I’m at a cafe tucked away in the middle of the city. The cafe is filled with cigarette smoke, which after going to a couple times the nausea soon subsides. This one man continuously asks me to dance. He’s around forty-five, extremely short and profusely sweating from his forehead. His sweating is so severe, that he uses it to slick his hair back – exposing more of his moist flesh. After the song is over, I spot a young guy sitting stiffly at the table where my purse is resting. I’m quickly introduced to him by his friend, and he proceeds to tell me that he doesn’t know how to dance. Still on a slight ego trip from my first date with the Norwegian, I confidently measure my level of success with this new guy.
I didn’t realize his resemblance to Sylvester Stallone until we began dancing. He shoulders almost touched his earlobes and his arms were bent in a non-flexible 90 degree angle. I found this to be endearing, however, I should have seen this tension over dancing as a red flag.
I continue to teach him the basic salsa steps, however I realize quickly how much it sucks teaching someone to dance. I’m quickly losing interest, and my patience is fading as after three songs he’s still fucking up the stupid side step. This song finally ends, and I go to get some water, he follows and suggests that I give him his number. That sounded too smooth. In actuality he walked to his friend to ask for a translation of a word, came back, paused, when back to his friend, came back, mumbled some words, paused, went again to his friend. At this point, his friend was so annoyed that he came over, and in fluent English asked me for my number on behalf of his friend. I, again, found this, at the time, to be endearing. Perhaps another red flag? Stallone soon after left the club, and the next day I receive this text (just to inform you in these texts “j” means “i”),
“Natasa..here is boy from last night. Can you be on Trg Republika, there is one horse and one men sit on him:), and whit finger show somewhere. Can you be there at 17:45? Please, don’t be late, j don’t late. J don’t love that ;), j don’t late. The day is veru nice for walk or siting and looking on river.”
I still find this an endearing text message, and I overlook the fact that he went out of his way to tell me not to be late, and that he doesn’t appreciate it. I arrive at Trg Republika on time. I receive a text message. He is late.
“Meybi j will run :) but j be there on time. Bus is slow. So nice girl can wait”
You know, I take particular offense when someone specifically instructs me to not do something, which I follow through and then they do it, but you know, nice girl can wait.
Me and Stallone went to the main park in Belgrade, Kalamegdan. For the next two hours, he took the honor of trying to “figure me out”, which concluded in him professing that he thinks I’m the bees knees, I’m the light in his sky, his warm soothing voice. Let me tell you, I like a compliment just like the next girl, however, after two hours of it, you get tired. Especially after each compliment he asks “do you believe me?”
I felt the need to wind down this sexually frustrated date (on his part), so I said that I should go home to cook dinner for my domestically retarded brother. And I almost got away Scot-free, but then he said “I want to show you something… do you know about city street school?” At this point, I have not a fucking idea what is going on. He then tells me to close my eyes and asks me if I believe him. At this point, I’ve been strategizing how to get out of this park and in the safe quarters of my apartment, where I will lock myself in and never go on another date. I conclude, if I close my eyes he could either stab me which would get me out of this park, or sing me a song which would also end in me leaving the park in a pleasant parting.
Instead he kisses me. I have never experienced a less energetic kiss, on my part. He was into it, just going at it. But my reaction was somewhat similar to being flat-lined in the back of an ambulance while everyone yelling “come on! shock her again! come on Natasa, come on!” I pulled away after the kiss, did a nervous giggle and slowly turned away to walk home. He followed and asked “why didn’t you hit me?” Why didn’t I hit you? I’m… what?.. wait?… Why didn’t I hit you? I’m in a god damn park, you look like Sylvester Stallone, have you seen Rambo? Have you seen Rocky?
I refrain from answering due to the fear of saying something hurtful. He then continues to profess his love for me and insists on walking me to the market. We get to the market where I’m eagerly waiting to enter to purchase chicken breast – but he continues with his profession of admiration and says that he knows he should go home, but he can’t move. I decide to make it easy for him, and say goodbye as I walk into the market. I arrive at home only to receive a text message from Stallone:
“How much j want a kiss you when j look you. J don’t now why. Wensdeey in 18 at the horse? On wensdeey j will definitly now are you like others girls but J think.. that you are not. Maybe j sound redicillis when j say that j feel likes twenty stephens inside but that is one step j feel. You dont be confused.”
This text later invoked another text which stated,
“You have lips like a honey… so nice. That is not compliment, that is true, j try them, unikat, special :).. Ok, weensday in 18, or later, j will call you. Good night adn just a few procent think about this evening, and you will understand everything. Dust must fall to the flr. Dont dring alot tonight;)…”
I didn’t reply, I was experiencing a level of shock I’ve never experienced before. Then the next text came,
“Natasa… j am… J walk with my friend, and j think on you. In last time, j don’t think on someone like on you. Weednesday is so far. J don’t be so natural yesterday becouse j don’t belive in people. Why j dont want look another girl? :)”
This text was particularly heart breaking, as well as a huge flag that I need to tell him that I am not interested. I reply by saying that I feel that we need to talk and that this is going very fast and I’m not ready. He replies,
“We will talk dont worry, j understand. Meybe is fast. Meybe j wrong becouse j make it fast Good night, everything is cool, relax, Sorry becouse J answered now, j been in city all day with my friend, run for some work. Good dream.”
I didn’t reply, I wasn’t sure how to.
The next day I receive a text,
“Canadian girl, how are you? See you tomorrow or you have a plans? Are you angry on me? :) Tomorrow in seven on Trg? Can you? And today j be in town with my friend, some combination on Serbian way ;). Its cold outside, meybe are you cold ;)? If you want j can torrefy you from behind. Good night.”
Torrefy you from behind…
I don’t know what torrefy means, alas, I will google.
Torrefy: to subject to fire or intense heat; parch, roast, or scorch.
I have never been asked that before… to be torrified from behind.
The time has come, Natasa, the time has come for you to be horribly straightforward with Stallone.
I sent him a text saying that I don’t think we should meet because I am not interested. I really struggled sending this because I felt that it was harsh, so at the end I told him that I wish him all the best. His reply,
“k, j respect that, and i think same, but j test you.”
This was all a test apparently…
But then there was third date…
