Adventures In Dating VI: Baconalia Est Morte

I started to freak the fuck out as soon as he said it. I had no response.

“You just fucked a sixteen year old!” My friend made a fist and smashed it into our table so hard it nearly knocked over my whiskey.

“N-n-no I didn’t,” I said weakly.

“Then how old is she!?” He demanded to know.

“I don’t know! I never asked her about it!” Thoughts began to swirl inside my head. I tried my best to recall conversations, little bits of information that she might have let slip that could help me determine her age. I shouldn’t have been so wrapped up in the naked photos she sent me or her stupid earrings and fake eyelashes. I should have been piecing together clues. Maybe I should have listened harder when she spoke. I wanted desperately to come up with concrete evidence that might refute the accusation about which my friends were now devilishly laughing. I was blank. For the rest of the night — for the rest of the week — every conversation I had with someone in my close circle of friends included at least one cheap shot about “the sixteen year old.”

Don’t get me wrong — when she texted me a couple days later asking if I wanted to see her again I couldn’t turn down the invitation. She fired off a text saying not to worry, her parents weren’t home. I had no immediate reaction because I didn’t know whether to cheer or cringe.

The night after our second session I sought refuge in the company different friends. Friends who weren’t going to make me the butt of every joke. I met my former roommates for vegan food at Pure Luck. They asked about my whirlwind East Coast trip, so I shared stories, and then they asked how life back in Los Angeles was treating me. I decided to do my best to retell the story for them. I wanted to make sure I told it accurately. I needed fresh ears to help determine whether the response I got from everyone else was valid or not. I gave them a detailed walkthrough, from running at the Reservoir to the first sexual encounter. Before I even got to the conversation at the bar — the supposed punchline of this story — my friend asked, “Uh…Ev, how old is this girl?” and I could say nothing more to her than, “See…here’s the thing…”

My friend started freaking out and laughing at me. I might have blushed. Was this going to be a typical response whenever I shared the story? Did everybody see this coming except for me? At the very least my friend offered some assistance.

“Where did you say she lives?”

“It’s in Burbank or whatever is right next to Burbank,” I offered. “It’s a few miles away from where the IKEA and the In-N-Out are…it’s one of those surrounding neighborhoods.”

She reached for her phone and began calling up websites. Her fiance smiled and nodded as if to say “Well done.” Her next question was on what day did we originally meet. I told her I couldn’t remember exactly, but it was maybe the third week of March? She spent maybe thirty more seconds looking at her phone before she started to chuckle.

“The Burbank school district’s website mentions high school Spring Break starting on the 15th. So if it was within a week it makes sense that she could be out running on a weekday.”

I couldn’t remember the exact day. Jesus, was it before or after the breakup? Fuck. I had no idea. It was definitely within a few days of that…but my memory of the surrounding events is so shaky I still couldn’t be certain.

Maybe five days later I met some friends at a whiskey bar. They’d already heard the story secondhand so I didn’t have to bring them up to speed. One of them had the brilliant idea of flat-out asking Siena how old she was. I said I’d rather just never speak to her again. But as the night wore on more alcohol found its way into my system and I thought longer and harder about making contact. To make sure this was all a fucking joke. So I could rub it in the faces of my friends. I did not have sex with a sixteen year old. They’d already started to spread this gossip beyond our immediate circle. It was only a matter of time before others would hear and form opinions. I’d already started receiving comments on Facebook about it. It was getting out of hand. I needed to do something. I needed to end this. I reached for my phone and drafted a message for Siena.

“Are you 16 years old?”

It seemed like the perfect text message. It was short and to the point. And I was drunk. There was no room for misunderstanding, and if she called me an asshole I could just say I was kidding. Or I could say “Whoops, that was meant for someone else!” Just like the “Show me your tits, bitch!” story. I don’t know why I’d chosen to wait a week, but now I was definitely drunk enough to ask her the burning question without feeling ashamed. For the rest of the night, my phone sat on the table as we waited for a response. I received nothing.

The next day came and went and still I hadn’t heard from Siena. I dared not tell anyone else that I’d asked The Question. I was going to keep my mouth shut until I received a response.

Another day later a response came. It wasn’t really what I was hoping for.

“Do you mean am I 26?”

I quickly wrote back, “No. I meant 16.”

No response.

The next day I received this harrowing message: “I’m not going to worry about you. You don’t have to worry about me.”

Fuck.

Holy fuck.

What the fuck?

…the fucking fuck?

FUCK!

A month passed. An entire month of friends on both coasts taunting and making fun of me, asking if the cops had shown up at my door yet and sending me links to state sex laws, teeny bopper magazines and Disney starlet music videos. A full month.

Two or three weeks ago I was up in Studio City watching a Bruins game and she texted me. She said she thought I didn’t want to kick it with her anymore. I said I figured she didn’t want to kick it with me, either. I lied. I was definitely not interested in kicking with her. I wanted nothing to do with her. I’d moved forward and accepted the fact that this was going to be one of those things that my friends could hold over me forever. It was a joke, a one-liner that could be brought up at any moment to embarrass me. She wrote back and said, “So would you want to get a margarita or something this week?”

“A margarita? But you’re sixteen years old,” I thought.

