The Worst Date

Someone asked me what the worst date I have ever been on is… and while I have plenty of stories, this one was the one that I thought of first. I am sure there may be one or two more buried in my skeleton closet.

I knew this kid from high school, Brian. So a couple years back when he moved to New York, he asked me on a date. I said yes. Brian had always been one of those nerdy guys that never had the guts to talk to a girl, so I was obviously curious how he had grown up.

Like any decent person, I had a drink before I got to dinner, so the little uptight bitch in me would chill out. Etiquette, you know? I get to dinner, we’re talking and ordering drink. We order entrees, and before I know it… Brian is hammered. Hammered. Before our entrees have even hit the table. Strrrrike One – because real men should hold their liquor. You can’t be a bitchass and get that hammered off of two scotches. Plus, your goal should be to get me a little drunk so I don’t notice your many flaws.

Then we get our food… and mid-bite he just reaches over and helps himself to my plate. His fork still had little bits of saliva and food from his place on it. Strike Two – Sloppy drunk man helping himself to my serving? Gross. Second. Time and place. This was not Albert’s Wild Wing Shack where it’s all copacetic. Plus. You can order more food if you are hungry. Stop touching mine!

So dinner is over, we leave. He’s striding ahead of me in the crosswalk. So halfway through the crosswalk, I kinda grab his arm in a cute kinda “heyyy wait up for me” kind of way. And he turns and says, completely seriously, “This is suede, don’t get your fingerprints on it.” Strike Three – Are you fucking joking me?  You’re concerned about the stupid suede jacket that you fished out of the Barney’s clearance bin on 70% off? Get more materialistic and shallow. I don’t care if that jacket is made of gold, if you won’t even let a girl touch your arm, you are going to be alone for the rest of your pathetic, shallow, and miserable life.

At this point, I am just so goddamned fed up with this colossal waste of time, so I just turn and hail a cab. I open the door, and Brian slides right in, looks at me and says, “So… my place?” EPIC MOMENT. Not only because I’m still holding the door, but because he actually thinks we will just head over to his place and I’ll fall backwards on your bed with my legs wide open? Get a grip. That shit only happens in porn.

And for anyone questioning my judgment…. I had a whiskey before I got to the date. On the date, I had two glasses of wine, a martini, and an apertif. I was at that sweet mellow spot of drinking where all the little things before forgivable… but no amount of alcohol or prescription medication would have ever made that date acceptable.

So. Anyone else up to rival this one??