Camera! Action!
Should I have taken it as a bad sign that after my last date, I woke up feeling all rainy day sickly? (Lots of sucking face like two horn-dogged teenagers in the back of the bus on their way home from the school ski trip wouldn't give one a sore throat, would it?)
I'll call him Photo Jim because he's a photographer, though his real name is neither Photo nor Jim. He gives good hug and shares my eternal appreciation for "Sixteen Candles."
Hours of talking and drinking -- there's no gentle way to say this -- led to a joint trip to the bar bathroom where he layed a strong one on me before he could even lock the door. I grabbed him back, blindly dropping my denim shoulder bag somewhere on the tile floor in a puddle of what I hoped was only water.
Lips locked, Photo Jim gently guided my back to the wall. We stood pressed against eachother in a pile of discarded paper towels. Great Lakes is not known for its clean bathrooms, which made our lavatory loving so deliciously dirty. In one swift, easy motion he lifted me up off of my feet and wrapped my legs around his waist. Denim on denim, groping hands grabbing shirts and things under shirts, while a patron timidly knocked at the door.
Armed with his camera slung across his chest the courier way, Photo Jim backed up to photgraph me. Instinctively, I covered my eyes. "Come on," he said, "show your face." He stepped up onto the tank of the pot and shot me from above. The shutter clicked again and again with the quickness and he was saying photographerly things. "Oh, nice," he'd say and "turn your head this way" and then he thankfully came back down to make out with me again. And to think I only had two drinks.
At the end of the night he held out his arm for me in a gentlemanly fashion as we strolled up to my place. We stood on the front steps and kissed some more. We said goodnight and I walked in to my building already questioning how I felt about him and the date, already thinking that if I'm even compelled to go on one, the second date is always the make-or-breaker.
Then I remembered that in an attempt to take an innocent mug shot of my date since he'd taken so many pics of me, he coyly swiped my digital camera from my sweaty palm and stuffed it in his pocket or bag or whatever it was he had with him. It was like taking candy from a baby but the baby was too drunk to throw a tantrum over it. I then realized that I'd forgotten to get the candy back.
Lots of phone and email tag ensued over the following weeks while I worked myself into a tizzy thinking that Photo Jim done stolded the digicam that I never leave home without. Finally, he stopped by my place and my precious property was returned to me.
Maybe by that time I was so focused on what I thought I'd lost that I was less interested in the person who had it. More likely I was revisited by the Curse of The Second Date. ...Or maybe the Drunk On A First Date Impairs Judgement Curse is more accurate. Either way, another date I'm not all that interested in. Of course, there's still the concern over semi-dirty pictures of me whoring it up in my local bar bathroom surfacing years from now and making Photo Jim a little bank. I'll totally sue for emotional distress.
The other funny thing is, the last time I saw my digital camera before my date unintentionally walked away with it, this picture of me was the only one on it. I discovered that Photo Jim left behind several souvenirs of where my camera had been. Evidently, my little cybershot saw even more action than Photo Jim did...
