9 - The Hottie Professor

Hey, Teacher? I don't understand...

I excelled in school. I chose three tests at the beginning of all this, because I slay tests. Always have. From kindergarten to graduate school, I can count on my fingers the number of times I received a grade that wasn’t an “A”. I can also count on my fingers the number of boys I spoke to, which may explain some of my current awkwardness. Boys didn't like me, but my teachers loved me. So it makes sense that a teacher would pique my interest just a bit.

The Hottie Professor taught political science at a local community college. He was super cute, despite his male-pattern baldness. I used to have a very close friend who was balding prematurely, which sucked because he was already kind of ugly. This homely friend wore a hat everyday and...abracadabra! I would forget about his affliction until he took his hat off. Then I’d just casually avert my eyes. No hair, don't care. Nothing a hat can’t fix, especially since Hottie Professor was so cute.

He and I bonded because we both liked to dance and write. He actually hosted an open mic night poetry slam in Deep Ellum most Thursday nights. We’d talk choreography and send our favorites dance videos to each other, with plans to dance battle in person. He sent me a couple of his spoken word poems, with plans for me to attend one of his performances.

So many plans; so little execution. See, homefry would hint at taking me on a date and he’d joke about asking me out, but he was frustratingly trigger shy. He acted like he was a recovering high school nerd, too. He probably didn't have a date to prom either. Us two former nerds texted for nearly three weeks with no move from him, just plans. He professed theory, not practical application. His behavior utterly confused me. One night we’re texting and the following ensues:

He sends, “I’m looking forward to meeting you in person.”

“Me, too!,” I text back.

Then he sends me a grin emoji.

Wtf, bro. I can’t anymore, so I just asked him out. “How about drinks Friday?”

“Sounds great. I can’t wait,” he replies.

Sigh. Is this what it's like to have a penis? I better be able to parallel park now.

Friday arrives and we meet up at the bar near my place with the pineapple Moscow Mule. Third time’s a charm, right? Since I’m actually into him, I spice up the dress rotation with a slinky black maxi. I also didn’t eat that day, so it’d be a waste not to wear something a bit anorexic.

I walk in and see him sitting at my favorite booth near the window. I’m even more schoolgirl giddy at the sight. Obviously this must be a sign, right?

He stands to hug me, “Wow,” he compliments, “you look gorgeous.”

“Thank you,” I reply, trying not to faint from the sheer pleasure that entered my senses when we hugged. He smelled amazing. He smelled like the Spurs winning the playoffs, like babies laughing.

His receding hairline was a bit more prominent than it looked in pictures, but I’m sure he was thinking the same about my big forehead. Regardless, he was still cute. I’m not usually a fan of blue eyes, but his were the rich blue of a summer sky nearing twilight. I could tell he worked out through his yellow shirt, but he wasn’t overly muscular. He had a nice tan and his teeth looked like his parents loved him when he was a child.

We order drinks and chat. He’d visited in Paris a few months back and speaks some of what he picked up while there, of which I only caught 4 French phrases - je t’aime, vous êtes jolie, merci beaucoup, and s'il vous plaît. I was listening for “croissant”, but that one didn’t make the list.

With a nice transition comparing Le Pen to Trump, he shifts to his favorite topic: politics. He’s clearly in his element. It’s great, but every few minutes he gets really awkward and says something random about how pretty I am.

Now, readers, I am a vain, vain woman. I’ve spent almost as much money on my appearance in the past year alone as some people spent on a new car. Not a Lexus or a baby Beemer, but definitely a Toyota Yaris or Ford Fiesta. My bank statement basically lists Chick-Fil-A and vanity: custom facials, gym memberships, makeup, teeth whitening, facial threading, body waxing, extensions, manicures, Invisalign, personal training sessions, body wraps, waist trainers, Lasik, etc. Considering the effort I put into my deception, I appreciate a compliment or two. But my date was doing a bit much.

“Trump’s rhetoric doesn’t address a lot of what American’s face. Man, you have great lips.”

Oh, thank you, I eat with them…

“…but voter registration has been historically used as a scare tactic. You have pretty cheekbones. I like how they pop when you smile.”

Thanks, but wait...it’s not scary...it’s a smile, not a snarl…

“Our judicial system is fundamentally racist and classist. I could stare into your eyes all day. They are beautiful.”

Wait, are we still talking mass incarceration bro? My eyes should not make you think of prison cells…

Eventually I joke, “Thanks, I put on a ton of make up hoping to trick you” (not a joke, actually).

“Nah, you’re a natural beauty. I can tell you don’t need it,” he flatters.

Bro. Do you even know the power of makeup? Go somewhere.

Yes, the Hottie Professor was oddly over complimentary, but he was still winning.  

To my delight, Test 1 was a success as well. He paid the check while I was in the bathroom dabbing grease off of my face, trying to keep up the painted facade with which he was so clearly obsessed.

We’re there for nearly 3 hours, and I would have loved to smell him for longer, but I had to pack for a flight the next day. He walks me to my car. “I’ll text you tomorrow,” he says before enveloping me in the glory of his cologne with a goodbye hug.

“You better,” I tease playfully, the scent of princess cut diamonds and white lace lingering in the air.

Test 1: Passed

Test 2: Yes, please. He's odd, but I like it.

Verdict: I’m still confused. He texted me the next day, “Good morning beautiful.” He texted me a couple days after that, “Hey pretty lady.” He texted the week following, “Hi, gorgeous, how’s it going.” He finally asked to meet up again on a night I was going to be out of town. I suggested a different night, but he had the poetry slam. The end. Homeboy gave up after that. He’ll still text an empty compliment here and there and he'll do that hinting thing, but he has yet to actually ask me on a second date again. I bet he’s still waiting for me to do it...nope...I’ve retired my penis ways. It’s on you, buddy.

So nine dates in, I decided it might make sense to take a break from the app. I was still talking to the film star, the secret agent and the genius. I resolved to go on those last few dates and then I was throwing in the towel. So, stay tuned.

Click for Date 10 - Abe Lincoln