Around the World in 80 Dates (20 page)

Garry and I shared it all.

I was really attracted to him, but I also loved the way he was always concerned for me: Whenever we rocketed over a bump in the desert or a crowd would crash into us, he would check I was okay. He was gentlemanly without being macho. And he was really good company: He talked just as much as I did and made me laugh a lot. We talked about ourselves, old relationships, family and friends, life in London and Seattle, our plans for the future. As he spoke, I was absorbed in what he was saying; I didn't feel bogged down in detail the way I had on the other dates.

We seemed to like and dislike the same things. We spent a long time with the Deities living in the base of the forty-seven-foot pyramid temple on which the thirty-two-foot Burning Man stood. Taking time out from cycling, we curled up together on a sofa and watched a rather uneventful-looking film, which suddenly turned into scary 1960s porn. The man graphically thrust his hand in and out of the woman as if searching for car keys in a glove compartment. We were both frozen to the spot with embarrassment; this was not first-date material, but we were both too self-conscious to laugh it off. Garry managed to break the tension. “Did you want to carry on watching
Bad Core
or shall we make a move?” he asked with a wry smile. I scrambled gratefully to my feet and we cycled onward.

I know this sounds clichéd, but being with Garry was effortless. It wasn't awkward or stressful; I didn't feel like I was trying to behave in a certain way or pushing myself to be more this, less that. And it wasn't just because we liked the same music and places and food. I was relaxed, like I already knew him.

Being with Garry felt like coming home.

I know, I know, it sounds completely pathetic and I don't blame you for wanting to slap me really hard, but I couldn't help it: I was smitten. Completely and utterly. And even though I'd suspected from his emails to both The List and me that I would like him, I hadn't seen this coming. I mean, in theory, Garry wasn't even a date. I had spent the last eight months cajoling and bullying the Date Wranglers into coming up with an array of the internationally available, and here I was, meeting someone on my own, just like that.

But I wasn't thinking about any of this because I was having such a brilliant and funny time. I wasn't thinking about Soul Mates or about dating or about what number I was up to and how many more I had to go. I was just here, in the desert, with a man who made me want to tell him my secrets and listen quietly as he told me his.

It had been a long day for both of us. As dawn transformed the Playa from a peekaboo playground of the twisted and the inspired into a parched wasteland of all-night revelers, we both felt the need to get some sleep.

Cycling back to the Costco camp, as we stacked our bikes against the others, Garry asked, “Did you get a chance to pitch your tent earlier?”

“Oh, I don't have a tent,” I told him nonchalantly. “I'm going to sleep in my car.”

Garry looked appalled and stared at me with real concern. “Jen, you can't sleep in your car. That's crazy.”

I asked him why. “I've got some hotel towels to sleep under and it's pretty quiet where I parked. I'll be fine.”

My
whatever
traveling attitude was so firmly in place, sleeping in the car genuinely didn't bother me at all. Garry, however, seemed to feel strongly to the contrary. He bit his lip in exasperation as if trying not to say what he was thinking, then ran his hand through his dusty blond hair. “Look,” he said awkwardly, “I really don't want to tell you what to do, but I won't be able to relax knowing you are out there somewhere sleeping in your car.” He frowned deeply and took my hand in his. “Jen,” he said, “please sleep in my trailer.”

I raised my eyebrows, but he ignored the look and continued, “You can have the bed, I'll sleep on the floor. There's plenty of space and I'm not trying to…” He trailed off, shrugging uncomfortably, but with a look that suggested he was going to keep insisting until I said yes.

I thought about it. I really didn't mind sleeping in the car—it was no big deal—but, for me at least, that wasn't what this was really about. I remembered Hettie's words in Vegas: “…when the moment comes, you have to be prepared to take that leap of faith.”

I wasn't going to overthink this: I liked and trusted Garry. I felt safe with him, cared for rather than hit on. The idea of sleeping in his trailer—although a little scary—felt right. I knew it was time to take that leap.

“Thank you,” I said quietly. “I appreciate the offer.”

I thought I could sleep on the floor and he could have the bed. But when we got back to his trailer, it felt the most natural and wonderful thing in the world to climb out of our dusty clothes and slip under the covers together.

 

We were woken a couple of hours later by the sounds of the Costco crew breakfasting in the communal area outside. I felt a sudden pang of anxiety: Would they all think me a total hussy for jumping straight into bed with Garry?

Propped up on one arm, I confided my fears: “I haven't even come close to sleeping with anyone else on the trip”—I sort of glossed over Frank—“what if they think I sleep with all my Dates?”

Pulling me back down into the bed, Garry kissed me, then shook his head reassuringly. “They're not like that,” he said. “Everyone will just be pleased for us. Why wouldn't they be?”

And sure enough, as we dragged ourselves out of bed and stood in the doorway of the trailer, squinting into the ferocious morning sun, the Costco-ers sitting around the breakfast tables spotted us and started clapping and cheering. Garry and I smiled at each other sheepishly. The crowd laughed and cheered even harder. By now we were laughing too and—pausing at the top of the steps to take a bow—holding hands, we joined our friends for breakfast.

 

The next five days were magical.

 

The rest of that day passed in a blur. I had to work in the Costco Store (where old Soul Mates were traded for new) and Garry had to organize dinner for forty people that night.

This was a good thing, partially as it gave me a chance to get my head around the last twelve hours and also because the desert by day was very different from the desert at night.

