Good day everybody. Do y’all celebrate anniversaries? I do — well, it depends on what the anniversary is. Like, I know that I lost my virginity on Nov. 1, but I don’t make a big deal about it.
Maybe I should. Maybe every Nov. 1, I should reenact my first time: Wrestling on a waterbed in our underwear, while watching music videos. Clumsily grabbing each other’s junk while screaming, “You let go first!” It was so romantic, even though we kept checking out the window to make sure his parents didn’t come home early.
You know what? This year, my husband and I are going to celebrate Nov. 1 and make it a new tradition!
But ugh! It always falls the day after Halloween, so I won’t have time to decorate. Plus, I will be exhausted from all of the Halloween shenanigans. Why couldn’t I have lost my virginity in May or September, and why do we say “I lost my virginity?” I know where it went — in that guy’s ass!
I also know the date of my first Rose Room booking. It is the date I consider my hire date in the Rose Room Nov. 25, 1993.
It was Thanksgiving, and there was a freak snow-and-sleet storm in Dallas. But even with the awful weather conditions, my gay ass made it to “work,” and I have been there ever since.
(FYI, the club was actually kinda busy that night. A little ice and horrible road conditions ain’t enough to keep them gays away from the three D’s: dick, drag and dranks.)
Freakin’ Thanksgiving! Messing with my dragaversary!
Then there is March 29! That is my favorite date of the year. That is the anniversary of the first date with my husband, Jamie. The year was 2003, and the stars aligned just right so we could finally go on a proper date — and we have been together ever since.
I knew on that first date that something was different. I was more relaxed and more myself that I had ever been on other first dates.
To give you an idea of what I mean, I dated a guy years before Jamie — Mark Aaron Johnson. He was a little older than I was; I was 19, and he was 33. I was working at Hunky’s at the time, and he would come in every few days and eat. I would knock the other employees out of the way to make sure I was the one that got to take his order. I would bat my eyes at him like Indiana Jones’ girl students at the beginning of Raiders of the Lost Ark.
After weeks of embarrassingly obvious flirting, he finally asked me on a date. He picked me up in his brand-new Acura Integra and whisked me away to a different burger joint near North Park Mall.
I was not myself on that date. I remember trying so hard to say the right thing to make him like me. I even ordered a fucking veggie burger to make him think I cared about the — I don’t know, about the environment? The animals? My health? So there I am, sitting there pretending to enjoy this cardboard-tasting abomination, all while he is scarfing down a double-meat cheeseburger.
He told me about his job, and I faked interest in banking or some bullshit I knew nothing about. All I understood was that he worked in that big-ass high-rise trimmed in neon green downtown. I was so fucking fake on that first date with him, and I tried so hard for him to like me!
Looking back now, I realize I was the one with the power. I was young and dumb. I was his type to a T. But back then, I was a love-struck, horny kid who apparently had daddy issues, and he was what I thought I wanted at the time.
It didn’t take me long to realize that he was kinda boring. Sure, the sex was great, but, afterwards, we would watch old episodes of Perry Mason or recordings of Formula One races that he had on VHS. When he cooked at home, he would bake chicken breasts with nothing but a little salt and pepper and eat it with bland white rice.
It still freaks me out to think of it. Was he vanilla or a psychopath?
Like I said, I knew immediately that my first date with Jamie was different. He asked me where I wanted to eat, and I, of course, said Red Lobster. They had all-you-could-eat crab legs and, yes, that is what I got. There is no cute way to eat crab legs. Between the pickin’, slurpin’ and hammerin,’ I know I looked crazy. I didn’t pretend to not be very hungry or order just a salad to try to impress my date.
That’s what I mean when I say something was different with Jamie. I finally felt like I could be myself, and, let’s face it, if you have ever seen me eat, especially crab legs, it ain’t pretty.
The fact that he didn’t immediately run for the hills meant he was a keeper.
After dinner we went to a movie. We nervously brushed our pinky’s together until he finally grabbed my hand and held it for the rest of the movie. We had our first kiss in his Jeep when he dropped me off back at my car. I drove home with a big stupid smile and a newfound contentment in my heart — a contentment that I still feel today.
So, Happy 22nd anniversary, Babe! We should celebrate — how about crab legs?
Y’all should celebrate every stupid date you can think of — your first Morman, first cowboy.
Hell, celebrate your first fro-yo!
Life is too short not to find a reason to celebrate. As a matter of fact, tonight we are celebrating my first colonoscopy because, in the words of that old bitch from Poltergeist,
“This house is clean!”
Remember to always love more, bitch less and be fabulous! XOXO, Cassie Nova