So it’s the summer of 1978. I had broken up with my boyfriend of four years and had set sail on the rough waters of dating. Little did I know that I would be bouncing around in this boat for the next five years before my next serious relationship. Let’s just say I was not so good at the whole dating thing. The next five years would be like trying to sail around the world in a dingy, with spots of bad weather.
Although I would not be 21 until November, that posed no problemo as I of course had a fake ID. The first tool to hanging out in bars, the best place to meet guys, or so we all thought at the time.
In the suburb where I graduated from high school, the hangouts were mostly restaurants with either live band bars attached, or little mini discos. Months later, I would venture the 40 mile stretch of the 101 and go out in LA proper. But I started off small potatoes with my high school friends.
So one night we were at one of the mini discos and this totally hot guy was there. He looked like a younger, more accessible version of Gino Vannelli and I had a crush on Gino Vannelli (he had come in to where I worked one night).
Stop judging me. It was 1978 and I was 20.
My friends and I were doing the hair toss maneuver on an Olympic level. When hot guy looked over to check us out, he and I made eye contact.
Oh yeah baby, he walked right over and asked me to dance smack dab in front of my friends.
Me. The Rookie who had not dated since 11th grade. Who was making my debut in the bar circuit.
Looks can be deceiving. And not always in a “your hot and handsome but a total dickwad” genre.
In retrospect, my friends (who had been hitting the bars for months) probably set me up. I actually just thought of this now while writing.
Anywhos, Mr. Totally Hot and I hit the dance floor and he danced like a geek from Mars. Or Planet Erkel. He was a misguided, bizarre version of John Travolta in Saturday Night Fever. And he kept pointing at me. Even SINGING TO ME. LOUD. The song was Rick James “Superfreak.”
He had both hands pointed in my direction, was dramatically nodding his head yes, was singing at me, and the crème de la crème, he was coming at me in crotch first jerks and jolts.
My friends were laughing their asses off.
You would think that would be the end of the story. But I actually gave him my number. He was that hot looking. Or I was that desperate (stupid).
I threw the whole weird disco boy out my mind’s back door and gave him a second chance. We made a dinner date for The Hungry Hunter. The “in” steak house.
But he was worse at conversation than he had been at dancing. He tried too hard. He never got the point. He laughed at all the wrong places. Was way too loud.
The poor guy was a complete dork trapped in a hot guy’s face and body. It was one of the most surreal dates I have ever had. He was clueless, but he did try. He was a nice little weirdo in a Rock Star’s form.
After dinner we went to the bar to listen to the band. I was such an ass. I figured that the music was so loud I wouldn’t have to try and keep up an awkward conversation, but could just enjoy sitting there and looking at him (note: be seen with him).
But he leaned across the table and shouted the whole time. He sprayed my face trying to be heard. It was the Niagara Falls coming at me.
He excused himself to go to the bathroom and while he was there another hot guy came up and asked me for my number. This guy was the arrogant SOB I deserved and I was just handing him my phone number when my date returned to the table.
Ack. He looked so wounded. I’ve probably paid for it in blood karma 10 times over.
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