What's Inside

What’s Inside

           “Can I ask you a personal question?” she asks me. I hear more than a flutter of flirtation in her voice.

           “Oh, I’ve been waiting for you to ask me something personal,” I reply. I hope I sound equally flirtatious, and not at all like a weirdo. She laughs. But not at me, it seems. With me. OK, that’s a good sign.

           “I was wondering if you’d like to split a dessert.”

           “That’s a personal question?”

           “When you’re as aroused by dessert as I am, it’s a VERY personal question.” Somehow, I manage not to spit out my water.

           “Yes, I uh. Would like that. What should we get?”

           She smiles at me. God, she’s attractive. “Tell you what. I’m going to go to the restroom. You can decide whatever looks most delicious, and order for us when I’m gone. I trust you.”

           “OK, I’ll do my best to live up to your trust.” We both laugh. She leaves her seat and walks in the area of the restrooms, bringing her large backpack with her. 

           The server is too polite to admit that he’s heard the entire conversation. But he comes up to me at the most convenient time, offering me a single dessert menu and suggesting the crème brulee.

           This guy clearly knows what he’s doing, and the crème brulee sounds good in every sense. My stomach and penis are groaning with anticipation.

           It seems it’s taking her a while. I don’t want to be anxious—I’ll ruin it if I’m anxious—so I idly scroll through my phone. The New York Times book reviews are always a fun distraction.

           I’m not looking up, when my date returns to the bathroom. So the server notices before I do. “Jesus fucking Christ,” he exclaims under his breath. So much for professionalism.

           I look up from my phone, ready to welcome her back.

           But instead my mouth is still.

           She laughs, as if my silence itself is hysterically funny. “I know, right? Pretty dramatic!”

           I manage to ask a single, monosyllabic question. “How?”

           “Well, I ran into my doctor in in the bathroom, and she offered to do a quick liposuction on me! I figured, why not?”

           I do not react. This seems to disappoint her.

           She raises her backpack, unzips it, and pulls out what’s apparently an extremely convincing fat suit.

           “I’m sorry. You deserve an explanation. I wanted to test you, to make sure you were a genuinely nice guy. And you are, Seth. My god, you really are! You didn’t act embarrassed to be seen with me, not even once. You also didn’t pressure me to into physical contact. That’s TWO tests, and you passed them both!”

           “Melinda, this is our THIRD DATE.”

           “Sorry. Should I have waited until we got back to my place to reveal my true body? I probably should have. I just couldn’t stand it any longer. I mean, literally, the fat suit is physically uncomfortable, and—”

           “You should go. Forget about dessert. I’ll get the check, don’t worry about that either. But I’d like you to leave. Because you’re not who I thought you were.”

           She seems offended. Or maybe she’s just pretending to be. “Oh, so you thought I was some fat pathetic horndog who’d be happy for any male attention I was lucky enough to receive?”

           “No, I thought you were someone who WASN’T FUCKING INSANE!”

           This seems to deflate her, a bit. Deflate, what an image. “Oh. That. Yeah, OK, that’s fair. But come on, Seth. You have to admit it’s pretty funny. We can tell our kids about it!”

           “It’s not at all funny, and neither is the suggestion that you and I are having kids. We aren’t even having dessert.”

           She starts to cry. “I really thought we had something potentially special.”

           “Yeah well, I was also looking forward to the crème brulee, I don’t know what to tell you.

           “But you thought I was pretty? Even in the fatsuit?”

           “I still do. That’s not the issue. You seemed so stable, Melinda. Was it all a lie? A setup leading to this very uncomfortable punchline?”

           “Um. No. It wasn’t…all a lie. I really do work as a marketing executive. I guess I just failed to mention my flair for the dramatic.” She stands up. “How sexy is my ass? My real ass, I mean. If you’re not into skinny girls, I can put the fat suit back on, when we get to my apartment.”

           “We are not going to your apartment!”

           “Would you be more comfortable at yours?”

           “Melinda. Stop.”

           Our server comes up to us, along with the bartender. The server looks squarely at me. “Dude, I’m sorry. I really am. And I understand I may be seriously risking my tip. But there’s something I have to tell you, and I hope that you’ll take me seriously.”

           “Do NOT listen to him!” protests the bartender.

           “If you go home with this woman, this obvious lunatic, you will have the best sex of your life.”

           “Yeah, and then she’ll steal your liver! I’m a bartender and I can tell you: DO NOT GO HOME WITH CRAZY! Don’t do it!”

           “It’s up to you, of course. But I had to say it. Because the adage about crazy girls is absolutely, 100 percent true.”

           “He’s right. I’m a demon in the sack,” Melinda offers cheerfully.

           “I’m a little offended by the suggestion that I’d undertip you,” I tell the server. “Of course I’ll leave you a good tip, regardless. You really think I should go for it?”

           The server nods. Melinda smiles. The bartender vehemently shakes his head.

           “Well, two out of three people agree I should take the risk, so OK.” I pay the check and thank both the server and bartender for their advice, conflicting as it was.

           “Good luck, buddy,” the bartender says sadly. The server offers me a fist bump.

           “I’m so sorry we didn’t stay for the crème brulee,” she says to me in the taxi. “At least he didn’t charge you for it, though. What a nice guy! Not like that asshole bartender.”

           I don’t reply. I’m too distracted by the weight of her backpack in my lap, which I somehow got roped into carrying.

           When we get to her apartment, she introduces me to her roommate. Which is a little unsettling as she told me she lived alone.

           Her roommate is extremely annoyed. “I thought we agreed you wouldn’t borrow the fat suit without asking permission first. I feel like you don’t respect my property, Melinda.”

           “Sorry. May I please borrow your dildo?”

           “Whatever, just wash it when you’re done.”

           My brain is having second thoughts. My penis is also confused.