Back in my single days, I dated my share of
borderline psychotic unique guys.
Steve Bill (all names have been changed to protect each yahoo’s privacy), who, midway through a movie, stretched his eyelids open with his thumb and index finger and placed his eyeball directly on my bare knee. It wasn’t as slimy as you might think, but way, way creepier.
Then there was
Connor Paul, who made the most glorious exit of any man I’ve ever met. We met up for dinner downtown, and afterward he walked me to my car. I opened my door, and standing behind it, I leaned over to give him a quick peck goodbye. He backed away from me, grandly blowing kisses with both hands over and over. His wide open body language only accentuated the obviousness of the tiny erection that was tenting his pants.
But neither of these guys had anything on
Paulo Bob. Oh Bob. If there were a trophy for Worst Date of the Century, you would trip over it while singing “Let’s Get Married.”
Let’s see, where do I begin? He picked me up at my apartment in some sort of Honda sedan. It was a perfectly respectable car, but for some reason, he felt the need to tell me that his “real” car was a BMW, but unfortunately he was having it detailed at the moment and wouldn’t get it back until Monday. Ummm…that’s great?
Next, we arrived at the Kennedy Center. He said he was taking me to the Opera. I’d never been to an opera before, so I thought, “Neato! I can see what all the fuss is about!” Parking cost somewhere around ten dollars, but that wasn’t nearly expensive enough for Bob to impress me. He pulled out a stack of $100 bills. He fanned them out in front of me. He removed one and handed it to the eye-rolling attendant, and waited for his change.
Imagine Bob’s surprise when he discovered that there was no opera playing at the Kennedy Center that evening. It was the Kennedy Center! Washington’s epicenter of culture and hoity-toitiness! Don’t they have have an opera here every night? “No,” replied the tired-looking reception desk guy. But they did have a stand up comedy show. Bob decided that an evening among entertaining riff raff would have to do.
Next, he took me to dinner at some Italian place I can’t remember. He didn’t even try to hide his disappointment that the wine I ordered was less than ten dollars a glass. And of course (you can probably guess this part), he made sure to show me the check.
He drove me home at about twenty-five miles per hour. I couldn’t get away from him fast enough, so I pointed out that he could increase his speed by at least 30 MPH without breaking the law. He said, “Oh, right,” and stepped on the gas with about a milligram’s more force.
The next thing I knew, Bob picked up my hand and placed it on his arm. I said, “What are you doing?”
“Oh, I just wanted you to feel my muscle,” he replied.
I’m serious. Dead serious.
He called me the next day. I did not answer. He continued to call. I continued to ignore him. He left me ever more desperate voice mails.
“Why aren’t you calling me back? I thought we had a nice time.”
“You owe me a phone call. This is preposterous!”
“What kind of person are you? How can you not like me? I did everything right!”
“You are evil and I hope I never see you again!”
“I’m sorry. Please call me back. I just want to know where I went wrong.”
“Please, Nicole. I don’t know where my mistake was. Just give me a critique so I can avoid repeating it on future dates.”
All we were missing was a rabbit in a pot, folks.
After about a week of this, I did finally answer the phone just to get him off my back. He begged me for notes on his date performance. All I could say was, “Bob, honestly, you were so desperate to impress me, it went beyond the absurd. And your voice mails made me want to take out a restraining order. If you can’t see where that would turn a girl off, I’m not sure I can help you.”
Then I got a burglar alarm, just in case.
Do you have any bad date stories to share? I’d love to hear from you!