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My Dinner With Sven by Bandanna
Sven was bipolar: he told me so on our first date. I was sitting on
his bed, struggling to pull my boot off so I could adjust my sock
before our walk to the restaurant. "I just wanted to explain in case
I start to act . . . weird," he told me. He explained that he had
stopped taking his medication recently and was "unpredictable".
"It's no big deal," I said.
Sven was attractive to me in many ways: He was twenty-five and a lifelong
student, currently working on his second Ph.D. (I love a man without
a plan). His room was full of books and he was a published author.
He had a nice bicycle and skinny arms. He'd been my Friendster for a
few months before we decided to meet up, exchanging witticisms.
Next Sven introduced me to his very nice roommate, who offered me a
beer. "Sure," I said, and sat on the arm of the couch while I sipped
it. Sven vanished into the bathroom and returned a moment later with
a jumbo-sized, sealed bottle of Pepto-Bismol, which he proceeded to
open and consume in great gulps. He then put on his coat and
motioned to the door, so I followed suit with my Negro Modelo,
finishing it too quickly and giving myself the hiccups.
"Do you . . . have a stomachache?" I asked Sven, as we took off at a
brisk pace.
"I'll tell you at the restaurant," he said cryptically.
The waiter set down the wine list and I reached for it, but Sven
handed it right back. "I don't drink," he said to me. "Oh... but if
you want to."
"No, water will be fine," I said through gritted teeth.
Before we had opened our menus, Sven explained. "I don't drink
alcohol because I have a rare stomach disorder. I drank when I was
younger, but on a trip to Germany once I suddenly came down with
terrible diarrhea. Awful. Just... everywhere."
I sipped my water and wished he would stop saying "diarrhea".
He went on. "I was dehydrated from all the diarrhea, so I went to
the hospital. And guess what? Rare stomach disorder. So rare they
named it after me!"
During dinner, he found opportunity to mention diarrhea several more
times. He also asked me about my profile pictures.
"You seem thinner in some of them," he said.
"I've gained some weight recently," I agreed lightly. It was true —
since I'd gotten my stressful job, I'd put on around ten pounds.
"Maybe you gained weight so that men will find you less attractive,"
he mused, downing his fourth glass of water.
As we left, Sven handed me a copy of his book to read while he
visited the men's room. I was able to read twenty or so pages of
bizarre scatologically-obsessed surrealist garbage before he came
out, his eyes watering and looking smug. "I think I got it all out,"
he said, referring to his dinner.
After that night, I did call him — but not for another date. Upon my
arrival home I realized that he had stolen my wallet from the pocket
of my coat. He admitted that he had, but, he said, "Only so I could
photocopy your license." I told him to keep it.
***
The Tongue by Katie Blais
I have had my share of bad dates, but there is one that takes the cake. I met a guy at a bar one night, he seemed pretty normal. We made out at the end of the night and we exchanged numbers. He texted me the next day to see if I wanted to hang out. It was Sunday; I thought why not. Well, I got to his house, we had a few drinks, and I was thinking this was the precursor to the date. Oh no. This was the date, and after a few beers, when we were sitting watching TV, he leaned over and told me he wanted to have sex. I laughed it off and said I didn't have sex on the first date. He said, okay .... how about you just take off your clothes? I told him I didn't really like hanging out naked. I should have left at this point, but for some reason I didn't. We went back to watching TV, started kissing, ended up in his bedroom where he told me he wanted to — and this is verbatim — "fall asleep with his tongue in my cunt." At this point, I started laughing, reached for my clothes, and left. I never talked to him again, but to this day I still have a mental picture of a guy sleeping with his tongue in my nether region. I can't think of anything more uncomfortable.
***
Bad Date With Squirrel Boy by Erica Sarr
Though the back story is equally tragic/hysterical, here is the actual date.
I meet him at his place. While in the car, he starts rattling off a list of restaurants we can go to because he's got coupons. I tell him to choose, which leads us to a greasy Cajun pit stop where my charming date spits out a bite of frog leg on me when I tell him what it is.
We go to drop the leftovers at his place because he wants to show off his apartment (Yeah, sure you do). While giving me the tour, he tries to give me a kiss, which might have been okay, but goes from kiss to hand between the legs faster than a Lear jet. This earns him a smack. In an attempt to regain smoothness, he goes to his computer, cued to the music video for "Take My Breath Away" by Berlin. Cheesy '80s music in a room literally wallpapered with Star Wars figures and leopard-print sheets on the bed. Be still my beating heart.
As I start to leave, his dad comes home. I get shunted onto the balcony while Romeo gets a lecture for having girls over without permission. He's twenty-seven and obviously never mentioned living with daddy. However, after his loud reprimand, I agree to go for one drink because he looks so humiliated.
The chosen locale is a dingy karaoke bar where he is a regular and the bartender keeps replacing my drink whenever my back is turned. I finally notice when my rum and coke is completely clear and impossibly strong. My date takes a sip and replies, "No, it's good. You can't taste the rohypnol." Not funny. He then dedicates a song "to his pretty date." The song? "The Ballad of Chasey Lane" by the Bloodhound Gang. Again, not funny.
I demand to go get my car, but when I stand up, I'm quite sure I'm drunk. Unfortunately, cabs are impossible in our town, so I'll have to get home myself. We head back to his place, where I go directly into the bathroom to douse myself with cold water to sober up enough to drive.
I come out to our hero, naked, stroking the most unprepossessing male equipment I've ever seen. Perhaps I'm spoiled, but "sad" was the only adjective that came to mind viewing this tiny creature sheltering under a heretofore well-disguised gut, like a squirrel under a boulder.
"It's okay, baby. It's a Chihuahua cock. It'll bark and scare all those big black dicks away."
"What?"
"Or I could fuck you up the ass. Come on, you won't even feel it."
I grabbed my purse and bolted. The next day, he called all our friends, saying what a success the date was. As icing on the cake, when I said I wasn't interested in going out again, he burst into full on sobbing and hung up.
What's scary is I have other dates that may tie this one.
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