The Date From Hell

The worst date on record. Blind date at that. This was many, many years ago, but it seems like it was yesterday cuz it was so bloody awful. I recount it now for your amusement because I love you so, sweet reader. Enough time has passed that I can now see the humor, but telling it still sends a shudder through me.

I know dude is tall and plays basketball. That’s about it. Okay, great. I’m 6’2” so it’s rare to be the actual shorty in the room. The shortest shorty, if you will. Well, he walks into the place and has to duck to get in the door. He is 7’ tall. 10” above me. Holy fucking crap. Now if he were Shaq, that 10” difference would not have been so shocking, but he was more in the Larry Bird category. You know, those tall-ass dudes that look like someone stretched their bodies on a rack till they got thinner and longer and thinner and longer. Standing up, their shoulders are so damn high up its painful to even think about it. Altitude changes for feck’s sake. I am not really sure how I could even put my arms around his neck, to be honest. Nothing fit together in the proper places, if you see what I mean.

And horror of horrors he has a stuffed animal in his hand. Oh god, I wanna bolt from the room. Somehow that powerful Mother-instilled training keeps my big white ass cemented in the chair with a painfully polite smile plastered to my face. He is giving me the little teddy bear. Oh. My. God. He collapses his crazy tall praying mantis body down into the chair, and happily tells me that he wrote a poem for me. Oh. My. God. People, my absolute worstest idea of a man is one who gives a girl cute little stuffed animals and bad poems. Mother’s training vs. an urge to hurl. He read me his poem. It was long. Somehow I was present enuf to gather that he thought we were gonna be hella special, really meaningful-like, and that he couldn’t wait to get on with the future with me. Geez, talk about a boner kill. Although there was no boner present, at least not on my end. Oh! But wait! It gets better! Truly!

Next came the interview. He basically interviewed me for the wifey position. Swear to fucking god. His primary concern was whether or not I could cook really well. The question was, could I throw down?! For real do.’ Oh, gentle reader, I was in such hell. He kept asking me these inappropriate questions, then staring at me keenly with an expectant look on his face. What the fuck? This was new territory. Aside from achieving the surprising feat of remaining in my seat (thank you for that, Mother), I had no idea how to react. My only true response was to bolt, or to at least duck, cover, and hold, and preferably duck into a bar at the other end of the street. But there I was, making nice with Mister-Stretch-Soon-To-Be-Husband-Stuffed-Animal-Bad- Poetry-Man. And, oh yes, there was something making it worse. I knew the bartender and he was watching this heinous scenario play out. How great to have him act as witness! All we needed was a Justice of the Peace, for feck’s sake. Jeez, I think I was even wearing a creamy white kind of sweatery thing, so at least I was dressed appropriately. Again, probably my Mother’s influence at a subconscious level. At this stage there was a loud buzzing in my head, so I am not totally sure of all that he said. I think he asked how often I cleaned house. Yeah, I know.

THEN… yes there’s more. I had to suffer through it in person, so the least you can do is grin and bear it. Stay with me here. Next dude is telling me the saddest thing ever: all of his immediate family had died in a car crash a few years prior. I have no idea how to respond to this. Holy crap, what can you say when you hear something like that, a thing which requires great compassion and understanding, but you are in a state of shock from teddy bear fluff and bad poetry foof and cooking question crap? And remember, there was that loud buzzing in my head, so clarity was not really an option. I am sure that I murmured something fairly understanding and articulate because, as we know, my Mother raised me right. Now, in retrospect, I understand that I was actually being interviewed for the position of HIS Mother. Although I doubt he was very clear about that fact. Oh man, it makes my stomach hurt just thinking about it.

So I can’t even feel bad date contempt for him because…well…he suffered this horrible tragic loss and was obviously emotionally scarred at a very deep level and needed saving and help and surely I was the woman with solid child-bearing hips and great cooking skills who loved fluff-n-puff little bears and sweet little icky poems about ever-lasting love and togetherness and of course I was that one who could pull him from the wreckage that was his life and make him feel better and erase all those years of pain and loss. Apparently, I was his savior. Finally, my life purpose had been revealed to me.

But I was having none of it. Bless him in his quest, but I was scared out of my mind and officially feeling panicky as I tried to figure out how to escape. The truth is that I have no idea how I made my exit. Next thing I know, I am in my car, breathing heavily cuz I ran, and I have the little bear and poem in my hand. Oh god, does it never end, I thought to myself and I shifted into gear and got the hell out of Dodge. Of course now, I wished I had saved that awful poem, just as a relic of my almost-savior status.

Dreadful. Truly. And that is the story of my worst date ever. But I will see you and raise you the worst-ever sex story because it is just too deliciously awful not to mention. And it is real. This one isn’t mine though, it’s Johnny Boy’s. You may remember Johnny, sweet Johnny, the baddest lesbian boi on the planet. JB, as we’ll call her, was fucking this chick for the first time. We’ll call this chick TA, for reasons which will soon because quite apparent. Okay, so fucking is happening in that hottie girl-on-girl action kind of way, cuz everyone knows JB got some skills. JB begins fisting this girl. Well. You know how most people moan, or do a sexy whimper, or call your name when they get going? This TA chick starts singing Tori Amos. Swear to fucking god. Now that is one hell of a boner kill, ladies and gentleman. I don’t care if you are a butch daddy or the straightest hetero bloke around; a Tori Amos song trumpeted during the hottest part of sex will knock any thrill to the ground and pound it into the carpet till it disappears into a pitiful little puff of smoke. Tori Amos song. I kid you not. I could not even make this up! And now let me tell you why I love Johnny Boy. What does s/he do when bitch starts singing that crap? Stops dead in her tracks, yanks her fist out of that girly’s nether regions, and leaves. Yes, leaves. She just kissed TA on the cheek and walked out. Without a word. Now that is one smart kid there, folks. Because where can it go from there? Will she move on to Indigo Girls when you strap one on and fuck her in the ass? Tracy Chapman while you spank her? Oh, it’s all bad. Johnny Boy did the right thing by just bolting with her hand still wet. Exit, stage left!

See? I told you it was good. I have made Johnny tell me that story a few times, cuz it makes me just chortle with glee, especially since there are very explicit hand gestures that accompany the telling. Truth is always stranger than fiction, right? Right.

I am gonna start collecting these kind of stories. Delicious, every one. Painful, but delicious.