A Friday Night Date Gone Badly…

crazy-train

I sat there, in anticipation of my Friday Night Date, at the bar admiring a glass of La “La Cuveé des Piche” (it sounded pretty rad, so I ordered the fucking thing) and couldn't look away from how the light played with the wine, as it peeked through the deep red colors. I swirled it around, inspecting it as if I had the first fucking clue as to what I was supposed to see. Is there high fructose corn syrup? Does the wine have carcinogens? No! Of course not… I was distracting myself. I was nervous; I was waiting for my date to come through the door…

This was to be our second date. Our first date was over a year ago. How's that? Look, I take things slow. Like, hyper extra super slow. Because, um, that's how you woo a woman…by using the “Slow-Play” method…okay, okay. The deal is that her and I went on one date, had great chemistry, kissed and said our goodbyes. Great, right? Wrong! The problem was with me. I didn't tell her I had a dating blog; it wasn't that I didn't tell her I had one it's that I told her I didn't have one. I lied. Why? Because I'm a nincompoop 37 year old going 13…I deserve your judgey snarls. I know this.

So, after my date called me out on my idiocy she relented and offered to go out with me again. But I was embarrassed and ashamed, so I declined to go on another date with her.

Now, I'm going to stop right here and give you this warning. This date sounds like total bullshit. I assure, it's not… That is all.

All Aboard the Crazy Train. Shit's About to Get Rail!

Fast forward almost a full year later. I hear from this lovely gal again; she reaches out to me on OkCupid of all things. She's friendly as she says “hello” and instructed me to “stay fucking hot!” A much needed ego boost, indeed. I reply and we have some back and forth; I ask her out for a drink so that I can make up for being a fuck-headed turd. So we make plans, text, phone and such in between. The chemistry is definitely there and I'm genuinely excited about this date. I haven't been excited about too many dates the past year.

So there I am, toying with my wine and I see that my date is running  a few bits late. No problem at all. Although, it does ramp up my anxiety a touch. What will I say, I wonder? Peck on the cheek? Hi five?? Fuck. I dunno. I may have consulted a magic 8 ball I had one handy, sadly, that space for magic 8 balls is reserved for the disturbing number of condoms I keep there, instead (I always buy the family pack at Costco). I just wanted this thing to get started.

And there she was; she flung the door open and she looked stunning. Tall, wearing boots, not a hair out of place. I get up to give her a hug, as I choke down a sip of wine to find that my hug was returned with a full on kiss. Her tongue found mine, slammed it around a few times and pretty much dominated the lip-lock. I was okay with this and while I savored the moment by grabbing my lower lip, I fumbled over my next words “Um, fuck. In Spring Baseball action, the Angels lost to the brewers 8 to 3…” She laughed, which was good, because that's literally all I could think to say.

We talked, held hands and it seemed liked we'd picked up where we'd left off a year ago… Which was kinda weirding me out. We shouldn't be this familiar, I kept thinking to myself…

After a few glasses of wine she suggests we head to a nearby bar and so we do. Arm-in-arm, we make the trek over, again, continuing the laughs and the good times. I'm beginning to get into this and I'm loosening up and enjoying my date's company.

We get to the bar and my date returns with two PBR Tall cans, because I'm a fucking classy motherfucker. Ok?

After some more chatter, my date looks at me and says, “Look, I don't want to waste your time here. I want a relationship with someone that I can go to the next level with; I don't need to put up with any doubts or shittyness. I want to be in a good relationship; I want a boyfriend. Too many times, I've been with guys that are just boys and they don't know what they want, or they just want to play the field. I'm over it!” I reply “Well, um, yeah. You know, uh, I'd like to be in a relationship with someone nice, too. Yep, that'd be pretty cool. If, you know a girlfriend comes out of that I guess that's pretty cool. Huh?”

My date is silent for a few moments as she sips her Tall Can and looks off… Then, she starts saying a few things, not looking at me… She's kinda agitated and by kinda I mean VERY. “You know, I don't get why so many men or actually boys; boys who don't know what they want; don't give shit about anyone but themselves and go around lying, hurting people and just being shitty. I never hurt anyone and yet I'm 35 and single!” At this point, she's causing a seen and people are looking at us… It's a loud bar and she goes on… “I'm successful at what I do, I can make rooms of 500 stand and clap for me; I bring this much money every week; I can take care of myself and guys just leave me.” I'm kinda shocked at this point, because what. the. fuck… Then, she turns her bloody gaze to me: “And, you, what the fuck is it with you anyway? We were having a nice fucking time and the first time I mention ‘girlfriend' you put up your fucking walls. Fuck you, just fuck you so much! You know, you didn't want me last year and you sure as fuck don't want me now. Thanks for wasting my fucking time, you asshole.” At that point I finally snap into damage-control mode. I calm my date down and try to soothe her in whatever way I can. We agree to get some fresh air.

Thanks for the Wine and Heavy Petting…

My date is apologizing, citing that she's a bit inebriated and I'll give her that; she'd become tipsy between the beginning and mid-portion of our date… I couldn't let go of what I'd just witnessed though and I wanted to get out of there; I wanted to go home.

That's when she asks me “Will you please take me back to my place?” She cabbed it in, apparently. So I said “no problem” and we walked toward my car and she went on about some of the shit she's dealing with… That's when I let her in on how I'm a completely fucked up person, too. We compare some notes and so on… While I was bitter about how the date had turned so sour; I wanted my date to know that we're all fucked up, trying to figure this thing out. I'm far, far from perfect and really I can't judge her because I'm a pretty douchey guy when you get down to it.

So I'm driving my date home; she's rambling on about some bullshit, I just nod, grumble my approval at whatever she's saying. We finally get to her place and she asks me to walk her to her place. And I do.

She grabs my collar and kisses me again and asks me to come up stairs with her. I kissed back. And I literally had that Angel/Devil moment where we struggled over the morality of going upstairs with this gal. One the one hand, she's a beauty; she's funny and I just knew she'd be a fun romp… But I also knew that beneath all the shit she had spewed earlier; that she was more than a “fun romp.” I knew that if I went up stairs and had sex with her that wouldn't  do anyone any good. For my part, it would be a brief bit of fun. For her, probably not and then she'd be left thinking about things after… I didn't want that for either of us. I knew that the front gate is where this trip on the Crazy Train had to end. But she persisted, clutching my forearm and running my hands underneath her dress. “I'm being really bad… I need someone to set me straight.” Yep, that's one of my true weaknesses. A woman that needs to be spanked and choked into submission… which reminds me of Cheryl/Carol or whatever, from Archer. I wanted very badly to follow my date to her place, but I stood pad. “You need to come up with me, now and make me stop being bad.” I could only reply “No, no I don't. I don't need to see more things or stop anything else here. Nope, we're good. Thank ye.” And I walked with purpose back to my car and sped off…

The next day I sent a text thanking her for the date; she sent me a text “Thanks for the wine, food, and heavy petting.” I didn't reply.

The fuck? After all that shit and I didn't get laid? Getting laid was far from the point, I'm sure you guessed. The moral of this story was pretty simple: Don't be a fucking asshole and check your baggage at the door…

Aaaand I'm pretty sure I'm dying alone.

Be sure to tune in next week where I take up becoming a vagina whisperer and pleasure some women while not getting any release for myself. Because jerking off into a sock is more satisfying goddammit.

Author profile

Alex is the founder and managing editor at the Urban Dater. Alex also runs: DigiSavvy, for which he is the co-founder and Principal. Alex has a lot on his mind. Will he ever get it right? If he does, he'll be sure to write.

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