Stranded by Reese's Pieces

I was twenty, and fairly clueless. I met Marty online; he was in his late twenties. He lived about three hours away from me. We went out once and I had fun, so we planned a second date. He called me on the day we were to meet to tell me that his car had broken down as he was leaving the highway. He was only about twenty minutes from my house. I was living with my aunt and uncle at the time, and they went with me to pick him up.

I was hoping we'd go out to dinner or something, but he immediately hit it off with my aunt and uncle and decided to give them an impromptu concert in the living room (he was a singer/songwriter). They loved his music — I thought it was lame — and they decided he was surely the guy for me. I was beginning to have my doubts. But as they cheerfully applauded him, they said, to my horror, "that was wonderful! Feel free to stay with us as long as you need to!"

He spent the next several days literally following me around the house. I'd turn around and he would be about a foot behind me at all times. It was very unnerving. I tried to take him to the mall for something to do, and when we walked by a jewelry store with a big engagement-ring display, he put his arm around me and said "I'll be taking you in there someday."

This was technically our second date.

Finally, after an excruciating couple of days, his car was fixed and he left. I knew I'd never want to see him again, so I began to ignore his emails.

A couple of weeks later, it was my twenty-first birthday. I was spending it hung over, puking and talking on the phone with my mother, who was crying because I would apparently "end up an alcoholic just like everyone in your father's family!" I'd spent the previous evening drunkenly hitting on a crush, Jason, in various embarrassing ways. I heard a call-waiting beep and switched over. A man was on the line, singing "Happy Birthday" to me in Italian. Jason was the only person who I knew spoke Italian, so I was thrilled and said "I can't believe you're doing this after I was so drunk and throwing myself at you last night!" There was a pause. "Who do you think this is?" the man asked.

"Um...I guess it's not Jason?"

"Jason??? Who the hell is Jason? This is Marty, bitch!"

Well, at least I was rid of him.

***

I don't generally date "suits." That is, men in finance, real estate and the like. In New York City anyway, they seem to have a penchant for jerkiness, incredible dullness or some winning combination of the two.

Anyhow, against my better judgment, I accepted an invitation for drinks with an investment banker. Call it an exercise in tolerance. Or masochism. We met at a swanky hotel lounge and he proceeded to give me his resume, totally unbidden. Ivy League undergrad, graduate and Ph.D. programs; the name of a well-known actress he dated; the fact that he orders designer shirts in size XS -- "to better show off my physique." We even touched upon the size of his... bank account. (I assume that since he did not somehow work penis size into the conversation, he was short on bragging rights in that arena.) I received a lecture on the evils of fatties in America. Followed by a dissertation on the genetic superiority of tall people, despite the fact that we are both short (and he was clearly still bitter about it). Shockingly, I did NOT hand him my soaking wet panties on the spot.

It was like spending the evening with a bad '80s movie villain: impossibly snobby, too-tight khakis, blandest haircut possible, and appropriately weasel-like features.

We spent our time together with my body language shouting for him to keep back, but he wasn't hearing any of it. (Note to men: if a woman sits turned away from you, be concerned. And if she wedges her purse between you on the couch at one point, do NOT casually pick it up and move it to the floor.) I considered fleeing directly from the bathroom, but politeness forbade it, and I finished out the night like a trooper.

Starving artists never looked so good.

— Kim Nicole

***

I used to date a lot of standup comedians. I swore them off several years ago to marry a man who turns out to be gay. The joke is on me. So when I meet Stan the Funny Man, I figure I don't have much to lose.

We meet online. and because I'm legally married (at the time) and living with my ex-husband-to-be as a roommate, I feel compelled to share this information with every guy I date so they won't feel duped. As a poor freelance writer, I don't have much choice until my circumstances improve. Stan is cool with my situation and after weeks of communications, he invites me to dinner.

Meeting him in a dumpy restaurant, I order a glass of red wine. He insists on water only. After a few pleasantries, my wine arrives and he reaches under the table to produce a briefcase. "Do you like being a writer? Do you think you're good at it?"

"Yes, why?"

"I'm going to have a smoke. Read this and tell me what you think."

He plops a thick manuscript before me and walks outside to enjoy his Marlboro Light. I am upset for two reasons: The first one was because I'd made it very clear I didn't date smokers. The second one — who brings a manuscript to a date and expects it to be read by right there?

Trying to give a "straight" guy a chance, I figure I'll politely read a few pages. I am horrified. In three pages, he shares stories about being repeatedly raped by his grandfather as a boy, divorcing his "cunt" ex-wife because she can't handle it and struggling with alcohol and drugs. It said he'd moved from Las Vegas to Maryland because he'd burned every bridge at every comedy club from LA to New York and he needs a fresh start. An interesting story, perhaps. A good writer — he is not.

He returns and asks, "What do you think?"

Before I finish answering ("Interesting, but you need an editor"), he is calling me a liar and saying that I'm not being honest. He then attacks me for continuing to live my gay husband. He tells me I need therapy and to lose weight. He says I'm not very attractive and he doesn't know why he agreed to meet me. That's all I need to hear. I leave and throw my wine at him staining his white shirt, I hope.