I responded by saying, “Okay, let’s get margaritas.” I didn’t dare tell my friends. I wanted visual confirmation of her ID card before I broke the news that this girl was old enough to drink. And, much more importantly, legally have sex with me. We made plans to meet at cozy little spot on Sunset called Mission Cantina. We set our date for Thursday night. I told myself that no matter what happened, even if she turned out to be 30 (ha!) this was going to be our last encounter. I mean…I wasn’t even into her. We had nothing in common, we looked like a fucking Sesame Street lesson on the differences between Caucasians and Latin Americans, and there are plenty of other freaky girls in this city if that’s what I was looking for.

On Thursday night I arrived at the bar early. I needed to get there first in case she ordered her drink before me. I found us a little cozy spit inside near the bar. She walked in wearing a red and white stripped halter top with denim short-shorts. Her eyelashes now had bright blue tips. Like, neon blue. Her hoop earrings were the size of my fists. I wanted to laugh when she walked into the bar.

She sat down and a waitress quickly stopped to take our drink order. When she asked for IDs I made sure to offer mine first. When Siena offered her ID I snatched it out of the waitress’s hand before she could get it back. I don’t know if she knew exactly why I’d grabbed it, but she appeared shocked that I took the card from her.

“Let’s see how bad your picture looks,” I lied. I scanned the card as quickly as I could for a date of birth. Since I still have a New Jersey driver’s license I didn’t know exactly where to look, but I didn’t want to hang onto the thing for too long so I started to slowly hand the ID back to her as I continued my search. I finally caught the little print. D.O.B was 1989. I did the math quickly in my head. She had to be either 21 or 22. Phew.

Phew…and also…shit. This date was decidedly less interesting now that I knew she was of age. Hell, the entire story wasn’t even that funny anymore. I shouldn’t have responded to her text message. I should have let myself go on believing that she was only 16. Now I had to go home and tell all my friends that I found out her real age, and the jokes would stop and we wouldn’t be able to laugh about it anymore. The news that I was now on a date with a girl who was of age made my margarita taste bland. I don’t know how, but it did.

With all the fun having been let out of our little tryst, I couldn’t be bothered to put much effort into the conversation. She got serious for a moment and talked about how she doesn’t have too many friends, and somehow we started talking about past relationships. She asked when my last one was so I broke the news that it had just ended a couple months ago, like…right around the time we had first met.

“Oh, my God — Evan, am I your rebound?” She asked greedily.

“Ha! No!” I almost shouted, before I realized how insensitive that sounded. “I mean, I saw other girls before I met you.”

Her resultant expression will always be remembered (well, until the next time…) as the most devastated look I have received since that time I drunkenly rejected an invitation up to a girl’s dorm room by saying I had to go home and take a shit.

Screw the moment of silence following the ID grab. From that moment on dinner was quiet. The conversation stuttered and there were some awkward silent passages. She only wanted one margarita so I felt weird ordering a second drink. I paid the bill because I’m a fucking gentleman. As we exited the bar I asked if she was going home or did she want to follow me to my place for a glass of wine. She made a face like she wasn’t so sure about that idea, but asked if we could drive around together for a few minutes. The statement confused me. We had met at the bar. She wanted to then cruise around for “a few minutes” and then wind up back at the valet to get her car back? I had no idea where she was going with this plan but said we could take my car.

I pulled away from Mission Cantina and headed east a few blocks on Sunset Boulevard. I turned and started to drive towards Santa Monica, then Melrose, then Beverly Boulevard. I turned again and drove towards the Wilshire Country Club and Hancock Park. I had no fucking idea where I was going or why. I hung a right and started driving through the neighborhood. After ten or fifteen minutes of circling around different side streets I pulled over and killed the engine. We had no plan. What the hell were we doing? Why? Neither of us had said a word and I was beginning to feel like I’d just kidnapped somebody.

Siena glanced at me from the passenger seat, smiled, and dove into my lap. It wasn’t a Hall-Of-Fame blowjob but she was serviceable. To be honest I couldn’t get into it because sitting in a parked car receiving oral sex in front of a stranger’s house reminded me too much of — irony alert! — being sixteen years old.

I didn’t have to (or really want to) return the favor so I started the car and drove back to the bar. She exited, we exchanged pleasantries (“I’ll be in touch!” “Ok, see you soon!”) but our tones both smacked of indifference. I knew — in fact I’m sure we both knew — there was no way either of us would be in touch. That farewell outside Mission Cantina was the last time I’ve seen or spoken to Siena.

Truly it was a unique experience. I haven’t really thought about it much since that night. I got her whole story and wasn’t looking to write myself into it. And by “got her whole story” I mean I found out her name, her age, and what kind of dirty talk she preferred. I don’t need to resort to calling a girl just to fulfill a need. I share the story and revel in the fact that it made for some good blog fodder. Thanks for all the e-mails and comments. I put myself into these situations partly because I want to make people laugh. Thanks for digging it.

I can’t predict when an Adventure In Dating is going to arise but once that first little glimmer of potential finds its way to me I can usually steer it towards a certain end. So stay tuned. There is more to come. This isn’t going to turn into some Tucker Max bullshit website, but more funny and awkward stories are currently being written. Like a pretentious film director waiting for just the right lighting conditions, when I find the best words to describe the joyous mess that is my personal life I will share them with you.

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