Dating FAIL: Your Stories

Awkward dates. Crazy dates. Bad dates. We’ve all had ‘em. And then we’ve got one or two that just top ‘em all. This is where you share.

Don't get me wrong, I like still dating. It's like hunting with my genitals while hidden under a Ghillie suit comprised of gentle smiles, etiquette and carefully crafted conversation. It’s getting a chance to start over with someone new. Tell your story. It’s a grand adventure exploring another person that could, if you play your cards right, end in some pretty spectacular oral sex on their couch. Dating is a lot like that old saying about pizza: even when it’s bad, it’s still kinda good. I’m glad I’ve had shitty dates. Without the lows, we don't appreciate the highs. Um, yeah, whatever.

Alright... let's do this thing:

Deceptive Photo Organ Harvester Apartment Girl
aka
HOW I LEARNED YET AGAIN THAT IF A PHOTO LOOKS OLD, YOU REQUEST A RECENT ONE​

Got a message from her via OKCupid at 2 AM on a Saturday night while drinking Jim Beam (my least favorite beverage on the planet but I somehow ended up with a whole bottle). She had some pretty dated looking pictures of a hot, spunky-looking girl in a tank top hanging out in a tree like some Amazon warrior. After talking about cats and favorite desserts, the conversation progressed to more racy things. It always does in the middle of the night; it’s gotta be a law somewhere. I agreed to meet up with her at her place the next week on a Friday after I got out of one of my evening college classes involving lofty discussion of one of the following Amendments: 4th-5th-6th. I was pretty excited. The idea that I could hang out with a cute girl that could climb trees and operate the shift key in casual conversation held a lot of promise. She said she'd make dinner. Awesome. Sold.

Fast forward to that Friday night. It’s late. I’m standing outside her apartment door. Deep breath. Knock on the door. Shake out the shoulders. Exhale. Door opens a crack. Cute face, nice smile. Door opens the rest of the way. ...the fuck? Body like a pile of overstuffed duffel bags. I’m not even kidding when I say each one of her thighs were quite literally the size of my ~40” chest. She was a huge pear shape on the order of 200 pounds. And, yeah, she definitely hadn’t been up in any trees in a while. Twas the same face from the pic but definitely not the same body. I mean, that took some time.

My brain entered in super tactical Jason Bourne mode. Whatever. Roll with it. Smile. I enter. Smells okay, not like pet urine or sweaty balls. I instantly notice there’s no furniture though; nothing on the walls, no boxes, zero signs of occupation. Okay, why is there no furniture? My brain enters slasher film land. Mother of God. Please don’t let there be a tarp on the floor in one of the lit-like-a-morgue bedrooms. And I left my pistol in the car. Great. She’s going to hit me with a TASER and take my teeth and toes. I’m a huge horror movie fan and I’ve fallen for the oldest trick in the book. This is also where I relearned that you never, never-ever meet someone at their place for a first date. Men can be victims of rape. Or homicide.

“So, I’ve seen rural Afghanis with more furniture. You just move in?” “No, I’m just never home so I figured furniture wasn’t a huge priority.” Further into the apartment I saw the tiny dining set. Thank God. Chairs. A table. I may have stepped into a Silence of the Lambs sequel but that doesn't mean I can't sit down for a spell, right? She was messing around in the kitchen (which had this weird OCD vibe to it for reasons I couldn't quite place).

If she had offered me a beer, I would have downed it in a single gulp. She made, uh… uh… we’ll call it stir fry. Now, I’ll be the first to admit that I’m not a culinary genius, guys. A good portion of the last decade of my life was spent eating military rations. Cold. Mushy. Salted. Shit a starving dog wouldn’t be interested in. I've killed a chicken and cooked its poorly plucked headless carcass in a coffee can over a fire. But the meal she cooked was abysmal. She must have been in the frozen goods section for hours trying to pick out the one package of strip steak that was guaranteed to contain 98% gristle. The vegetables were already victims of freezer-burn back sometime before Kurt Cobain killed himself and their burst cell walls were reloaded with enough soy sauce to mummify a small child. I drank three tall glasses of tap water to try and wash the foul taste out of my mouth to no avail. Our conversation revolved around what we did for a living and other safe topics. My stomach protested the "meal." My ass was protesting the hard wooden chair but I wasn't about to remove the table barrier from the equation. And where would I go? Not like she had a couch or anything.