A few months later, while perusing the personals on Craigslist.com, I see Stan the Funny Man again. This time he is looking for a woman to strap on a dildo and fuck him. A quick trip to the "Men for Men" page and he's there, too, looking for a guy to fuck him. I click on the "Writing" section and he is looking for an editor.

Too bad they don't have a "Therapist Wanted" section.

— Kat Hudson

***

I was seventeen and still in love with my ex-boyfriend. It was the summer after high school graduation and he was doing acid every weekend with the Bulgarian drummer from his band. I'd never tried it, so I convinced him to let me tag along. It was the Fourth of July. We had a pretty awesome time wandering around downtown, watching the fireworks, but then it got really late. He was too freaked out to drive his car, so with his typical care and consideration for others he persuaded me to do it. I brought the two of us back to his deserted house at twenty miles an hour. Once we got there, he pitched a theatrical screaming fit because one of the keys on his piano was stuck. Then we had sex, which lasted about thirty seconds. Upon ejaculation he leaped out of bed with the condom and stuck it under the bathroom faucet to see it if had any leaks, because he was convinced it was broken. Then he told me he had never loved me, and called the girlfriend before me at five in the morning to tell her he had always loved her. I fell asleep on the living-room floor, and when I woke up, I had missed my shift and was fired from my summer job. But at least my parents never found out.

— Anna_a

***

Peter, a.k.a Trainwreck by Anonymous

A recent first date comes to mind where all rules of acceptable conduct were broken. Let's go down this glorious list of the evening's events:

Male counterpart starts the evening off downing multiple scotches on the rocks with dinner (tapas and scotch, ew!). By scotch three, is shit-faced and incredibly rude to waiter and I have to sit, smile and repeatedly thank waiter for everything as the ass I'm with is scolding him that he's not doing his job properly.

Dinner starts to get interesting when he commences an unprompted description of his porn collection. Male counterpart thinks his saving grace is that he "doesn't watch it, but just collects it!" Subjects turn to strip clubs and how he likes to visit them occasionally, alone. I ask if he likes to go when he is in a happy relationship and he describes how he sometimes thinks about them while he's in bed with women because "doesn't everybody?!". Charming.

After dinner, we head to a local bar where he launches into a long-winded litany about the many, many evils of his ex-girlfriend (again, unprompted), muttering expletives about her under his breath. I assure him that he really doesn't need to share all these details. It falls on deaf ears.

Male counterpart leans over to kiss me, I figure I'll go for it since he's pretty darn cute and I'll probably never see him again. His hand makes its way around my waist and oh, tries to mosey its way down into the front of my pants. When I ask him what the hell he thinks he's doing, male counterpart whispers "open your legs..."

Takes a shot of tequila and follows that with two martinis.

Male counterpart not-so-slyly checks out cute blonde bartender numerous times during the course of the evening.

He gets up to use the bathroom, I see there's a line for the bathroom, he leaves the establishment. Returns five minutes later, I ask "where did you go?". He points to the phone booth outside the bar and snickers "I really had to go so I went behind that phone booth." Ewwww.

Back at male counterpart's place (trying to give him the benefit of the doubt that maybe that nerves got the best of him?) and after a makeout session, I take a look around his apartment and at his MP3 collection on his Mac. He whispers in my ear "wanna see some porn?"

I turn around to find him taking his pants off. I exclaim, "What are you doing?" He complains that the pants are uncomfortable. I go to the bathroom. Come out to find him sprawled on the couch, drinking Orangina and dribbling it down his chest while watching BBC America. Feel repulsed. Want to leave immediately.

As I'm trying to make my exit, he runs up to me sloppily yelling that he has to help me catch a cab and to wait a sec while he puts something on. He runs to the door in nothing but dress shoes and orange boxers (and a spare tire if you ask me). I wrestle him away from the door and tell him I'm fine and run down the hallway, he's half-naked in dress shoes, yelling after me that he had a great time and to call him.

The next morning I got an email inviting me to see a show with him. No mention of the previous evening. Either he's a blackout drunk or thinks he can treat all women like shit, either way I don't want to find out.

***

The Farmer by Anna_A

August before junior year, my college roommate had gotten involved with an organic farmer when she was leading freshmen on a back-to-the-land orientation program, harvesting apples or something. One night, he said he'd come into town in his truck and drive her to a Lucinda Williams concert all the way in western Massachusetts. She begged me to come with her. We met up at a falafel restaurant.

Farmer Bill was burly, black beard, literally in overalls, probably forty but with some notional sex appeal. But he had brought a friend — Phil — this disgusting, wizened guy in a dirty parka. He had the terrible teeth and gray skin of a serious smoker and said he was a vitamin salesman. Throughout dinner he kept putting his hand on my thigh and making dirty jokes about coeds.

On the way to the concert we smoked pot that Farmer Bill had grown, out of an apple he had also grown. The old dudes couldn't hold their THC. They got all weepy, complaining about their wives. Phil actually uttered the line, "My wife doesn't understand me." Meanwhile, we're rattling down the highway in an old Ford Explorer doing at least eighty, and I'm praying we get pulled over so we can go home. But I really wanted to see Lucinda. Only that night she pulled a Loretta Lynn, stopping in the middle of half her songs, rambling incoherently onstage. I went to bed that night completely infected with misery.