It was our first date.
Do you have hair on your doink, he asked. I suffered a total loss of words. My mind raced. Oh my god, what's a doink? Is he referring to a very personal part of my anatomy? No, that couldn't be. Who'd be that rude? My face reddened. I stared at my feet. I shuffled them.
He broke the agonizing silence with a laugh. He assured me doink referred to the skin between my thumb and forefinger.
Oh, I said. I didn't share his amusement. This didn't feel like a gauche teenage attempt at humor, it felt like he had lifted the hem of my dress and peeked underneath.
So do you? he pressed. My inner intuition bristled. There was a creepy undertone to his question. What did he want me to say? The joke was over. We were over. I never wanted to see him again.