Loyal readers may recall my previous blog on the "best Craigslist ad ever." The link is no longer operational so I am going back to post the original text of the ad - go back and read it after you finish this as it puts it all in context. The ad was so truly unusual that yes, I did write back and we went out last night.
Frank is an IT guy at a big company. It would be unfair to compare him to Rick Moranis because he is better looking than that - so do me the favor of imagining an older, slightly taller more attractive version of him in his "Honey I Shrunk the Kids" era. But you get the picture.
I had to promise to just go along with whatever plans he had in store for us for the evening and he would not tell me what those plans were until we pulled into the parking lot of each activity for the evening. "Or we can just go to Starbucks and talk, and it will suck," he offered an alternative. But what fun is that?
"Bring your passport, closed-toe shoes and a full tank of gas," was all the information I received.
We drove an hour to Manchester and got off at the airport exit. "Can you fly a plane?" Frank asked. Um, no. "Neither can I so I guess we won't be doing that."
So instead we visited a firing range. There I was handed a semi-automatic machine gun. At first I protested, "I'm not comfortable with this," I whimpered as the clerk had me sign a form swearing that I was not a felon, had consumed no alcohol and was not mentally ill.
We shot rounds for about an hour. We were not the only couple there, which says a lot about Manchester, NH on a Friday night. Now, anyone who knows me knows I am a card-carrying DNC member bleeding heart liberal, so it causes me some consternation to discover that it is darn fun to fire a weapon, let alone a $15,000 machine gun. I have pictures and video coming soon and I promise to post them.
As we were leaving the firing range he looked me up and down and told me I was not dressed appropriately for our next stop and needed something dressier than the jeans and tee shirt I was wearing. Fortunately I was returning from a business trip and had a suitcase in the back. Surely I was the only woman at the firing range rest room changing into a fancy dress that evening, if not ever.
Then we went out for dinner at a high end restaurant where he ordered everything for us both, including the tequila, which was the only type of alcohol we consumed for the evening. Now all you modern ladies reading this, you may bristle at the thought of someone presuming to order your food, but after years of boorish ungentlemanly behavior (refer to my last 3 years worth of blog postings), it was pretty heady to meet someone with this sort of old-fashioned charm coupled with his slight Texan drawl (yes, from Texas, as if the machine gun wasn't a giveaway).
Back in the car for an hour's drive to Hampton Beach. A moon-lit walk in the sand along the water followed with the bright lights and noise of the honky-tonk strip in the background. "Time for the ballet," he said as we headed back to the car. Since it was 10pm I was wondering if we were boarding a flight for Russia for a show but that was not the case.
Over the state border into Mass. we pulled up to what is commonly referred to as a "gentlemen's club" or as I prefer to call it "strip joint." In for a dime, in for a dollar, I thought to myself. Why not. So in we went. Think of a high-end version of the "Bada Bing" from the Sopranos. The many attractive young ladies really weren't doing what I would call "dancing" but the guys around their stage didn't seem to mind. Other gals circled the stage selling jello shots. I'm glad I didn't buy one because apparently it includes a rather lascivious exposure of the server's breasts as she hands you the shot.
Frank asked one of the passing vixens for Tracy. Tracy is a licensed massage therapist who also takes part in the circus scene around the stage, giving back massages. So yes, I got a chair massage a strip joint. There was nothing improper about it - other than the naked women rolling around on the stage 25 feet away from our table.
Frank gamely offered to call over one of the dancers for a "table dance." But at this point it was 1 am and I had a 100 mile drive home to contend with. Plus, our table seemed a little rickety. "They don't really dance on the table," Frank advised. "That would be awkward."
I never did get to find out exactly how the table dance worked, thankfully. Instead we took off in the Subaru, dropped him off at his car, and I drove back home by 2:30am.
"Start planning our second date," Frank asked me before I drove away. I am not to tell him what I have in store for us, but I'm pretty sure it won't include guns and naked women.
"Do one thing every day that scares you," warned Eleanor Roosevelt. Thanks to Frank, I have banked about a week's worth of doing so after last night.
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