“Do you want to try again?” he asked me, gently but firmly. It was more a request than a question, really.
I laughed uneasily. “Yes,” I replied. And I meant it. I wanted to try again.
We were about 30 minutes into our first date at Small Wonder, and I had known that I liked Andrés immediately. He oozed confidence—the kind of confidence that comes from always being your mother’s favorite. He was smooth—the kind of smooth that is unique to Latino men. He smiled broadly, laughed loudly, and jumped willingly into deep conversation.
He had just asked me about the things I wanted to change about myself, my behavior. He wanted to know about the “shit” I had been working through. And, although I consistently plead for this level of interaction and connection with others, I was totally caught off guard by this question from this relative stranger. A stranger who I, strangely, already knew I wanted to date. Like, for sure.
I stumbled, but not because I had no answers to the question. After all, I had spent more than enough time considering and re-considering all of the flaws I saw in myself. I stumbled because I wasn’t sure what Andrés would be interested in hearing. Which of my flaws would be too much to hear about on a first date? Which disclosures would prompt rejection?
Perhaps that was truly my greatest flaw at the time. That I was so consumed by others’ perceptions of me that I morphed into whatever form I believed they would desire.
Perhaps Andrés saw this. “Do you want to try again?”
And so I tried. Again. And I was more honest in that second attempt. And I would continue to be more and more honest in subsequent attempts, recognizing that Andrés was receptive. And realizing that, if ever he reacted with disgust, then maybe we just wouldn’t be compatible.
I finished my sentence, and my eyes returned to his. I felt seen, uncomfortable.
“What are you thinking?” I asked him.
“I’m wondering why I haven’t kissed you yet.” He leaned out of his chair, towards me, and pressed his lips firmly against mine.
The joy and excitement I felt in that moment, and in the days, weeks, and months that followed as I continued getting to know Andrés, matched the fear I had felt in removing my guard and exposing the dark, icky, shameful side of me that night.
This is no coincidence.
