What the Bottom of the Barrel Looks Like

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I was just reading an article on xojane.com (a great, great website – check it out) on one woman’s series of bad dates.

I’m going to tell you now about the Worst Date Ever. I’ve never ever shared this story, so listen up.

When I was in university, for a number of reasons, I just couldn’t find anyone. I finally got really, really desperate and put an ad in the personals in “Now” magazine. Part social experiment, part “look how effing wild I am”, part sheer lonely desperate misery. It was the 80’s. It was weird.

At any rate, I got a lot of responses, most of them odd, but some of them interesting. I went out with a few of them, some more than once. But here, for the first time ever, is the absolute bull-goose worst date of all time:

I talked to him on the phone for a bit. He was an appropriate age, and was looking for a serious, long-term relationship. We met for dinner. He was a “wow, you’re really tall” guy, which turned me off right away. After half an hour, we’d had a cocktail, and he excused himself to use the restroom.

AND NEVER CAME BACK!

How fucking humiliating is THAT? Anyway, I figured it out after about 15 or 20 minutes, and I was just sitting there kind of gobsmacked. I didn’t actually know WHAT to do. Good thing we hadn’t ordered dinner. He at least had the decency not to stick me with the tab, and paid for my initial drink. I ordered another before I realized I’d been ditched. It seemed like the thing to do.

So, here I am, sitting alone, with a drink, all dolled up in a swanky lounge, not having a fucking clue what to do. I haven’t got a cent on me. I was a student. I’m sipping on a drink that I have no means of paying for. Along comes an older guy, maybe 50? Remember, I was only about 22 at the time. Starts chatting me up, we have a couple of drinks. He’s “in town on business”, whatever that’s code for. Pays my tab and takes me back to his hotel room. I wish I could remember the name of the hotel – it’s in Toronto, down near the water. Pretty scabby. It’s still there. Starts kissing me, which is pretty much what I expected I was in for, so no big surprise.

Then, I realized two things: First, his hair was really greasy and smelled completely nasty. Like, gaggingly nasty. Also, he had this big weird growth on his chest. Almost like a tiny pair of balls. Really. Not kidding. It was seriously, seriously skedaddling time. Reality hit me like a big wet bag of shit.

So, what did I do? Nothing honourable, believe me. He went to the bathroom and I hightailed it out of there.

So, it’s 3 a.m. On the Lakeshore. I’m in heels. In the rain. With no car, and no money.

I walked all the way home to my place on Dupont Street. I kicked my shoes off, walked in my bare feet, and ruined my stockings. The sun was coming up when I got home.

And I’d like to say I learned something, and that I never had another bad date. But we all know that’s not true! I had lots of other bad dates over the years. But none quite like that. That, my friends, was the bottom of the barrel.

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2 responses »

  1. that is quite possibly the worst date story I have ever heard. I’m tempted to say “you poor thing,” but you’ve obviously moved on. Kudos for surviving it with your dignity somewhat intact.

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