0/10 recommend: where Dill Pickle had me fucked up...

from steak dinners to being cut off

Kissing a white man was on my bucket list, but I don’t know why. I crossed it off, and it was a 0/10…

PART ONE, IN CASE YOU MISSED IT:

Walking through the American Airlines Center, I felt so out of place, which is crazy because I’ve been to this arena plenty of times before. I had my hair in a slick back bun with a middle part, my chunky Bottega dupe earrings, a jean dress, flat black sandals, my denim Coach Tabby 20, and my slightly face beat for the occasion. I wasn’t overdressed for the original plans, but coming to a Dallas Stars hockey game was plan B. I didn’t have anything sports-related on…not even long sleeves to combat the ice, which is probably why I stood out so easily.

hockey date night

Date two with Dill Pickle excited me more because it was supposed to be interactive and fun. We decided on the museum for adult night, but when we pulled up, we realized it was closed for a private event. I could see him getting frustrated at his lack of preparation, turning red, and overly apologizing. It did make me feel like he genuinely cared about showing me a good time.

We spontaneously went to the hockey game, which was my first time. The game was packed and oddly patriotic, which threw me off, but I chalked it up to being around Veterans Day. When I looked around, I counted maybe five black people throughout the whole game. I kept glancing and scanning the room for one safe person nearby…but I couldn’t. Quickly, I felt like I was in an episode of Black Mirror, and I felt like everybody was looking at me and I was the odd person in the room…at a hockey game…not dressed appropriately…on a date.

I realized my overthinking was closing in on me, paired with my canned 13% margarita buzz and not understanding shit going on in this game. Of course, my first thought was to go to the bathroom for my own personal intermission. After fixing myself and leaving the bathroom, an older black man gets my attention…he worked for the venue.

Unc: “Excuse me…excuse me.”

Me: “Yes?”

Unc: “You like hockey?”

Me: “This is my first time…”

Unc: “What you doing here?”

Me: “I’m on a date…” (of course nervous af)

Unc: “You on a date with a white boy!?”

Me: “You know…I’m trying something new.”

Unc: “Awhhh hell!”

Naturally, me and Unc are cracking up laughing, and he tells me I looked so out of place. He keeps going on and on about how pretty I am and how I don't need to be on a date with a white man. Again, I felt awkward. I’m such a sore thumb. I’ve let Dr. Umar down again…

Leaving the game is where all the icks came in. We walked out, and I was following him, but in the back of my mind, I knew we were walking in the opposite direction of the cars. Moving into a crowd full of people, I followed behind him; I felt so insecure by his height, annoyed that I had to redirect him in the right direction, and most of all, I didn’t feel safe. One thing I can be is delusional, and if I can’t be delusional, imagine you being my man…I know it’s not giving.

Over tacos is when I realized this would probably be our last date. He talked a lot about his ex, which wasn’t the first time. Clearly, he wasn’t over her, and by the way, he kept telling me the girl’s business and was asking me how I felt about old situations between them. I could probably find this girl on Facebook easily with all the information I got. One thing stood out. He told me twice about a story of how his girlfriend beat on him, which is the reason he left her. All of the red flags started to come up because I thought it was very soon to offer that information, and he brought it up multiple times, making me think that this story may be different from how he was telling it.

I’ve never been a victim of domestic violence at all, and HOWEVER, COMMA, I’ll be damned if I let a white man hit me. The conversations felt like he was trying to trauma bond with me. It was like he wanted to see how much I had dealt with in the past and how my family dynamics were. He had a rough relationship with his ex, he seemed to have mommy issues, and he always wanted to drink, and in every situation, he seemed like a victim.

At the end of the day, there were no sparks, nothing. Especially when he tried to kiss me…So when we ended the night, he kissed me on the cheek, started to walk away, then double-backed and pulled me in for a kiss. I felt like I was kissing my arm. I’ve never had such a passionless, flat-ass kiss in my life. It felt like nothing.

Shortly after the second date, Dill Pickle was clean-cut off. He kept texting and calling me with urgency, which freaked me out. When we couldn’t agree on another meeting time, he texted me, asking, “Do I want to hook up?” I was so confused because it never gave that—never in this lifetime. I was so confused that I asked him who he was trying to reach because it couldn’t be me.

Where he had me fucked up at…

He called me quickly, apologized, and told me he thought I was ghosting him because I was leaving him on read too long. Red flag. Our exchanges never went longer than a day. Did I reply slowly because I wasn’t that interested? Yes. But it never went long enough to think he was being ghosted.

This whole experience showed me no matter what, I love a black man to infinity to infinity. I want cultural references; I want eyes across the room, and we know exactly what we mean; I want conversations about our upbringings and the similarities; I want all the black love things. I want somebody to get me and to see me. It’s so important to me. In perspective, I was on FaceTime with my homeboy when I was getting ready for the date. He gave me a scenario…he said imagine you’re at work, you’re killing it, you’re a mother, you’re married, reaching all your goals, and you’re the baddest bitch on the flo…and the highest honor your man can give you is “you’re hot babe.” Like, what is hot? That killed me inside because guess what? Dill Pickle had the nerve to call me hot when we ended our date. I wanted to cry inside. Hot didn’t make me feel pretty, it didn’t make me feel sexy, it didn’t give me butterflies. It was ugly to me. I just knew I wasn’t the target audience for this compliment. It felt gross and grimy, almost like when you hear the word cunt. You’re just like, OH! It didn’t hit, and I just wanted to go home and scream into my pillow.

I do a lot of things for the plot, and this was one of those things. I can say I’m now open to seeing how it would be to date others. Before, I wasn’t, but now that I have this experience, I have it under my belt to not be scary the next time.

At the end of the day, I knew this wasn’t for me. It could never be my storyline; I know what I want, but it was definitely fun while it lasted.