You always hear people say that a coffee shop is a great place to find love. Is it the smell of coffee beans in the air? The soothing sound of Josh Groban's voice in the background? Or maybe the caffeine does more than just keep you up at night glued to old episodes of Seinfeld. But for years my brother has been telling me coffee shops are bad news. I can now safely say that caffeinated men are the worst.
If anyone I know is reading this, I'm telling you now, if sometime in the future I ever tell you about a guy I met from a coffee shop, whether he's a barista or an architect or Ryan-fucking-Gosling, you remember this post. You tell me to go back and read what I wrote here. If I should ever suggest we meet for coffee and you happen to see me gazing at the hot barista only to hear me tell him that I like the way he "foams my latte", I give you full permission to take me aside, slap me in the face, and say "NO! No, Brie! Grab your small, $18 mocha and go home!"
This is my warning to anyone who has a lust for men in coffee shops. (Ok look, I'm sure they're not all bad. Which is what I always happen to tell myself before I go out with one). Sometimes they're overemotional, "working" on their computers everyday while crying into their crappuccino's because their ex-girlfriend who they haven't seen in over three years cheated on them with a hot bartender. And, sometimes, they have no emotions. Which brings me to a story.
It was a lovely afternoon, a Tuesday in fact. The sun was out, my hair looked nice, and my pants actually fit. So, I decided it was time for a latte. I went to this locally owned shop expecting to see a friend who works there in the afternoons, but instead, Tarzan was working. Now, obviously that's not his real name. But this is Boulder, Colorado so I wouldn't have been surprised if it was. Anyway, this man looks exactly like Tarzan. He's beautiful. Tall, long curly hair pulled back, big beautiful muscles, I was actually surprised he spoke English and didn't offer me a banana tucked away in his loincloth. Ok, that kind of happened, but we'll get to that later.
It took everything I had to not drool all over myself. I can't quite remember our conversation because I kept getting a very strong feeling that he wanted to rip my clothes off right then and there. But I figured I only felt that way because I hadn't been touched by a man since my last gynecologist appointment. There was a lot of small talk and as I left he told me he was working Saturday afternoon and I should come in to see him. At this point I decided he was definitely hitting on me. Dumbfounded, I responded with "OK!!" I'm almost certain that I yelled it.
I waited an eternity for him to text me, three whole days! He asked me to come visit him at work that afternoon so I put on my best pair of yoga pants and headed over. He didn't have many customers so we got to chat for a good hour or so before he had to close up shop. I decided right away that he was pretty fantastic. He doesn't drink, eats all organic food, and tries to avoid sugar -- a Boulder girl's dream! Now, I don't always eat organic food, and I try to avoid sugar (my pant-size might prove otherwise), and like most twenty-something's living with their parents, I definitely drink alcohol. But I live in an illusion where I eat salad, do yoga everyday, and live in a beautiful castle in the English countryside with a butler named Giles that I bought for myself with the money I made when Angelina Jolie adopted me. Anyway, I liked that this man took care of his health. There were only two things that bothered me. 1.) He's in love with himself. Not a normal, healthy respect, but an obsession with the fact that he's a "big, strong, man". Sure, girls love confidence, but we don't need to see four half-naked selfies within one hour; 2.) He only owns three pairs of shoes. One pair of cowboy boots (meh), and two pairs, I repeat, TWO PAIRS of those hideous five-toe Vibram FiveFingers -- think toe socks but in shoe form. I've never really been the kind of girl to care about what kind of shoes a man owns but I'd prefer not to be seen with someone who resembles a duck.
Now, this is where the story goes south. I visited him that one afternoon, he gave me a really sweet hug goodbye, and then things got weird. I didn't hear much from him until a week later when he asked if I knew of any "hotties that wanted to come and get naughty" at his work after he closed.
The only reason I could think of as to why he'd say such a thing is that I must have accidentally worn a t-shirt that says, "I'm a big whore" on it. I told him I had tacos waiting for me so that wasn't going to happen. Foods before dudes, am I right, ladies?
I guess the next part of this saga is my own fault. Sometimes you look back on something and think: Why did I do that? Was I taken over by aliens? Had I accidentally joined Scientology? I guess because I'd recently been rejected by someone I really liked (cut to three months later when that guy finally kisses me three days before he moves. MY LIFE!), I enjoyed the fact that this odd man was attracted to me. I liked being wanted and I liked the attention. So, a week later, I went to the shop completely prepared for him to be there and completely unprepared for what happened next.
The second he saw me he licked his lips and said, "Wow, your hair looks amazing... I wanna pull it." Gross. Everyone with curly hair knows rule number one is "do not touch". Any sane girl would have gotten the hell out of there. So, I stayed. I knew he'd give me a free drink. There was some small talk as he made it, and I politely said thank you and left. He insisted on walking me out. Unfortunately, I parked behind the shop and the only way to get there is through a small hallway in the back of the building. A building, I might add, that is also home to a few other businesses. Including a bank and a doctor's office. Halfway there he stops, pushes me up against the wall, and starts making out with me. It took me a while to fully comprehend what was happening. He grunted, it was slobbery, and there was too much beefy hand groping going on for me to enjoy it. Plus, I was trying to balance a large hot coffee in one hand which was already difficult because it had been snowing and I was wearing a coat that resembles the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man. Twenty seconds later (typical), he stopped, told me to come back at 6 p.m., slapped my ass, and walked away. I did not show up.
I mean it wasn't completely awful. It was kind of exciting. Since the only kind of excitement I'm used to is when my favorite Indian restaurant has all my favorite dishes at their lunch buffet.
Tarzan tried to "booty call" me a few times over the next few weeks and I kept saying no. Until finally, one Saturday, he actually asked me on a date. A real date! HAH! Gross. What am I, stupid? As if I'm actually going to go out with a gorilla groper. That'd be ridiculous.
Two and 1/2 dates and 9 half-naked selfies later (all on his end), he caught a cold and stopped talking to me. Did he die? Maybe. Am I relieved? Kind of. If he is alive, will he read this? God, I hope so.
Moral of the story: Don't date guys from coffee shops. And I say this from my seat at 'The Bubbling Kettle', drinking a creamy, full-fat, mocha crafted by Mark, a strapping barista with smoldering grey eyes and a fallen angel tattoo exposed on his bicep. Oh, fuck.