrong crowd - these - are my people. It's not that I don't like the friends I've met and those I've interacted with in the last year. But they go clubbing. They troll for sex. They make out on the dance floor with complete strangers. They go home with complete strangers. And they eat chicken fingers every damn day and chug pitchers of Miller Lite - out of the god damn pitcher. Every. god. damn. day. I'm not saying there is anything wrong with this choice. There isn't. But I like chicken fingers on Saturday. Filet mignon on Sunday. I like a good bourbon and I like a craft-brewed beer. I like my life filled with beauty and experiences and culture, not just good ol' American debauchery. Because why the hell not? I had to get out of the revolving door of my friends who were 30 going on 21 and start spending some time with some 26-30 year olds who were going on 35. I needed some more "couple friends." But first, I needed to be in a "couple."

Now if you aren't too pissed at me for my last few paragraphs of sentiment, I would tell you that the couples went next door to Peyote to sing karaoke. For the first time in the entire night, I took control of my own fate. "We'll meet you there shortly," I said, "we're gonna get one more round here."

"What's up?" Mr. U said, when the rest of the crowd had dispersed. "I just wanted you to myself again," I told him. We kissed a little bit and got another round. The truth is, I absolutely abhor PDA but somehow with Mr. U I just can't stop myself. My embarrassment is overcome by my need to be as close to him as possible.

Mr. U took me up the stairs. Apparently Bourbon is a series of bars, one on top of the other. The bourbon was taking its intended affect and so I couldn't tell you whether they are different bars or the same bar with levels. We went to the very top bar where a crowd of drunken revelers were dancing in a circle. We found a couch in the corner and proceeded to make out with reckless abandon.

Eventually, I stopped him. "I'm not just some girl," I said. "I'm not just some girl you met in a bar, you know." "I know it," he said. And then we had a talk that I neither intended nor even now agree with. It was too soon for me to stake my claim on him or him on me, but somehow we agreed not to see other people. He was sort of seeing some other women. I had sort of been seeing some other guys. "But I don't wanna see anybody but you," he said. "I don't wanna see anyone but you either," I said. "So we won't then," he decided. "So we won't then," I agreed.

"But I'm not going to sleep you for awhile," I continued.

That single statement ignited a conversation that made me blush in the unlit corner and that I still feel burning my cheeks as I type these words. And no, just like the lie that I told Mr. U and came clean about over dinner, I'm not going to tell you about this either. Suffice to say, being in a serious, committed relationship were my terms. And not just a serious, committed relationship in theory and in "words," lackadaisically spoken. We would actually have to be in one. He didn't have to prove it to me, but we had to have proof of it. And he accepted the deal. I haven't always been that way. But it's the only way I've ever really and truly been satisfied with the outcome. And this man, wasn't one to go off-script with expecting the same results. I wanted to sleep with him. More than anything. But I wanted this to last. Even more, than more than anything.

We went and rejoined the others at Peyote next door and the karaoke warbling was in FULL swing. At sight of Mr. U's friend belting out their favorite tunes, I was able to have a couple of beers and finally let my guard down. I danced and sang with the best of them and let my freak flag fly. This night wouldn't let me down. It belonged to me.

Mr. Unicorn sang more than once. And he was terrible. I mean awfully and truly terrible. I think part of him knows he is bad, but part of him still thinks he is awesomely good. And the dancing. Oh the dancing. Dear god the dancing. He does this thing, where he turns out his toes and he shakes his shoulders. Dear. God. Despite the horror, it's also completely endearing and adorable and a kind of confidence that can only be described as utterly sexy.

The night had been a complete success and the lot of us tumbled out onto the shivery sidewalk to bid our goodbyes.

"You know you could come home with me," he said. "I just want to be with you, just keep spending time with you. I heard what you said and I respect it. This thing of ours, we have time for all of that. But this night is ours. Let's see it through."

I stood on the curb, the cold hurrying my thought process. I wanted to be with him too, but I knew I should just go home. That's what nice girls do on a second and third date. That's what I had planned to do on this date too. And shouldn't he, as perfect a unicorn as he was, not try to get me to go home with him this early on? Shouldn't he be insisting I get in a cab, just like he always insists on never letting me pay?

A cab pulled over and he held open the door for me. I slided in across the seat and stared back up at him having made my decision.

To be continued...

T.