Now. My story.
Stop me before I date again. Last night was the worst date anyone could ever go on, without criminal charges being filed.
It didn't start out too badly. I mean, except for him being about 25 years older than he claimed in his ad. And the fact he forgot his wallet, so would I mind paying? Which included the cab he had waiting with the meter running outside the coffee shop where we were meeting. So there's one positive: he doesn't know where I live.
But I know where he lives -- because we had to stop there to take care of his incontinent dog. Three times. Amazingly, he forgot his wallet each time, and I didn't think to remind him, because the stench rendered me incapable of thought. Well, almost incapable of thought. I did happen to notice he lived in a home 3 times the size of mine, in a much pricier neighborhood. I also noted the BMW keys laying on the counter. Did he forget he had a car, too?
The movie was good, though. If you like Jean Claude Van Damme. Which I do not. It wasn't a comedy; thus I was surprised when my date laughed when Mr. Van Damme punched a woman in the face. I suddenly became alarmingly uncomfortable.
Mr. Wonderful wanted me to buy him drinks after the movie, but I feigned great fatigue. Well, I was tired -- of him. As we walked to the corner to find a cab, my date displayed none of the macho bravado of his hero Jean Claude when he squealed like an 5-year-old girl, clutched my arm in terror, and shrieked "A rat!! A RAT!!!" when a neighborhood squirrel darted across the sidewalk.
With the rodent crisis averted, we flagged down a cab to bring the night of delights to a close. He chattered all the way home, mostly about how there are no quality music artists around anymore, with the exception of Billy Idol, when he wasn't being too "arty."
When we pulled up to his stately home, he leaned in lasciviously for a kiss. I jerked out of range just in time for him to get a mouthful of my hair. "When can I see you again," he murmured in what I'm sure he meant to be an amorously low tone, but what sounded to me like the sump pump in my parents' basement.
"Well," I said, "Thanks for your time this evening. But I really don't think things would work out for us."
"Huh," he said, surprised. He started to scoot across the seat toward the door, then turned to me and said, "Well, is a blow job out of the question?"