Just then my savior sauntered in from one of the empty bedrooms. My feline hero. An orange tabby that heard talking humans and decided he needed to worm his way into an orgy of delicious backrubs and mindless cooing. I can’t remember what the cat’s name was (something weird, perhaps Sparticus or Karl Von Jitterpaws) but he definitely gave me something innocent to focus on for the next hour. I wasn’t trying to be rude to her but she was kinda creepy with her deceptive photo and the totally empty apartment wasn’t making me feel too good about where this was going. I’ve heard stories about douchebag frat boys taking all the chairs out of their living areas so female guests have no choice but to sit on the bed with them while drinking The Beast and watching a JCVD DVD. I never thought someone would take it so far as to rid their entire apartment of furniture to make the bed the only seating option. What is up with the no couch thing, woman? Casual conversation about travel and hobbies continued as I sprawled out on the center of the living room floor like an overgrown kindergartner to play with Cuthbert McSnagglepaws and avoid any romantic interludes. She showed me some funny YouTube videos on her fancy smartphone. I will forever associate that evening with "I'm Fucking Matt Damon."

So, yeah, there I was: lying on the floor in her otherwise empty apartment, playing with her attention whore cat and desperately trying to avoid any type of extended eye contact or playful banter that may lead her to jump my bones. I’ll never be mistaken for a Don Juan (I’m mostly clueless about women aside from the location of the clitoris and a vague idea that they have something called "feelings") but this girl was making way too much lip-licking eye contact and doing the fun-touch thing women do when they’re interested in more than conversation. She wanted to make out... or something. I did not. There was a point in my life where I was benching sets of 225, sure, but it didn’t involve the distraction of coitus. Or survival. Totally not even interested in being suffocated. I did want to abduct her cat, though. He was totally digging me. We had a real bond.

At 22 or 23 I decided I’d stayed long enough to not feel like a complete dickhead. Thanked her for the "fantastic" dinner that was threatening to explode from my gullet like the failed Challenger mission that claimed those seven poor astronauts. Told her I had something manly to do in the early morning (ya know, run a half marathon with a baby ‘gator around my neck) and that it was nice to hang out with her and her gnarly cat. She looked a little disappointed that I didn't feed her some total lie about how maybe we'd hang out again sometime or that I'd call her or whatever. A few days later online I told her that it would behoove her to get a used futon or something so that future dates wouldn’t be so awkward (physically, anyway) and post full body shots so as to prevent any deception. If I have to post pictures of my peanut head and stereotypical grey movie alien physique, she should post what she's like so she can find a dude that is into that and save everybody a lot of time and trouble. Never talked to her again.

...

Okay, TFP... I've spilled one of mine. What are your war stories?

 

What a darling little story. You're a dear man for not running immediately or doing a "Sorry, I must have the wrong apartment" She'd certainly have had that coming. I hate deception but understand the bizarre notion instilled upon us that the morbidly weird and obese must never know we regard them as such.

Can't top it. Won't try.

I'm in my late 20's and had just started working in the credit dept at Timex. After a week of being leered at by the company's randy CFO, I finally succumb and agree to go out on a date with him. I figure, if nothing else, he's rich and I'll get a fabulous dinner out of the deal.

He takes me to a local diner, obviously thinking I just blew into town and wouldn't recognize it for the scum hole everyone knew it to be. The food sucked and the conversation revolved around his "fucking" ex-wife. He tipped the waitress about 5% of the bill and whisked me back to his older model Volvo. I was ready to end the date but didn't say so. I wouldn't hesitate these days but back then I was unable to castrate a man who'd bought me dinner, despite it's cost. We head to his place. I'm still hoping to be awed by something. Did I mention he was a bit older than me? Early 40's maybe. Graying temples, nice suits, good teeth, not a half bad physique. A man with these attributes must have some pretty decent digs. I put the diner experience behind me and looked forward to his marble foyer, lush leather furniture and a bedroom comparable to a king's chamber. I'd pretty much decided I wasn't going to have sex with him but I'd probably let him roll me around his bed for a little while.

We pulled into an apartment complex that convinced me I'd have to take a shower as soon as I got home. Now I'm really ready to end the date but still, I say nothing. I was single and struggling but somehow had nicer place to live than this guy. The place was dark, even after he turned the lights on. Dingy walls, shabby antique furniture, stained carpeting. Yuck. It suddenly occurred to me that his "fucking" wife really had reamed him bad. I soon discovered the possible reason they were no longer together. Within minutes he'd downed 2 shots of whiskey, then 2 more, and a few more. All the while trying to get me to go with him into his bedroom. I politely refused each time until he was too drunk to continue asking. I hunted around in the gloom for a phone and called a cab.

