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This story flips the column on its head. The sex came first. The awkwardness came a little later.
On our first three dates, he checked every box for a perfect Tinder hookup: shitty job at Barnes and Noble, singer (of opera, but I’m willing to extend the sexy musician card to him) and a Loyola boy, so the moodiness is on level 200. The first few dates go off without a hitch. He emphasizes his feminism and his deep resentment for his mother (excellent!). He is also an avid Felipe’s fan and mentioned the restaurant seven times within our first hour of meeting.
Despite the red flags, he’s hot and I’m horny. On date three, mid-diatribe on his unparalleled ability to project an Italian cabaletta, I decide it’s time to get down to business. True to his word, he knows how to project, and we put on a vocal show for my roommates, though I never came.
Flash forward a week, and I’m ready for round two. Opera improves more than a man’s vocal stamina, if you know what I mean. I text him for a Tarantino-and-Chill sesh, and of course he suggests we share some Felipe’s on the side. The night arrives, and we’re driving out to Felipe’s to pick up dinner before the movie. Distracted by the impending sexy times, I let him go to town on our order, and when I look up I see him piling on the beans, onions, jalapenos, sour cream … the man is building a mountain. I’m a little disconcerted, but I figure it’s nothing a stick of gum can’t fix. What do ya know, he forgets his wallet and doesn’t have any cash on hand! I suck it up — I’m not afraid to challenge the archaic rules of dating — and pull out my wallet.
We get back to his apartment and he sets the stage for a shared dinner à la Lady and the Tramp. Felipe’s is great, but sex is greater, so I’m picking at the food in favor of feeling him up. My date, on the other hand, is guzzling our plate like it’s his last meal on earth. I watch as the pickled onions and refried beans vanish at warp speed, washed down by a can of Natty Light. I questioning whether I can still kiss that mouth, but I squash my doubts for the sake of my libido.
Instead of watching the carnage ensuing on the dinner table, I focus on Samuel L. Jackson’s rat tail and try to pick up the plot of the movie we are watching. I’m just getting into it when I’m shaken in my seat by what must be a peal of thunder. I look out the window in concern, but there’s no sign of inclement weather. Weird. I turn back to the movie — Jackie Brown has just been caught with a bag of coke up her butt! — when another roar raises the hair on my arms.
Wide eyed, I turn to see him clear his throat after letting loose the most violent belch I have ever witnessed. This guy truly has been working on his vibrato. After 11 (I count) burps of increasing intensity and duration, I know I have to get out of there. I refuse to be the victim of one of these atrocities mid-coitus. I make my escape to the bathroom and text my girls, “EMERGENCY MUST EVACUATE IMMEDIATELY!!!” I emerge to see him lounging on the twin bed, shirt off, ready for action. I apologize for “that succulent I forgot to water at my friend’s niece’s house” and make my getaway.
This boy included every descriptor possible in his Tinder bio, but he failed to mention the gaseous monster only Felipe’s could release from within.
