Okay, the challenge is issued. Effie told, I'm gonna tell, now all of you have to tell. What was your worst date ever?
Mine was New Year's Eve, freshman year of college. I was home from school for a month and pissed off about it. I didn't want to be there, I wanted to be back on campus going to hockey games, drinking in someone's room, hooking up with someone's friend from home who was up visiting, going to the dining hall hungover, and slouching around the dorm in Adidas track pants and my ubiquitous white UNH baseball cap with the Heineken cap stuck to the back with a pop top.
So there was this guy I've written about before, the one who was way too old for me. I was 17, he was 24. He had no right being interested in the first place, but he was, and I was looking for a distraction. I only met him about a week before break started. He bought for me and my friends and I figured I could string him along until he figured it out. When I was back stuck in the suburbs with nothing to do, he seemed marginally more appealing and I'd agree to see him even without getting any alcohol out of it. He'd drive down to pick me up whenever he wanted to go out, an hour drive. He came in to meet my parents and I made fun of his hair and he looked at me googly-eyed and my mom wisely observed, "You definitely don't like him as much as he likes you."
He invited me to a New Year's Eve party. Part of the deal was staying at his house afterwards, on the couch. He lived with his mother, and she was going to be home. My mom insisted on talking to her before she'd let me go, and his mother was such a freak, talking about how much she liked me (I think I'd met her one time, for like two seconds) and making comments about how they would be talking a lot more "when we got serious."
On New Year's Eve he picked me up and I was acting really detached and telling him what I wanted him to buy me at the liquor store. He got what I wanted and we went to his house to have a few drinks before going to the party. Back then my friends and I drank a ton of Woodchuck hard cider, so that's what I was having. We went to the party and it was a few dorky guys and some random people and some white trash hairdresser friend of his who was like 35. She was big and loud and coarse. I remember sitting there just drinking and thinking I was so much younger and cooler than any of these people. And when I had to break the seal I realized how fucking drunk I was. I stumbled up and down the stairs, visiting the bathroom every ten minutes, and once I didn't come back down. I passed out on the floor, my cheek pressed to the blessedly cool tile.
He came up to get me at some point, and we went back downstairs and I remember someone commenting about dating someone younger and then him saying, "I got you beat; this one is seventeen." I remember being like, "Fuck you, pal," but I was too wasted to actually say it. Eventually we left the stupid party and went back to his house. His mother wasn't home. We had sloppy, drunk sex on his waterbed, and afterwards my head was spinning. I wanted to get away from him, which was usually the case. Once I had wrung the fun out of whatever we were doing, I wanted him to disappear. I would have guzzled a pot of black coffee and drove myself home if I had my car, but I was stuck. Instead I got up and went down the hall to throw up. I made him get me a blanket and pillow and said I was going to crash on the couch and no, I didn't want him to join me. I asked for a glass of water, and then probably went to puke again.
Back on the couch he brought me the water and two Advil. I popped the pills and took a drink--but it wasn't water, it was vodka. He was laughing like he thought it was the funniest thing ever. I called him an asshole, splashed the vodka on his shirt and got up to get my own water. I pushed him to his room and told him to please fuck off. He might have called me a bitch but he didn't come out and bother me again. That was what was so pathetic about him; he was capable of saying and doing cruel things, but only mildly cruel things. The rest of the time he was a pussy. Like the way he would call me, talk my ear off, plead with me not to hang up, and then call back two minutes later in tears.
I didn't sleep at all. Sometime in the middle of the night his mother came home. I remember pretending to be asleep and watching her walk around. The TV was on in his room and there was light under his door. She popped her head into his room to say good night. I don't remember much about the drive home the next day, but it was cold and gray and I sat there with a headache, hating his car and his face and his hand resting on the gearshift, which he did so he could try to touch my knee.
So yeah... that was a crappy date.
Mine was New Year's Eve, freshman year of college. I was home from school for a month and pissed off about it. I didn't want to be there, I wanted to be back on campus going to hockey games, drinking in someone's room, hooking up with someone's friend from home who was up visiting, going to the dining hall hungover, and slouching around the dorm in Adidas track pants and my ubiquitous white UNH baseball cap with the Heineken cap stuck to the back with a pop top.
So there was this guy I've written about before, the one who was way too old for me. I was 17, he was 24. He had no right being interested in the first place, but he was, and I was looking for a distraction. I only met him about a week before break started. He bought for me and my friends and I figured I could string him along until he figured it out. When I was back stuck in the suburbs with nothing to do, he seemed marginally more appealing and I'd agree to see him even without getting any alcohol out of it. He'd drive down to pick me up whenever he wanted to go out, an hour drive. He came in to meet my parents and I made fun of his hair and he looked at me googly-eyed and my mom wisely observed, "You definitely don't like him as much as he likes you."