The following Monday at work? He never mentioned a word of it. I think he'd been through the same scenario at least a few times before.

 

Plan9, your story brought this to mind immediately....


Does she look familiar?

 

This guy on OKC sent me a message inviting me to dinner and a Wagner opera (The Birds) with him. Already had the tickets, had a schedule, everything, so I said yes-- I like it when men have plans.

So we go to this nice dinner (which he pays for-- usually on the first date I'll insist on covering my half of the meal but the restaurant he picked was so fancy I warned him in advance that I couldn't cover my side of things), then hit the show (Germans shouldn't sing anything but death metal), and when he's dropping me at my car he flat out asks if I'm coming back to his place with him. I gave him no intentional impression of potential sexual intimacy. So I told him no.

Then he asked if I was sure. Sigh.

I left and immediately went on another first date with another OKC guy. (Who I did sleep with because he had some degree of intelligence.)

Another OKC date sometime later. He's cute, he's witty, he dresses well. His profile shows a height of 6', which is cool (though I really don't mind dating shorter than my 5'9"), so we meet up.

He's a little late-- no biggie, I'm usually early and nearly always have a book with me, so I don't mind.

But I was doing this thing where my chair was facing the entry to the restaurant and I was watching people walk in and I'm joking (internally) with myself whenever a new guy comes in that this new guy is my date and then the Winner of All Time for Hysterical Dates walks in because it's this weird looking hipster kid wearing a powder blue sweater-vest thing and he's 5'2" (if that) and I'm cracking up (internally, again) but then he waves at me.

So I take a moment to mentally reconfigure the night and decide that, even though he lied on his profile, I'm going to see how things develop, maybe make a new friend or something. Things go fine for the meal-- nothing stellar, but as we start wrapping things up he asks me if I want to go to a club with him immediately. I tell him no, that I'm tired, that I have work, that it's okay. He responds with a "Okay, well if you don't want to go to the club, do you want to come home with me?" And I tell him no, thank you. But he keeps asking. So I start walking.

He follows me all the way to my car-- half a block away, nearly begging me to go home with him. I keep telling him no, finally get in my car and drive off.

 

Powder Blue Wee One is pretty funny. Lying about 1"? Stupid. Lying about 10"? Jesus.

And all these dudes expect a fuck on the first date? That's just crazy.

 

One Particularly memorable date was one in which I felt like I was on a date with the bald younger brother of The Dude from The Big Lebowski.

We'd met halfway between us which was a 2 hour public transit trek for me. The guy was 45 minutes late, but I was at the restaurant and not going to just leave after taking so long to get there. Once he showed up, we proceeded to expend the most awkward 90 minute lunch date I've ever had. Thank God it was Packers vs Bears football game day, so I had an excuse to be distracted.

The worst part of the date was the lack of eye contact and saying DUDE all the time. He made eye contact with me all of 6 times in 90 minutes, which works out to roughly once every 15 minutes. Shifting locations and asking direct questions did nothing to improve that rate.

 

2001 TX, met a girl on loveAOLonline or something like those classified dating sites. She sent a CA girl looking blonde pictures of herself and seemed very upbeat. My type of girl is smart and overall happy, sparky, sunny and smiley.
This is before digital cams were affordable or small so people had to scan real photos and not everybody had a scanner, so I would venture that 50% of my online contacts had a digital photo of themselves, and some were simply an older photo of their wedding or somethign with the EX MSpainted out poorly.

So I am ready to meet ms blonde and bubbly at the Barnes and Noble, figuring if she doesnt show, I at least have chocolate cake, coffee and free books to myself. Well.........
This girl says oh HI REMY! yet she was wearing ALL BLACK leather, biker-ish, and had black hair and semi white kinda crack addict skin going on.
The first words out of her mouth were "I KNOW I DONT LOOK LIKE MY PHOTO" !!!!! say what? then why didnit you say that when you emailed it to me????

ahhh, Like Joniemack, I just played polite till it was over.

--------------------
I have had plenty of the crazy date type of stuff, so much that I half expected it. When I happened upon a normal girl I was in shock, waiting for the other shoe to drop by the end of the night. When it didnt I wanted to marry her.

 

Nice. She lives in the same city my sister lives in.

Wonder if I'll run into her.

That'd be fun. Unlike you guys, I never had a problem to call fat people fat.

 

Shame on you Remixer. Say 5 Hail Mary's and call your mother.

 

I had a bad okc date a few months ago.

