The Best Time I Watched TED Talks as Foreplay

by Matthew L.

I’m a baby when it comes to dating. Just coming off of a long-term relationship with a live-in boyfriend, I hadn’t been on a first date in a half-decade. I’m in my mid-20s and, as of last month (when the ex departed), was ready to dip my feet back into the gay dating pool.

Early last week, I attended a magazine party and met a gent pretty much my opposite (color me boyish and relatively clean cut). I played it bold, and said the only thing I could think of as an opening line: “Can I bum a cigarette?” He went out of his way to ask the bartender for one (because he doesn’t smoke), we went outside and began chatting. Later, he walked me home. We traded numbers, and the next day, he asked me to happy hour on Friday.

The day before our meet-up, I get a text saying that he invited some of his friends to come with us. Should have been the first warning sign, but I pretty much just wanted to get laid and would have put up with anything at this point for that. He picks the place — a scene-y gay bar, which isn’t really my thing — yet I confirm I’ll be there. Oh, young love.

I arrive late, as does he. My date proceeds to get very drunk, very fast. Our time is limited to me watching this circle of friends joke about hooking up with one another and how I look like I’m 19 years old. I stand there silently. He finally asks me inside for one-on-one time and then proceeds to unload on me about his take on the “situation.”

“I wanted to throw you into the deep end,” he says. “I wanted to see how you’d do with my friends. Someone had a date come by to hang with us once, and they got freaked out.” I nodded. Meanwhile, my inner monologue is in full tilt. He proceeds to tell me that “whatever this is,” he feels incapable. It’s just that he likes to be a provider and used to make six figures. Now, it’s “just above $30,000.” Minutes later, he kisses me. I reciprocate, because, again, as long as we’re bed-bound, I’m pretty much going to put up with anything. Self-respect!

We return outside and he then disappears for a half-hour. I think nothing of it, because hey, I’m low maintenance, and he returns wearing a different shirt. Apparently, he went home to change? I didn’t ask why, because my give-a-fuck-o-meter is in the negative. We leave and he invites me back to his apartment. I’m thinking, Okay. I can get my groove all the way back now, and then cut this off like a bad habit. We enter his apartment and he asks me to shower with him. I say, “Nope!” and instead make us drinks. Sorry, but I’ve showered with others before and it just turns into a nightmare. Water spurting up your nose, shifting around uncomfortably — I’m the Woody Allen of taking showers, by the way. I just can’t with another body.

So he decides he will shower solo. I plop down on his bed, expecting him to put on some Marvin Gaye or at least some Roberta Flack. In my mind, first-date foreplay involves lavender-scented candles, glasses of rare Chianti and silk window curtains that billow in the wind. Only, no. This man fumbles for his remote, flicks on the television, scrolls through his On-Demand and settles on the only reasonable mood-setter: TED Talks.

I’ve watched TED Talks before, but not many. I certainly need to be in the right state of mind to watch one. Before I could protest, he cues up the J.J. Abrams talk. I have no interest. I whip out my phone and text some friends, getting them up to speed on how the night has unfolded. He returns from the bathroom and puts on just underwear and climbs into bed next to me. My body is ready. He pays this no mind. Instead, he asks, “What did you think of this TED Talk?” Before I could answer, he says, “I’m going to put on another TED Talk that changed my life.”

And he does. This time, a brilliant neurologist who describes what it was like for her to suffer a stroke delivers it. I am immediately enthralled. She is describing this poetically. At this point in the night, this to me is like the Meryl Streep Oscar acceptance speech of TED Talks. Ten minutes later, I turn to this man and excitedly yelp, “This is the best thing ever!” There is no response. For, he is asleep.

And he continues to sleep. This man, who I should mention is 10 years older than me, passed out on me. So I do what any other person would do: I sit there on the bed and watch that TED Talk straight to the end. And since morning sex seemed like a reasonable expectation, I turn off the light, tuck him in and fall asleep.

Come the morning, he wakes up and apologizes for passing out. And for snoring. Which is what he does when he’s had too much to drink, apparently. The three hours of sleep I got thank him. He gets dressed, and all hope of morning sex is erased as quickly as is takes for him to throw on pants. He offers to walk me back to my apartment. He does, and we essentially move in silence. He doesn’t seem to have much of an interest. He hugs me goodbye — never mind the fact that we tonsil hockeyed (do people still say that?) — and I leave him with the words, “Text me.” I don’t really mean it. He knows that. I go back to my apartment, pop open my computer and the first thing I do is bookmark TED.com on my browser. Because after a five-year hiatus from dating, this is apparently what foreplay yields in 2012.

Matthew is a 20-something boy who’s lookin’ for his own peace of mind. Don’t assign him yours.