Recently, I received this text:
G’morning, Karen…I have a fun follow-up date idea, if you’re interested…
(I scramble to sign up for text-blocking before I answer – I need to wait one hour for it to kick in. I wait four.)
Hi Bob. Thank you for the drinks last night. Interesting talking to you. However, I don’t think we are suited…so I’m not interested in a 2nd. Good luck on your future dates. I wish you well.
(blocking does not kick in)
Hahahaha! No problem. I’ve long since given up trying to figure out what women think 🙂
Just between you & I though, it is a little discouraging that you’d find a couple flings more attractive options than a 6’4″ Berkeley educated genius IQ great kisser great lover versatile Renaissance man of letters, author, and peerless conversationalist who shares ur interest in old movies and who women are always calling really handsome. LOL –
Not trying to brag…just makes a guy wonder what in hell he hasta do 🙂
And makes all guys wonder why women prefer less
[I give no response]
In other words, something about me must have really rubbed you and your “new rules” the wrong way! ROTFLMFAO 🙂
ROTFLMFAO translated: Rolling On The Floor Laughing My Fuckin’ Ass Off
MY NEW RULES: Don’t sleep with anyone on the first date
…so THAT happened!
This is a story about an online date. One bad online date.
There he is. Bob. Sitting there. My online prize I had won for the night – all of his 59 year-ed, 6′-4″ body slouched into a stool and propped up over the bar. He is a prize, alright – sloppy is my immediate judgment.
In an effort to trump my nerves, I decide to speak first.
I walk up to greet him, shake his hand, and begin to maneuver the stool that is standing no further than 2 inches away from him, it seems. An uncomfortable distance. For a first date, anyway. I don’t need to smell him, just yet.
“Oh, so you don’t want to sit next to me.” He’s perturbed. Definitely not flirtatious. My innards churn while my outwards pleasantly ignore his nature. His sourness motivates me even more to move that stool at least 4 inches away – No! 10 inches, actually. I need a safe distance away from this…ahem…beast.
“This way I’m able to look at you when I talk to you,” I say.
“hmph”, I believe I detect under his breath.
– silence –
– and then more silence –
While drumming my fingers (in my head), I count down a 5-4-3-2-1-
Well, then… “How was your day, Bob?” I’m grasping for some sort of generic beginning to any kind of normal date conversation.
“What do you mean, HOW was my day? I don’t know what that means,” he says gruffly and defensively. “How was YOUR day?!”
(I seem to have hit the “I know you are but what am I” button)
A little confused and now on guard, I delicately forge ahead telling him snippets of my day, leaving out the toilet scrubbing and the binge-watching that no one needs to hear about on a first date.
I don’t even know that I hear a response from him. I’m preoccupied with my prompt resolution that he’s that kind of man who thought “Bitch!” even before I walked in.
However, being a kind person (at least I strive to be) who usually gives the benefit of the doubt, I give him a chance to redeem himself. A huge chance. A long chance.
The deal prior to this meeting is that he is supposed to bring a list of the 13 movies that he likes released after 1977. It was a double-dog dare. Because he believes only movies released prior to 1977 are the only worthwhile movies to watch. Neverthless, he accepted. So tonight I ask him about the list.
Suddenly, his demeanor changes from irritable to enthusiastic. He reaches into the breast pocket of his sports coat and pulls out a list of his all-time favorite movies. Not the list of 13 post-1977 movies. The list of 25 of his all-time favorite movies pre-1977. Three quarters of them I have never even heard of. This list is his “gift” to me. He says. Pridefully.
Don’t get me wrong. I like old movies. My favorites are anything Hitchcock and Billy Wilder. Aren’t they everybody’s? And, of course, who doesn’t love “It’s a Wonderful Life” or “Casablanca?”
So there are a couple of Wilder movies and Hitchcock movies on the list, and, of course, #1 is “It’s a Wonderful Life” and #2 is “Casablanca.” Yet, aside from those, I am not familiar with any of the rest. I start moving down the list. #1 I know. He’s suspicious that I really don’t, so he makes me name the actors. He does the same with #2. I name them. I pass his test. For every movie I am not familiar with, not only does he list the cast, he describes the plot in painstaking detail and recites lines from each character as the plot evolves. For every question I ask (trying to stay awake), he hushes me up and tells me to wait until he’s finished. I’m not even allowed to discuss the movies that I’ve seen. This takes one hour and 5 minutes to go through movie by movie. By about the 30 minute mark, I am counting the bottles of liquor behind the bar. Frontwards and backwards. Up and down. And I am trying my best to ignore the eyeballs rolling around in the bartenders’ heads in an effort not to lose it in laughter.
Okay. Well. Even though he now has no chance in hell with me, my curiosity takes full charge and is dying to know what more will unfold. So I hold-off on my bow-out.