The heat was overwhelming. Dust storms would sweep across the Playa, blinding and choking you. The dust was abrasive and invasive: It coated your body and hair, got in your mouth, your eyes, made your nose suddenly gush blood. You had to constantly remind yourself to drink as the heat brutally sucked moisture and minerals from your body, leaving you dizzy and disoriented. Sometimes I'd get terrible cramps. On the worst day, I was so overwhelmed by heat I couldn't remember what I was saying, and sentences would just trail off. Some people collapsed; everyone kept an eye on everyone else, alert for the first signs of dehydration and ready to share precious water.

Twice a day, trucks would drive along the main roads spraying water behind them in an attempt to keep the dust down. That was always a carnival-like atmosphere: People would stream out of their tents, running naked behind the trucks, cooling off in the al fresco shower.

Over the next five days, I'd see this all from the Store as I worked to help people find their Soul Mates.

 

The way it worked: People brought in a Soul Mate they didn't want and both answered questions on a form that would help us find one they did want. The forms recorded where they were camping (vital if Soul Mates were to find each other) and included questions like: What do people say is your most annoying habit? What's the one class you regret not taking at school? Are you or have you ever been a slut?

Using their answers, interviewers would further probe the applicants. They would then pass their conclusions on to the matchers, who would use all this information to identify the applicant's ideal Soul Mate from among the hundreds of other interviewed applicants on file. People would return the next day to find out who they'd been matched with and then go to their Soul Mate's camp to introduce themselves.

Costco was one of the oldest and most popular theme camps on the Playa; every day hundreds of people turned up to have a fun experience, but also seriously hoping we could help them find their Soul Mate.

And we took it just as seriously.

Working in two shifts from 10 a.m. until 6 p.m., we sat every day in the sweltering tent, literally sweating over the completed forms of hopeful applicants. Tears welled up in the heavily made-up eyes of a dreadlocked pixie as she confided how she hoped to find a man who loved welding as much as she did. A Frenchwoman told me she had been matched with a fabulous “Playa lover,” last year and wanted one just as good this year. Naked but for a Viking helmet, one man suddenly got really upset after twenty minutes of banter and told me he just wanted a woman he could trust.

I was surprised by how similar the hopes and needs of the people here in BRC were to those of the men I'd already dated on my travels.

As countless people, dressed as fairies or undressed as nudists and every possible combination and permutation in between, sat across the table and talked, I heard the same heartfelt story each time. It didn't matter that some had extreme tastes or habits; whatever the personality, the aims were the same: to find someone who was like them. They wanted a companion who shared their interests, someone who would understand and cohabit in their world.

More than anything, people didn't want to be alone.

Listening to people talk honestly and vulnerably about what they hoped for in a Soul Mate was exhausting but humbling. Of course, I knew exactly how they felt (with the possible exception of the man looking for a Soul Mate who would lock him in the trunk of his car) and I wanted to do all I could to help.

Sometimes this worked, for example with the lovely artist guy and Welding Woman. They came to see me at the end of the week, still delighting in each other's company, and thanked me for helping them meet. Sometimes it didn't work, like the nervous mid-thirties teacher, who anxiously told me that he was always unlucky in love. I was so convinced he was gay it didn't even occur to me to ask.

As I happily told him I had the perfect man for him (a sweet scientist from the day before), his face crumpled; his chin jutted in and out dangerously, like a cutlery drawer possessed by demons.

“But I'm not gay!” he told me incredulously.

“Are you really sure about that?” I wanted to ask, but his eyes beseeched me to say I had made a mistake. I wanted to help him find happiness (with his gay Soul Mate), but seeing him look so miserable, I lost the courage of my convictions. Patting his hand, I guiltily told him I was sure we had a ton of suitable women for him.

He sniffed tearfully, still looking shocked and upset. Quickly scanning his application form in the hope of changing the subject, I hit the Talents section and started talking as I read. “Oh, that's interesting,” I said heartily. “It says here, you do an extremely lifelike impersonation of…” My voice trailed off, “…a…ummm…frog?” I finished weakly, looking up to check I hadn't misunderstood.

The man looked at me steadily. Still swathed in misery, he nevertheless cleared his throat and—wobbly at first, then louder as his confidence grew—started to impersonate a frog. He sat staring at me, unblinking. Croaking. Although he still looked completely wretched, he clearly had been unable to resist the opportunity to show off his party piece. Watching, I struggled to arrange my expression into one that (I hoped) conveyed both enjoyment and admiration.

After a couple of minutes, his croaking crescendoed, then came to an end. I thanked him for
sharing
(a popular ritual in America) and told him we'd do our very best to find him his Soul Mate. Revitalized by his impersonation, he thanked me sincerely and left the tent. I reached for my water bottle and took a deep swallow. Perhaps I was suffering from heat exhaustion and had just imagined the entire episode.

The days were filled with incidents like this and interspersed with a kaleidoscope of impressions and adventures shared with the other Costco-ers.

One day, Jennith and I ended up on the Spanking Machine.

I had never tried or even been curious about S&M, but as Jennith and I came across the Bike Mistress sitting on her saddle, hard wire bristles radiating out from the front wheel, we thought,
Why not?

I went first, standing in front of the bike, the scary wheel a few inches from my bottom. Bike Mistress demanded in a strict voice: “How bad have you been?”

Even though I'd never experienced recreational beating, I knew instinctively my reply would impact very directly on what happened next. I thought carefully before answering. “Well, on the whole, actually I've been pretty good,” I prevaricated, “but…you know…possibly a bit bad toward the end?”

Hoping I'd said the right thing, I heard Bike Mistress turn the pedals over. And as she started to pedal, the wire spokes gently slapped against the back of my combat shorts.

As Bike Mistress began cycling harder, though, I could feel the wires start to sting. I let out a gasp: It hurt. Bike Mistress was in her element by now and pedaling faster and faster; the wire switches started slapping and biting hard into my skin.