He Looked Like Someone Famous Though

A regrettably, true story.

By Anonymous Bestie

There are men you meet who make you question your judgment, and then there are men who make you wonder if you have accidentally wandered into some kind of performance art. This date was the latter. It started where most questionable decisions of this era started: Tinder.

To be fair, he was a stand-in for one of the very hot vampires on The Vampire Diaries. At the time, this seemed promising. The actual actors were obviously taken and tragically outside my social circle, so I was willing to explore adjacent opportunities.

The first sign that things were off was that I had to pick him up from the side of the road because I couldn't figure out where he actually lived. At the time, I barely registered this as strange. I was fresh from work in four-inch Jimmy Choo's when, several blocks from the bar, he pointed toward a gravel lot and announced, “This is a good place to start looking for parking bc it’s cheap.” I offered to pay for somewhere closer because I was wearing... four-inch heels... and, more importantly, because parking was approximately twenty dollars.

He looked at me and muttered, “Well, somebody has money.” Sir… It is a parking lot. Not a table at the Four Seasons, which would have been lovely tbh.

I briefly considered leaving him there, but alas, did not. You are welcome to question my judgment at this point, but every truly great dating story requires someone to ignore at least three obvious opportunities to go home. And I am committed to the bit at the very least.

We arrived at what he had selected for our date: a dive bar. Sticky floors, that old stale beer smell, and the general ambiance of a place where no surface had been fully dry since 1997.

If the Jimmy Choos had not already made this clear, this was not my scene.

He practically sprinted to the bar and came back carrying four beers, looking extremely pleased with himself. There was something about the quantity and price that he clearly believed I would find impressive.

Unfortunately, I do not drink beer.

I looked at the tray, and then I ordered a cocktail.

“Do I have to pay for that?” he asked.

No.

No, you absolutely do not. I bought my drink and began quietly recalculating just how committed I was to seeing this story through.

Conversation, if we are calling it that, was almost entirely about him. Being on set. Being a stand-in. People he had been around. His proximity to fame. He did not ask me a single question about myself, which honestly is impressive.

Then he commandeered the jukebox from his phone and started playing Elvis. Not one Elvis song, but like several in a row. This was followed by an extremely passionate explanation of why Elvis Presley was the greatest performer who had ever lived. There was a level of reverence involved that felt less like musical appreciation and more like doctrine. And I was like ok, yeah Elvis is great.

I smiled along, nodded, and also texted my location to a friend.

In retrospect, the Elvis thing was less of a conversational detour and more of a warning.

I know, I should have driven home.

Instead, I went inside his apartment. I don’t have any excuses for this. I’ve tried to come up with a logical reason through the course of this storytelling that would make some kind of sense to you, dear reader. But there is none.

This was what I now refer to as my bad decision era.

I walked into what can only be described as a Graceland hallucination. A giant gray tube television sat in the corner like an archaeological discovery from a bygone era. The walls were absolutely covered in Elvis posters, glossy eight-by-tens, polaroid-style collages, and assorted memorabilia. There were Elvis objects everywhere. It was half bachelor pad, half gift shop located suspiciously far from Memphis.

I went to the bathroom, which is actually why I went upstairs, or at least that’s what I have been telling myself since this happened.

When I came back out, things had gotten worse.

He was shirtless.

Elvis was blasting.

And he was standing in front of a mirrored dresser putting rings onto his fingers one by one, with the concentration of a man preparing to take the stage at the International Hotel in 1971.

I stood there trying to process what exactly was happening.

Then he turned around, slowly, walked toward me and said, with complete conviction:

“I know you like me.”

The sheer, unflappable confidence.

The accuracy gap. The rings.

I wish I could tell you that this was the moment I finally made an excellent decision and slapped him and left.

It was not.

Some combination of shock, manners, and whatever psychological condition had gotten me this far compelled me to allow him to kiss me before beginning the process of inventing an exit strategy.

Was I concerned this was about to become an Elvis-themed sexual scenario? Deeply.

I produced an excuse involving my dog, a friend, and someone being locked out of an apartment. As luck would have it, that worked. He walked me back to my car, repeatedly telling me he knew I was into him and that we would definitely be talking again.

We would not.

I got into my car, drove away, blocked his number, and never saw him again. I have, however, told the story approximately one thousand times.

Which is why I maintain that some dates are not relationships, missed connections or even mistakes. Sometimes you paid twenty dollars to park, bought your own cocktail, watched a shirtless man put on Elvis rings in a mirror, and left with something far more durable.

Material.