Jorgen Jorgenssen

10 May

Scrolling through my Facebook roster can be exhausting!  So many people my age are getting married, buying a house, having their second baby, etc.  Every once in awhile, it’s reassuring to hear that I’m not alone in my pilgrimage.  In fact, some of my single friends have even more dramatic happenings in their love lives than I do.  For example, I have never drank anyone’s blood or pooped in someone’s back yard after having a one-night stand with them.  I’m not dating a lawyer, a boy band member, a witch, or a 55 year old with purple hair.  However, while I can’t claim any of the aforementioned adventures as my own… I did go out with an angry Dutchman with a rampant tooth last night.

Jorgen and I had made plans to meet on two previous nights- the first time he canceled because he got carried away at a “rooftop jam session,” and the second time I canceled because I was too busy hiding from the world in a dark corner.  We finally coordinated our schedules and met at a German bar in Williamsburg.  The first thing I noticed was his slight lisp.  If your tongue is upside-down and halfway to the other side your face when you say the word “peanuts”…Houston, we have a problem.  My second observation was his barren valley of exposed chest and how there was not a hair to be found.  It was as smooth as a baby’s bottom, as they say.

What was strange was that he told me he had moved to the U.S. from Amsterdam only three years prior- yet he had no trace of any accent whatsoever.  What was even more odd was how he continuously reminded me that he didn’t understand measurements in terms of feet or fahrenheit because he was foreign.  I’m sorry, if you have lived in America for three years, you know how many inches are in a foot.

After he glanced at the extensive beer menu only to pull a “I’ll have what she’s having,” we struck up a good old-fashioned conversation.  He loved Brian Wilson, hated fish tacos (what?!), had left Amsterdam to become a musician, and spoke fluent Dutch and German.  I told him I know how to say “sperm” and “more gummy bears please” in German, but he was unimpressed.  He made fun of my tattoo, then looked through my Instagram photos and told me something I had cooked looked “growth.”  We then moved on to the topic of OkCupid.  Apparently I was only his second date.  He asked if I’d had any really bad dates and I touched briefly on the one where the guy took me to dinner, cried over his ex, then forced me to eat tiramisu while he told me I wasn’t his type.  Jorgen’s response was “Wow, I hope he paid!”  This exclamation was perplexing considering Jorgen did not offer to buy me a single drink at the first bar AND I had to cover half of his tab at the second bar.  I don’t mind paying for myself, but I did mind footing the bill for his blue raspberry jello shots.  And yes, I went to a second bar with him… but only because I wanted to hang out with the middle-aged Polish alcoholics in Greenpoint.

I think we brought the average age at the second bar down to 56 upon entering.  Everyone there was speaking Polish and (same as my first visit) someone was napping at the end of the bar.  Jorgen’s phone rang and it occurred to me that this was the third call he had taken during our brief time together.  I had sent a quick text earlier to my sister, but three phone conversations?  Come on, bro.  After he hung up, he informed me “that’s what Dutch sounds like” and then told me he was giving me a free pass to ask him any three questions I wanted.  I asked him if he’d ever enjoyed the company of a man, which began a twenty minute conversation about bisexuality and whether or not it really exists.  Our debate (and presumably the jello shots) got him all fired up and he retired to the mens room.  While he was gone, a big jolly redhead saddled up at the bar and started talking to me about loin cloths.  Jorgen returned and was visibly perturbed that I was talking to someone else.  I asked him about his take on loin cloths to which he retorted “I’m foreign, what do you care?”  He announced he was going to put some songs on the jukebox and asked what I wanted to hear, so I requested Polish disco.  He couldn’t figure out how to work the jukebox and, to my surprise, the jolly red giant got up and showed him how it was done.  This perturbed him further.  They then took turns trying to find the “better” songs and I realized I had initiated a full-blown Polish disco duel.  I had to get out of there, so I told Jorgen I wanted to go to bed.  He left the bar with me after telling the bartender he thought we had already paid our tab (which we clearly hadn’t.)  He only had a ten, so I paid the rest of the bill as the red-headed man rolled his eyes.  Outside, I gave him a friendly pat goodbye and he disappeared into the abyss of McCarren Park.

I mean come on, who doesn’t like fish tacos?!

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