It’s April 25th and my vaccine card now has two completed doses of Moderna shots–I allow myself to breathe a small sigh of relief and refocus on my plans to move from LA to Nashville in May for the summer as a way of bursting my quarantine bubble and rediscovering some of my pre-pandemic soul.
Happily vaccinated and on my way to spend time with my country-music-singing-sister, I was excited for the possibility of not only going out to bars and restaurants, seeing live music, and safely being around crowds again, but also jumping back into the sexy pool that is real-life dating. It had been over a year of making very important decisions, limiting interactions, and only seeing people who are in my certain circles while abstaining from some of my most beloved vices of going drinking at bars and kissing strangers. But I was ready on my way to Nashville where Covid restrictions were minimal and people were dating like it was 2019.
Along my multi-day road trip across the country, I perused the apps, regaining my confidence and acclimating to the wild world of online dating, it was thrilling and I fantasized about humid nights running around the city, shooting tequila, dancing on crowded floors, and lip-locking handsome strangers (insert some sort of cowboy fantasy). The one thing that was hardest to imagine in all of these fantasies was the idea of putting my bare naked mouth, on someone else’s bare naked mouth, and playing tonsil hockey in all of its spit swapping glory–because in reality, we were still within the throws of a respiratory viral pandemic, and the one thing I was fantasizing about doing was the one thing that I was told absolutely not to do for the past year and a half.
While I knew that I was protected enough to be able to let myself enjoy some sensible sexy lip-locking, I couldn’t help but be wary, the number of unknown germs swimming around in people’s mouths, was it too risky? Something that would have been a normal Saturday night for me felt like tip-toeing around a field of land mines. Nevertheless, upon my first few days in Nashville, I felt ready to dive headfirst into a fun, cowboy fantasy-filled, hot girl summer.
On the first date, I was a bit rusty, I took too long to get ready, wore a dress that looked nice but wasn’t the most comfortable, and had to chug a glass of Pinot Grigio while sitting in front of the fan to try and keep myself from sweating off my makeup.
He picked me up at my house in a beat-up truck and took me to Longhorn Steakhouse. He was wearing American flag cowboy boots, Levi jeans, and a black button-up shirt. He called me ma’am and opened the door for me. We spent the evening chewing on giant steaks and him talking about his ex-wife, two young children, and his house full of guns.
I was entranced in a research type of way, asking a million questions about what his life was like living in rural Tennessee, almost to the point I forgot I was on a date, I wasn’t romantically attracted to him since we had very conflicting values, but that didn’t squelch the excitement that I was actually ON A DATE.
His body language and piercing gaze throughout made it pretty clear to me that he was ready to get to kissing, and I wasn’t about to let little ethical values stand in the way of my first vaccinated make-out sesh, so I did the only thing I could do, to tamper the anxiety. I started drinking. We downed a couple of old fashions, and I was sure to get an extra glass of wine in before dessert. When we went to a local dive bar to play pool, I opted for some strong margaritas and let the tequila take me all the way to flirtation station.
Once the booze was flowing, I found I was feeling confident and sexy, and I allowed myself to let my guard down and just enjoy the moment, the company, and the fact that I was feeling a little closer to the fun, wild girl I had known so well.
Even though there was never going to be a future with Mr. Tennessee, I was ready to lay my chapstick-laced lips onto his and break the fear that had been built up for so long. At 2 am, we made out under the starry southern sky, in the humid summer air, against the orange glow of a dive bar’s neon sign, it was fun, freeing, thrilling, and a bit naughty, after so long of being terrified of getting closer than 6 feet to another human, here I was intentionally swapping spit, a little drunk and ready for whatever was going to be thrown my way.
