A New “Something”: Dating a Montreal Comic

 

[dropcap]I[/dropcap] started this new website because I wanted to branch out from blogging solely about sex and dating because I have some bullshit ego that actually thinks I might have some important things to say that involve more than how I like to get fucked and the idiots who never get the chance to use this information and I needed a new place to do that.  But, that doesn’t mean I don’t still want to write about sex and dating, because I definitely do.  The problem is that it turns out it’s a bit hard (pun always intended) to get back in the fucking…swing of things.

Turns out, if you take a year off and rarely date, that you get a bit out of touch with sharing certain vulnerable bits about yourself.  Especially, when SPOILER ALERT: that shit is embarrassing

But enough of my insecurities and awkwardness – because I’m here right – so, obviously, I’m still planning to write and share and do this thing and mostly just hope you don’t find me tedious and boring.  And with that, let’s get to it…

 

The Comic

It was late August, and I had been living in Montreal for a few weeks.  The first week sucked as I tried to find an apartment.  The second week was so so as I tried to fill my new tiny apartment with furniture without having a car, family or friends to help transport.  And the third week was – well – you can read about it HERE from the very beginning.  Needless to say, things in Montreal seemed to really be working out.

So, the comic.  I’m not sure how we found each other.  (that’s a total lie, I’m basically the KGB and reverse engineered our meeting like a fucking pro – long story short, I saw his profile in tiny form on an acquaintances Facebook page, saw that he was a comic HURRAH! and that he lived in Montreal HURRAH! (A LOCAL MONTREAL COMIC!!) and then I looked for him on Twitter and there he was HURRAH!  The logic was that following someone on Twitter = normal, adding a stranger on Facebook = weird, and we all know I like to keep my weird to myself…well…and you guys).

Almost as soon as I followed him he started talking to me.  Nothing epic, just ya know hey, how’s it going, so I see you followed me on Twitter, etc.

Disclaimer:  I waited a year to write this so while some things are imprinted on my memory like hot iron to an ass cheek, other details are a little fuzzier, so conversations may be a little weaker than normal due to recollection limitations (ie. I’m getting old and forgetty).

We DMed for a bit.  Then somehow the talk switched to Facebook and him wanting to know what I looked like (I was still anonymous back then).  I did my usual spiel of so um I’m fat but sure if you want to see and we added each other to Facebook.  He came back with something along the lines of 

You look like you’re someone that would be great to cuddle with

I took this, of course, to mean that you look huge and cuddly and like someone I’d want to watch a non-sexual movie with and then braid each other’s hair.

Apparently though, that’s not what he meant.  While I think of cuddling as sweetness and comfort, to some people it’s more like foreplay, the thing that leads to sex and thus, very much, has sexual connotations.  Who the fuck knew?!?

We messaged back and forth for awhile (just because I thought he wanted to be buddies wasn’t a reason to stop chatting.  This was a new city, where I knew no one, I certainly wasn’t in the position to be tossing potential friends to the wayside, particularly friends in the “making people laugh” business – what are you, nuts?!?!).

And then, he invited me to a show.

It was kind of last minute and I already had plans to workout (I had already lost nearly 20lbs. since moving to Montreal), so I told him I’d be there but I’d probably be a bit late.

*skip to a couple hours later*

I show up to the address, walk in the building and find a practically empty bar.  Luckily the bartender is paying attention and motions me upstairs for the comedy club (Comedy Works).  I can hear laughter coming from inside and do my very best to open the door as silently as possible.  Once inside, I look around, and the place is fucking packed to the gills (bearing in mind it’s a small place, it’s dark as fuck, and I’m all nervous and awkward), so I just kind of stand in the back, plus I don’t really want to draw attention to myself by scrounging around for a seat when someone is performing onstage.

And then I see it, it’s him, the comic I’ve come to meet.

His act is pretty funny, a tad feminine for my taste but regardless, up there under the lights commanding the show he looks pretty good.  Out of the corner of my eye I spot one bar stool.  One singular tiny little bar stool, wedged between two grown men.  It appears to be the only seat in the room, and it’s calling out to me.

When the Comic (who I now realize is hosting the show) steps off the stage, I see this as my chance to dart across the room and snag this stool.  I quietly ask the two men if anyone is using the stool and could I steal it away from them.  Instead, though, one of the men jumps up to give me his seat (enchante).  

I accept, and sit down.  I assume he’s just being kind and that this will be the end of the exchange.  It is not, however.  He continues to talk to me, asks me questions.  Honestly, I don’t remember most of what was said, just that it was all harmlessly but definitely flirty.

The next comic goes up and the show goes on with the laughter caused from stage and the flirting caused by the man to my side.  Until, of course, the knight turns out to be the headliner and heads up to the stage.  Well ain’t that some shit!?!?

Around this time is when my comic, the one I had come to see, spotted me and came over for a chat.  I was expecting a new friend but lo and behold before I had enough time to bat my incredibly short eyelashes, his arm was sliding around my waist and hugs and a lot of close standing ensued.

It was around this time that the whole cuddling-misunderstanding started to dawn on me.

The next part of the night is a bit of a blur (and I’m doing my best not to make this story drag on forever – like you know I tend to do).  The show is over, he helps clean up the place, I make friends with other comics (so much so that later people think that I’ve come as a friend of one of them).  A little while later we all go downstairs to have a drink at the bar.  The comic informs me that his friend drove him (and that he lives in the ‘burbs) but if I wanted to stay and hang out he’d dash home and get his car and come right back).

At the time my thought process went like this…

Good…he obviously thought he might have to have an excuse to bail out and now doesn’t want one

Bad…how broke is he that he can’t take a cab home one time because of a sexy lady?

Goodlook at me going out by myself (sort of) in Montreal…life is fun…be a good spirit…smile…weee!!!

Bad…show some fucking forethought man. damn. bring your own car and don’t make excuses if I was lame.

Good…he invited me out, he made me laugh, his friends are lovely and think I’m fucking lovely, hurray.

Bad…how long does it take to get to the ‘burbs and back

 

The good won in my head and I said sure.  After all, I was busy making friends with the other comics, a lovely and interesting girl and the headliner (who as it turns out is married and thus felt he could safely tell me that I’m absolutely beautiful and while I don’t trust his judgment, truth or not who doesn’t have a good night when someone goes out of their way to publicly announce you’re beauty? I mean that’s some ‘night-making’ shit right there.

Because of construction, it took the comic longer than he had hoped to get back to me but get back he did.  We stayed at the bar a bit longer and then headed to his car, in order to go to a second location.  And before anyone gets all ON THE FIRST DATE?!?! and IS THAT SAFE?!?!  I assure you, unless he had a gun, I could take him and thus my safety was never in peril.

We discussed going for food but I wasn’t really that interested in eating and he didn’t seem to have any especially great places jump to mind (which I honestly found a bit weird – isn’t Montreal supposed to have amazing food and be the Canadian city that never sleeps?!?!).  Eventually, he suggested we go to Old Port (vieux port) or Old Montreal (vieux Montreal) or more specifically to the part we went to…the docks.

 

To Be Continued…

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Victoria Young

Writer. Dater. Masturbator. Stop ruining my jokes by believing the self-deprecation. I am far greater than your boner will ever know.