Went out for coffee after a few messages. He's going to school to be a librarian. After we met, he seemed like a smart guy but a bit off. After 10 minutes of talking and sipping coffee at a table he said, "Wow, you're really pretty." It would normally be sweet, but he was putting off some creepy vibes, so it just made me nervous. I tried to smile and be polite and say thanks.

We talked a bit more, he brought up the new portal 2 game. I said I was really looking forward to getting a chance to play it and he invited me back to his house to check it out. I politely declined, said I was too busy. He pushed. I declined again and changed the subject.

Finally, he switched gears, talked a bit more. I got up to leave and he asked me again to come check out portal 2 at his place! Eventually, after him bugging me a few more times on okc, I said something bitchy and he called me a bunch of names and then blocked me.

 

Newsflash: He wanted to shove his finger into your Portal 2.

 

Don't get your panties in a bunch, Granny.

EDIT: Condescension will have you made fun of. *waves index finger at you*

 

I had a bad date, it ended in marriage

 

I really don't want to know where the other side of that portal leads too. The light at the end of that tunnel scares me.

 

I remember this time that I was trolling OKCupid pretending to be a chick. I found some drunk guy that seemed sort of interesting and invited him over to "my place" for a home-cooked meal. Thing is, I'm a guy and "my place" is an apartment I keep on the side for my ... Dexter-like activities.

Before he shows up, I put on my fat suit and wig. It's a great disguise and it lets me see how my "gentlemen callers" are going to react under pressure. Now, "my place" is pretty much empty except for a dinette set and a bed that's got all my playthings ready (the usual: restraints, knives, circular saws, lye. You know, tools of the trade.). I'm not a very good cook, but I pulled out the remnants of my last "gentleman caller" and whipped up some of my famous stir-fry. Well, I really shouldn't call it "famous" because it's chocked full of arsenic and other fun things, so the folks that eat it usually don't get a chance to tell anyone about it. Anywho, this guy must have had a cast iron stomach or been the Dread Pirate Roberts come to life (there was quite a bit of iocane powder in there, so it's logical), because he never even stumbled.

I guess that the neighbor's cat that I "borrowed" got out of it's cage, and just as I'm about to walk up behind my guy to give him a backrub/TASER to the neck, he bends over and picks up the cat. He spends the rest of the night trying to avoid eye contact. I don't know about you, but I need to look someone in the eye when I'm about to dismember them and turn them into filets and taco meat.

 

Hahaha! Awesome!

 

*unscathed - has been called worse by real men*

 

I must preface this post by saying although my visual aids may embellish slightly, the story did actually happen.

THE PROLOGUE
The year is 1991- I ride the train to college. It's Casimir Pulaski Day, and the high school has the day off. As the train stops one town over, I see "M.K.", a girl one year younger than me waiting for the train to pass. During high school, I never paid much attention to her, as she was your typical wallflower/Plain Jane who looked like she was 12 when she was 17.

It's her, but she had... blossomed.

She wore her hair differently, had makeup on and had a great rack generally looked like a real woman! I swore that if I ever had the chance, I would ask her out!

THE STORY
It's now 1998, and I run into M.K.'s sister, and I ask if M.K.'s seeing anyone, and the answer is no- I get her number, and tell her sister I'm calling!

I do call, and we talk for a bit about old times, and I get a date at the end of the conversation. I show up at her house, and get greeted by...

...something.

First, she's put on quite a bit of weight, and her blue velvet shirt does not flatter her. Her ass has the contours of an Idaho potato. Her hair has been dyed purple, and she has so much lipstick on that for a moment, I want to ask if her lips are hemorrhaging.

The date is tremendously disappointing.

Our talk consists mostly of me asking what her interests are, hoping to find common ground, and her answers which are conversation-killers. ("I hate travel", "I only watch comedies", "I love to argue, because it keeps the relationship alive.") Her career includes working at gas stations or being unemployed.

I keep wishing for a meteor to strike me dead, but there's never one handy when you need one. Eventually I find a reason to excuse myself ("I need to end this date early.") and make good my escape.


My co-workers want to know how the date went- here's a transcript:
Co-workers: So, how did your date go?
Me: Not well- we don't have too much in common or similar interests.
Co-workers: Aw, you can't judge a person on just one date! You have to give it another chance!
Me: Did I mention she has a fat butt?
Co-workers: WHAT? Aw, dump that bitch. You don't need someone like THAT in your life!

I spend a good amount of time mulling over how someone could go through such an impressive cycle of physical changes in eight years.


Ten years later, she would send me a friend request on FaceBook, which I would smoothly reject. Call me classy.