Patrick, August 2026

Model: Short answers made into a story

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I have a crush on a lovely young woman whom I desperately want to take out on a date, but I haven’t the faintest idea what I’m doing! I don’t want to ask too much of your time, so all I’m asking is for you to advise me on one step in the process; perhaps how to approach her, where to take her on the date, what to wear, how to behave in bed, what to say when we part ways, how to treat her right for the next six decades. Anything helps. I’ll be assembling these steps into a list, and hopefully it will paint a vivid picture of the perfect outing, a road map for an upstanding bisexual young man to cultivate lasting love with a radiant young lady. Thanks so very much in advance.

On Monday, we were both at Foxtrot, where I’ve run into her before. I looked at her like she was the only woman in the world and blew a smile across my face for her and only her. She wasn’t looking. I thought it best to start from a place of generosity rather than reciprocity, so I said hello like ether touches the ground, felt and unburdened, and presented her with one of my molars.

I told her, “I’m bisexual. I like your hair. Where do you work? How long have you been there, etc.?”

She was slightly taken aback, but I think she could tell by the fine condition of my molar that I’m the kind of person that isn’t afraid to Look Inward and flosses daily.

She told me about her job.

I said, “Let’s go to H Mart.”

And she said, “They don’t have H Mart in Oregon.”

I told her, “Dang, you’re right,” because, well, I don’t know everything. “Well, are you free tomorrow?” I asked.

She said, “I guess so,” and I said, “Okay, great. Perhaps we can meet at Rimskeys, the bluffs, Peninsula Park Rose Gardens, a museum, a roller disco, or somewhere cozy, nice, but not too expensive, and quiet so we can hear each other talk and I can make you laugh. I’m bisexual.”

She said, “Rimskeys works.”

As she left, I snatched a lock of her hair to submit to 23andMe.

Tuesday, I put on closed-toed shoes and a button-up shirt. When I met her at Rimskeys, I gave her a block of cheese. She thought it was funny, which was weird to me. I told her, “I noticed something about you that I liked, something small and real, not an imaginary crush thing.”

She said, “Thank you.”

Over the course of the evening, I was careful not to call her baby. I asked her what book she was reading, and when she told me, I said, “Wow, I’m reading the same thing right now. It must be fate!”

She asked me what I thought of the book, and I said, “Tell me a secret.”

She told me that she secretly wishes someone would buy her a horse and a ranch. I told her I don’t have the means to do that, but if I did, I would.

I said, “So tomorrow, do you think burritos on the beach, hot air balloon ride, horseback tour of Portland’s parks, or stargazing? I’m bisexual.”

She said, “Burritos works fine.”

She smiled when I kissed the ground before her to make sure it wasn’t poisonous.

On Wednesday, the 23andMe results had come back. I picked her up on time in my clean vehicle. I knocked at her door, and we went to the beach with our burritos. While the sun went down, I made it easy for her to cry about the terrible, wonderful beauty of the world. I was clear and open about my interest, but not in a way where it made it seem like my happiness was in her hands. I said beautiful things and meant them. I reminded her that I’m bisexual, and she said we should go back to my place.

In my bedroom, I took off my shirt and held it by the corners out next to me, waving it like a bullfighter would. I stomped my feet and huffed angrily. She placed one finger over my mouth to say, “Shhhhh.”

As she pulled me into bed, I remembered that consent is sober, enthusiastic, and, importantly, informed. So I began advising her on her genetic abnormalities revealed by the tests. She told me she didn’t like it so much when I talked. I said okay and kissed her forehead like one would kiss her lips. With so much passion, she wouldn’t forget it.

Later on, I recited a poem I had memorized for her in the wee hours of the morning, when light was beginning to break through her curtains and words seemed to have failed us both. In the morning, I awoke to a note that read, “I said a horse and a ranch. Don’t reach out until you’ve gotten your money up.”

On Thursday, I looked inward, outlasted my inhibition, and decided it might be best after all to get a therapist who’ll treat me right for the next 7 decades. To my surprise, in the middle of filling in my new therapist on my family history and mental health struggles, they interrupted me and said, “Listen, Ricky, the best advice I can offer is to pursue a lot of plastic surgery—I mean A LOT. Breast implants, sliding genioplasties… Walk yourself up to that 11th floor at OHSU—be a girl for a day, I mean, who can stop you? Finger and blade beneath the skin—new shapes, alluring, emerging from the swollen viscera.”

I’m still considering this advice.

But in the meantime, I decided that for now my plan is to cultivate and extend an abundance of compassion towards myself, to pick up and carry my own emotional baggage, to Leave Her Alone, and to try instead with a lovely young man.