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I generally prefer slight, nerdy men whom I could easily take in a fight, but I wasn’t going to miss what would surely be my only chance to hook up with Captain America en Fuego.I had my first, real dinner-and-a-movie date in Alaska with a sweet man I met at the bookstore.I didn’t mind floating around a little stoned, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to talk about flooring for more than 60 days.
I didn’t date at all in high school; in my revisionist history I’ve decided this was by choice, but the reality was that a six-foot-tall black girl in a predominantly white town who shaves her head, wears a skirt made out of ties, and uses black eyeliner as lipstick isn’t really racking up the offers.
He had thick black hair and tattoos that made it look like robot parts were embedded under his skin instead of a skeleton; he frequently told me that he was used to dating girls who wore a lot of makeup, and it was nice that I looked the same way waking up as I did falling asleep, since I don’t wear any.
I worked in a used bookstore, which was a petri dish of makeups, breakups, hookups, and that one customer who looked like Robert Goulet and always hung out near the Left Behind series.
I was also the hostess at a pizza place, which was a breeding ground for sexual harassment from inebriated customers trying to cop a feel on their way from the bathroom back to the table where their wife and kids were sitting.
Once, on a fishing trip with some friends, I met one of those firefighters who parachutes into fires from an airplane.
I worked too much to even consider dating when I moved back to New York, aside from a few great make-out sessions in the local Irish pub at closing time.