To cope with the date, I switch my head into a “let’s watch a show” mode. I imagine myself as a handsome well-dressed man, cigar to his lips, martini in his hand, sitting back in his leather-clad chair, while pulling a lamp’s chain, switching the lamp on and off – in full control – as he watches his sex goddess before him; crawling, clawing, teasing and showing him every bit of her nakedness as he watches her perform. Never touching. Never engaging.
He is my show-goddess for the evening, my Renaissance Man of Letters. He performs brilliantly. His emotional nakedness. His raw candor. All laid out for me to watch. And I watch. I listen. However, as much as I want to bask in the entertainment, I can’t help but seesaw between the feelings of disdain and pity for this man. I feel a bit sad for him, actually.
Anyway, I have nothing else to do this evening, so why not? Plus, I’m not letting him get away with not paying for the wine.
The evening moves along:
He wants to play a game: What Actor Would You F***. (I fail at this – I don’t name an actor who isn’t dead yet)
His take on why accountants are evil. (his ex is an accountant)
Corrects me. (I should have said/I could have said)
Berates me. (I need to compliment him on his eyes like most women do if I want him to like me)
Talks about the books he wrote. (he refuses to tell me the titles)
I think, maybe, at some point in the conversation I’ll get:
What do you do? Where do you live? Where did you grow up? How many kids do you have? What are your favorite books? Not even a: What are your favorite movies?
Yep after that one hour and 5 minutes of all that movie crap…he still does not know what movies I like.
He never asks.
What he does ask is, “What are the details of your affairs after your break up?”
“You have to earn those details,” I say. (none of your god damn business)
Immediately, he dismisses what I have to say and launches into a diatribe of a few online dates he’s had. Exhaustively and Pridefully. Here’s the lowdown:
Cuban Girl – 3 year relationship. She had 5 children and the flattest stomach of anyone he’s ever known. She was beautiful. Couldn’t kiss. After a month with him, though, she was the best kisser he’s ever been with. It ended with extreme jealousy on her part, because she was so afraid that all women were looking at him and wanting to sleep with him because he was so handsome. So he must be sleeping with them. (I’d love to hear her side)
Blond Girl – 1-1/2 year relationship. She told him she’s going back to her ex-husband. It’s been a year since they broke up, he doesn’t understand why she’s still not back with her ex-husband. (duh! best breakup excuse ever)
German Girl – her “German sounds” annoyed him. After meeting her mother, he realized she will never get rid of her “German sounds” so he broke up with her. (Her accent)
Loose Vagina Girl – slept with her once. Never again. Hence…the title. (How big is his penis…or rather, how small?)
Vaginal Rejuvenation Girl – “all women disclose everything to me on the first date” (oh, really? I can’t get a word in edgewise)
Beautiful Girl – “Model-like.” Begged him to sleep with her. He declined. Her voice was too monotone. (Model, sure. I bet she was a damn good actress too)
HPV Girl – She told him she had HPV on the very first date. (She probably wanted to scare him away)
I now have to participate in some way. So I tell him that if he expects to sleep with someone on the first date, HPV girl probably wanted him to use a condom. He can’t have been more offended. He has never, will never and despises anyone who expects him to wear a condom.
To which I say, “Well, how do you know all these women don’t have an STD?”
To which he says, “I know ‘cause they tell me so.”
To which I say, “How do you know they’re telling the truth?”
To which he says, “I only pick women that I trust.”
To which I say, “How do you know that you can trust them?”
To which he says, “I’m the best judge of character I know”
To which I say, “What happens if they don’t know they have an STD?”
To which he hmphs, “Karen, do you have an STD?”
To which I say, “Not that I know of.”
To which he says, “Seeeee!”
Wait, what? I thought this guy had a genius IQ…what the heck happened to his logic? OMG! This guy is C-R-A-Z-Y!!!
If that’s not bad enough, I get in trouble a lot throughout this date:
Writing on the back of his 25 favorite movie list (I have no respect for the “gift” he gave me)
My rule of not sleeping with someone on the first date – stupid and nonsensical (puts me in the queue right behind HPV girl – “rules girl”)
Not doing the things that would make him happy on the first date (Am I a mind reader – and a sucker?)
Not accepting his advances. (blahyuk)
Disgusted by my funny life theories and my outlook on life. (I should be an automaton)
So, finally, when the date comes to:
1. “You’re the smartest girl I’ve dated from Match, but you have to admit that guys are a lot smarter than girls, generally, and more superior. It’s just nature.”
2. “You look a lot better now than when you walked through that door,” while holding his 3rd glass of win.
The date is over! “Check please!”
“Is this on you?” I say.
“What would make me look better?” he says.
“It’s on you.” I say.
“Okay, it’s on me.”
Just like that the date ends…
…until I get that text the very next day.
Ciao for now!