A Lesson Learned

Out of sheer loneliness, I gave in to The Undertaker...he was so persistent...and accepted his invitation to dinner. Since I'm trying to save money for my surgery, it's been a while since I went out for a nice meal. But I questioned his motives. (With the hormones, I find I am sort of paranoid at times...) After all, I am 6'3" and The Undertaker is Lilliputian (and bald, as you may recall). So where could this possibly go? But I was lonely and hungry, so I said yes, let's go.

Let me tell you, folks, there was something very different about the diminutive Undertaker this time, and I didn't like it...didn't like it at all. He pulled up to the curb in his black Lincoln Towncar, and when he got out, I saw he was wearing a black toupee and had lifts in his loafers. The wig looked ludicrous, and I felt embarrassed when I saw him approach . I wanted to get out of it, but a deal is a deal, so....I opened the door when he knocked, and we got into the Towncar and drove to Seven Stars for dinner.

The food was terrific (!) and in huge amounts. I had a colossal slab of prime rib, medium well, mashed potatoes with gravy and a big amount of steamed broccoli, not too firm--just right. The au jus gravy was a little too watery and the meat kind of fatty, but it tasted wonderful. The mashed potatoes were real (even had lumps in them). The meat was not too chewy--just the way I like it. The Undertaker ordered fried shrimp, which were jumbo in size and looked pretty good. He must not have liked them because he ate only two. I would have eaten the rest--and really wanted to--but I swore off fried foods because I'm trying to watch my new figure.

Possibly he was miffed because I ordered the most expensive thing on the menu. He had a mean look on his face throughout the meal. But I didn't care. I just wanted to eat. As soon as I finished the main course, I asked if I could order a second...he looked stunned but then I told him I was only kidding, and he looked relieved and passed gas so loudly and with so much force that the elderly couple next to us shook and coughed to conceal their laughter. Everyone had been staring at us throughout the meal anyway because of the ridiculous rug, but when the Epic Fart came, well, you can imagine....I wanted to crawl under the table.

Like most men--including me once--The Undertaker drank copiously before and during dinner. He continued drinking while I plowed through my tremendous slab of seven-layer chocolate cake, which was to die for. The more bottles of beer he drank, the more I wanted to eat. I couldn't stop eating. I wanted more. He drank. I ate. I felt no shame. I had a second piece of cake, and I wanted a third....

When the bill finally arrived, I was spent. I burped, I passed gas, I slumped over the table in exhaustion. After a while, I sat up and announced, "I gotta take a piss" and disappeared. I almost went into the men's room. (Old habits die hard.) I ended up in the ladies' room but stood up in a stall to pee. Fuck it, I didn't feel like sitting, and there was no one else in there. As I washed my hands and carefully re-applied my lip liner, I realized with a shudder, that at some point during the meal, I had forgotten my gender and acted like a guy. Believe me when I tell you, that was a very scary thing. And of course I wondered if The Undertaker knew....

There was very little conversation in the Towncar on the way home. He pulled up to the curb in front of my building. I said "Thank you for dinner. I had a lovely time" and got out of his car. He pulled away from the curb like a bat out of hell. I was up all night with the runs. All in all, not a very good night.

I should have known better. The old me would go out with practically anyone because a date implied the possibility of getting laid. Sigh. In the future, no matter how lonely or hungry I am, I cannot go out on dates with any man unless I am seriously interested in pursuing a meaningful long-term relationship with him.