“The how many’th first date is this?” I ponder this question, as I stand waiting in the main hall of Antwerp Central Station (which is a majestic place, no matter what my partner in written crime says). Since I discovered the notorious dating website Okcupid in the spring of 2012, I must have reached the triple digits some time ago. Even so, first dates have never ceased to be exciting. I am an adrenaline junkie, and nothing quite beats the feeling that builds up as you exchange messages, get to know each other, finally arrange a date and stand there waiting for what’s to come.
Of course, the problem with this is hyping the person up to be this fantasy like persona they can’t possible hope to match in real life. Still, as she meets my eyes, I cannot help but wonder whether she intentionally took bad photos just to have the element of surprise on her side. Gorgeous does not begin to describe her. I don’t know how she does it, but even though she is not someone I would turn my head around for if I saw her passing by on the street, this dame immediately has my full attentionShe strides besides me, larger than life itself, having little trouble to keep up with my quick pace. I have a good feeling about this.
I am not feeling any special tingles so far, the conversation is very pleasant. As I suspected, we have a 99% match on Okcupid for a reason. Although we mostly agree on the subjects we orally touch, which I usually find somewhat tedious because I prefer stylish debate to solemn concurring, she is articulate and enthusiastic. We talk about our views on feminists, we briefly touch on our other relationships and we even make it past the big hurdle, my veganism, relatively unscathed. As expected, the conversation quickly turns raunchy. This is the point where, to quote Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, “everything goes wrong”.
Belgian trappist beer has always been both one of the reasons for and the bane of my existence. See, I like to think I can hold my liquor better than most and while that may be true, even a pure-blooded Belgian, born and raised, meets his match when trying to tackle doubles and triples on an empty stomach. I have made a habit out of having a first meal at my computer at work, which sometimes puts me in an awkward position on Sundays as I find myself nearly famished around 3 PM. The sandwich we had a little earlier proves an ineffective dam against that much alcohol, and soon we both sink away in a blissful buzz.
The rest of the day is a bit blurry. We move to another terrace, and then another, having joyful conversation along the way. As I get more touchy, and she responds in kind, I know we are gonna behave like jackasses before this day is over. Nobody will ever call me prude, but even I would have looked up at some of the stuff we told each other, within earshot of dozens of innocent sun seekers, speaking louder than is socially acceptable. As we pinch each other for no reason other than being drunk and gropey a power struggle ensues, the kind I like most. It is a both a mental battle and physical. As we are both sadists, it is hard to tell right off the bat who will claim the spoils . Instead of either of us immediately deciding, we are more than willing giving each other some room to retort, like two men armwrestling and showing off their strength. In the end though, as her long fingers twist and grab the my hair by the root, I non-too-quietly submit to her.
As it gets later, and we both realize we still have to be somewhere, we begrudgingly pay the waiter who has been putting up with our unacceptable behaviour with a smile and we walk towards the station. Or rather, we think we do and get hopelessly lost. We stop so I can take a piss, only to be spotted by a security camera and in my drunken mind I already see a guard on the other end huffing, puffing and making his way to the parking to give me a beating. I shout “RUN FOR IT” and hilarity ensues. We are like characters on the Benny Hill show. As we round a corner we stop, gasping for air, laughing our asses off and trying to catch our breath.
As our eyes meet, we all the build-up tension releases and seconds later we are locked in a tight embrace. Her tongue eagerly finds mine and we dance a wild tango, my hand making its way down to find her crotch. Experience shows as I stroke her clit through the fabric of her pants, making her moan, as she makes in turn sends shivers down my spine by biting my neck. For a moment it seems like our destiny to fuck right there and then, until we hear a soft giggle.
I act ashamed, a stupid-looking grin on my face, not meeting the eyes of the people that were enjoying (?) our little spectacle. We start walking again and when we get back to the Groenplaats we can finally orient ourselves. You have to be truly hopeless or a tourist to not be able to find Central Station from here. Our stride along the Meir passes by without any acts outside confides of public decency, until we make it to an underpass. She drags me behind a pillar, not paying mind to the fact that we are hardly alone here. I do not have the heart to refuse her as she goes to her knees. As she unzips my pants, and I feel the warmth and softness of her mouth, the sweet feeling of her tongue and the experience she has doing this, my mind is racing. “It is the middle of the day! Well fuck, it’s the middle of a busy underpass! This could get us into deep shit”
“Aah fuck it, It’s worth it. And I don’t even live in this shitty country anymore.”
It’s over before we are over, but that is ok. Some anticipation for next time doesn’t hurt, especially given the hype our next encounter now holds. Before we met we were sitting at Spiderman 3 level, but now this is straight up final Harry Potter book. As I sit on the train home, I ponder a bunch of questions. When will I see here again? How much of a head ache will I have when I wake up in the morning? How many people saw her going to town on me? And how long am I gonna have to tell people I was ravaged by a particularly feral dog or a small tigress?
I hope this feeling lasts a while.