He invited me to a New Year's Eve party. Part of the deal was staying at his house afterwards, on the couch. He lived with his mother, and she was going to be home. My mom insisted on talking to her before she'd let me go, and his mother was such a freak, talking about how much she liked me (I think I'd met her one time, for like two seconds) and making comments about how they would be talking a lot more "when we got serious."
On New Year's Eve he picked me up and I was acting really detached and telling him what I wanted him to buy me at the liquor store. He got what I wanted and we went to his house to have a few drinks before going to the party. Back then my friends and I drank a ton of Woodchuck hard cider, so that's what I was having. We went to the party and it was a few dorky guys and some random people and some white trash hairdresser friend of his who was like 35. She was big and loud and coarse. I remember sitting there just drinking and thinking I was so much younger and cooler than any of these people. And when I had to break the seal I realized how fucking drunk I was. I stumbled up and down the stairs, visiting the bathroom every ten minutes, and once I didn't come back down. I passed out on the floor, my cheek pressed to the blessedly cool tile.
He came up to get me at some point, and we went back downstairs and I remember someone commenting about dating someone younger and then him saying, "I got you beat; this one is seventeen." I remember being like, "Fuck you, pal," but I was too wasted to actually say it. Eventually we left the stupid party and went back to his house. His mother wasn't home. We had sloppy, drunk sex on his waterbed, and afterwards my head was spinning. I wanted to get away from him, which was usually the case. Once I had wrung the fun out of whatever we were doing, I wanted him to disappear. I would have guzzled a pot of black coffee and drove myself home if I had my car, but I was stuck. Instead I got up and went down the hall to throw up. I made him get me a blanket and pillow and said I was going to crash on the couch and no, I didn't want him to join me. I asked for a glass of water, and then probably went to puke again.
Back on the couch he brought me the water and two Advil. I popped the pills and took a drink--but it wasn't water, it was vodka. He was laughing like he thought it was the funniest thing ever. I called him an asshole, splashed the vodka on his shirt and got up to get my own water. I pushed him to his room and told him to please fuck off. He might have called me a bitch but he didn't come out and bother me again. That was what was so pathetic about him; he was capable of saying and doing cruel things, but only mildly cruel things. The rest of the time he was a pussy. Like the way he would call me, talk my ear off, plead with me not to hang up, and then call back two minutes later in tears.
I didn't sleep at all. Sometime in the middle of the night his mother came home. I remember pretending to be asleep and watching her walk around. The TV was on in his room and there was light under his door. She popped her head into his room to say good night. I don't remember much about the drive home the next day, but it was cold and gray and I sat there with a headache, hating his car and his face and his hand resting on the gearshift, which he did so he could try to touch my knee.
So yeah... that was a crappy date.
7 Comments:
Ugh, that's a horrible date, in a completely different way. Was that the same guy that took you to Winthrop to watch planes take off from Logan? Or did I just make that up?
No, that was the cell phone salesman who asked me out at the Red Sox game even though I was there with P:aul from Toronto. Oh my God--remember "Get Paul"?
Yeah! I thought about that when I was writing about my hand-holding-under-the-covers date with Lennon. Didn't you have a similar date with Paul? So much for the flashy nail polish.
Yeah I did! That weekend was so weird and fun. We stayed at a seedy motel up at Hampton one night, but he also came with me to my grandparents' house. I lost my Ill Communication CD in his car.
That doesn't sound like a bad date so much as the Jerry Springer episode that could have been your life, had you made different choices...
Jesus....worst date ever. But my brother-in-law had a worse one. He went out with this sister of a friend of ours (first mistake). Her name is Barbie (second mistake). Barbie apparently can't hold her liquor. On the drive home from going out, my Bro-in-law and Barbie were in the back seat, she was very drunk, and laid her head in his lap to rest or whatever. Next thing you know, she is throwing up all over his lap, junk, etc. Now, my bro-in-law, being a gentleman and all around good guy, took her into her house, puked-on-crotch and all, and cleaned her and him up and put her to bed, and went to crash on her couch. Well, 1 hour later, peker Barbie the Cock Puker comes staggering out of the bedroom and attempts to accost the man, who's junk she just blew chunks on, for sex. Now, my B-I-L is not one to refuse free sex, but a sloppy, stinky chick who just puked on your wedding-tackle is not the most attractive thing, even at 4 am. He put her back in bed, and slept in the car. What a guy.
Nassssty. There are real girls named Barbie out there?
Look at me, commenting the shit out of my own blog.
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