Poor in spirit

You loved dinner dates like these: live lounge music, great food that actually used all the utensils set down, just the right amount of air conditioning for a three piece suit, and a pretty girl on the other side of the table.

“Aishhh–,” Minjeong sighed, scraping the silver fork on the porcelain with a faint screech. You felt your neck hairs raise, and your chest gurgle.

This dinner date was not turning out to be one of those.

You twiddled your thumbs, actively resisting the instinct to grab for your phone and doomscroll – or more specifically, to escape this awkward situation by burying your face in your screen. Then again, that would be more entertaining than Minjeong.

Minjeong. The name lacked the gravitas it ought to have shared with the bone-snapping cold scowl fastened to her face. “Winter” was the codename your friend who set you up gave; perhaps that was more apt. All the same, there she sat in a beautiful dress, hair done up in curls with jagged strands streaked down her sides, and still very much scowling at her phone.

“I like your dress,” you said idly, “it matches your skin.”

“Is that supposed to be flattering?” she said bluntly.

“You’re not giving me much else to work with, Minjeong.”

She plopped her phone down on the table halfway between a toss and a slam. For the first time the entire night, her eyes burned holes into your retinas.

“Getting close to the realization, Sherlock?,” she scoffed. “I’d like to think I’ve been very transparent tonight.”

“Minjeong–”

“Stop calling me by my name like you know me,” she growled, hand slapping the table, “especially if it took you this long to realize anything.”

You’ll take that hit with brutal honesty.

I mean, who enters into a blind date expecting bad faith? All your friend told you was a date, a place, and a codename for the both of you to say. Who would think that a drop-dead gorgeous beauty, dressed up for the occasion in a body-flattering dress and a delicate hairdo, did it all out of anything less than interest?

And alright, perhaps the order of just a caesar salad and wine – now only half-consumed and set dressing to the proverbial dumpster fire this date had become – does give off I-really-want-this-to-end-sooner vibes. But you’ve seen ladies at this price point order less and eat much less, and you weren’t about to assume the worst in someone you just met.

So much for that.

“Indulge me then–”

“I really wouldn’t.”

“–who put you up to this?”

Minjeong rolled her eyes. “No one. I choose to go on blind dates when I feel like it.”

You threw your hands in the air. “So why go on them if you’re gonna be so bitchy about it?”

She looked away. “Nothing ‘bitchy’ about this, you pretentious prick. 'Bitchy’ would assume I’m whining. I talk down because I know what I deserve. And this? This isn’t it.”

Forget wanting the date to end sooner; the date had ended the minute she walked into the resto.

“Fine then. Wanna end this? You’re free to go. I’ll pay for your shit and eat your food.”

She shot you a dirty look. “Gross, why would you eat someone else’s food?”

“To not waste it? It’s not like you’d touched it with your feet or something.”

She threw her fork down and leaned on the chair, watching your words with beady eyes. “If you think scarfing down food just because it’s there is etiquette, then you’re about as uncultured as I thought you to be.”

“Excuse me?” You felt your fists ball up with the table cloth caught in your grasp.

“You heard me. This restaurant? Nobody goes here anymore after the head chef got caught using Alaskan salmon instead of Norwegian last month. And your tux? Not a single stitch on the shoulders, which definitely means you haven’t had that store-bought rag altered to be close to passably decent. I’d rather be caught drunk in a club toilet than with someone who looks like he can’t buy me the clothes I wear on a night out with a year’s salary.”

Your head felt dizzy, and your chest started to burn all the way up your neck. Your stomach churned, part hunger and part anger. Even the toes in your shoes curled, using every muscle fiber you had to contain it all. But Minjeong just flapped her mouth.

“I’ve been on dates with guys that were either taller, more muscular, or had better style than you. And what are you, a regional manager? I’ve gone on dates with CEOs, stock brokers, top real estate agents, and a fucking racecar driver.”

She leaned over the table, her eyebrows furrowed. “And I bedded every single one.”

A part of you winced without meaning to. “Congratulations, do you want a fucking medal?”

“Don’t act so magnanimous. You men are all the same,” she scoffed. “You think you see a hot girl in a nice dress for the first time and you’ll think out some master plan to fuck me senseless, without even putting out so much as a few drops of cum before I’ve even wet myself.”

Minjeong stood up. “And you? You look nothing like the ones who’d gotten even halfway close.”

You wanted to scream. You wanted something to punch, or throw, or grab; was it gonna be the table? Your chair? Her? With all the anger bursting at the seems, you… laughed. Chuckling to yourself, shit-eating grin strewn across your face. It wasn’t a crack in your sanity; it was the satisfaction of realizing something, which to confirm you needed to be more… investigative.

“Bet they had tiny dicks then.”

Minjeong froze, her scowl surprisingly softening, but contorting into a look of disgust. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

“You heard me. How big were they? Four inches? Three?”

She sat back down, hunched over the table. Bingo.

“You disgusting pig. You can’t ask me questions like that.”

“Why? You pride yourself in the men you’ve taken, surely you couldn’t be all that disappointed in how they dicked you down.”

“They didn’t 'dick me down’ you pervert,” she blurted, slamming a fist on the table with clinks of silverware. “I gave them the best blowjob, or the best handjob, or the best riding of their fucking lives. It-it had to be if they–”

“No wait,” you snapped your fingers. “Blowjobs, right? Maybe it was the smell then. God, some boys really don’t know how to wash themselves down there, don’t they?”

“You know, I just realized you’d completely finished your plate already,” Minjeong scrambled to look for something to target. “You should eat more to shut your–”

“Hey, that’s perfectly understandable. Maybe you’d defend them this way if they ate you out well. Was it the racecar driver? I hear they have great breath control.”

Minjeong hunched her shoulders. “Stop.”

“I got it,” you scoffed, loudly clapping your hands, “they didn’t touch you. Or play with your clit. Finger you. Eat you out. Make you finish.”

Minjeong scowl started to melt. “You’re sick,” she said, eyes starting to water.

“Why is that sick? I’m not sick,” you mocked. “Nothing wrong about talking about your evidently shit sex life and your disappointment in men who don’t know how to make you squirt.”