100 Emails, 20 Dates An SF girl's systematic quest to end her singlehood

The Cop, the Preacher, the Pat-Down, and the Kiss

B. came to my gig on Friday night, which was in a little neighborhood bar in the East Bay. He happens to be on the police department for that town. He came with R., who's a minister in the same town. During the show, B. was the perfect friend-audience member, yelling things out (I always love it when the stage banter becomes more of a dialogue) and bringing us drinks from the bar.

Afterward, we all had another drink at the bar. I walked back over to the group while B. was in the middle of revealing a plan. "We're going to the Serenader, you in?" he said to me, with a glint in his eye. "They have a great band crammed onto this tiny dancefloor and they play everything from jazz to blues to funk. It's great."

The place was tiny but hopping: people talking, coming in and out, and everyone dressed to the nines. There was one lady in a skin-tight snakeskin-print jumpsuit. Another guy, just inside the door, was in a full suit and hat, looking like he stepped out of the 1950s. An older gent was wearing a full military uniform. The sign outside said that the club is 21 and over, but since this is a mature club, they prefer 25 and older.

B. went in first, and put his hands up to get patted down by the security guy, a big dude who could look imposing when he wanted to and had a pencil-thin goatee tracing his jawline. He found something in B.'s pocket. "Is that a pistol?" he said. B. nodded. "I'm a cop," he said, pulling out his ID. The security guy looked sideways at him. "A cop?" he asked. "I won't tell anyone if you don't," B. assured him. The guy let him in. "I'm going to have to see inside your purse," the security guy said to me. I unzipped it halfway, and then he caught himself, "What am I saying? I just let him in and he has a pistol! Go ahead." R. made it through without incident.

The postage-stamp-sized parquet dance floor was filled with people dancing to the recorded R&B playing over the sound system. "There's no band!" B. said, clearly disappointed. Feeling flush with my gig cash, I offered to get the first round and moseyed up to the bar. The bartender was a tall guy with super curly hair, who was on top of everything: without acknowledging anyone, you could tell he knew exactly when each person got up to the bar, and served them all in order.

It was already late, and I was feeling a bit fuzzy-headed from the couple of beers I'd had on the gig. "I'll have a Capt. Morgan's on the rocks [for R.], a Maker's and diet [for B.], and a Corona [for me]," I said. "We're out of Corona, we have Miller and Bud," the bartender told me, setting up the glasses for the other two drinks. "I'll have a gin and tonic," I said. "We're out of tonic." "How about a gimlet?" Done.

The bartender made all the drinks fast -- and with pretty generous pours. So much for taking it easy. R.'s rum on the rocks came in a wine glass.

The music stopped briefly and "Signed, Sealed, Delivered" came on, sung by a woman. There was a band! We made our way through the small crowd and staked our claim on a spot just off the dancefloor. There were three vocalists, one of whom also played horns, another horn player, drums, 5-string bass (played by an older guy who looked like he was born to wear hats), guitar (played by the only other white person there), and keys. The female vocalist was tiny, but man, she could sing.

B. pulled me over so we could get a better view of the band. "Two opposite ends of the musical spectrum," he commented -- bluegrass to Bobby Brown. At 1:15, they called last call and started shooing people out the door the minute the band stopped. I heard the manager tell the band, "Anything that's not out of here by 2:30 gets put out on the street." They run a tight ship over there.

I put down my half-finished gimlet, and we watched people file out the door then filed out ourselves. B., R., and I chatted for a bit on the street, then B. walked me to my car (parked directly behind his), and leaned in for the kiss.

Now let me digress for a moment. First kisses are always weird -- it's the first truly intimate moment between two people who, often, don't really know each other that well yet.

It's my theory that the weirdest part of the first kiss is the seemingly interminable time span when the guy (or girl) starts leaning in and the only thing you can look at is the kiss initiator's face -- which, let's be frank, usually has a ridiculous expression. It can't be helped -- there are too many other things to think about at that moment, and controlling your facial expression is really quite a minor point. But it does lend a feeling of absurdity to the whole thing.

That's why first kisses between a short girl (such as myself) and a tall guy (such as B.) are particularly weird. The guy has a much greater distance to travel. It's just geometry. But that means that you have more time to look at his expression. And that means that the short person needs to make sure she doesn't get the giggles.

So he kissed me. I didn't get the giggles. And it was nice. He showed me which way to go to get back on the highway, said goodnight, and told me, "Drive fast and reckless!" And when I got home, I saw I had a text from him asking if I made it home OK. Fun AND thoughtful. I love it.