The Bad Date Chronicles – Roofie Guy Edition

It would not have surprised me in the least if this had actually been him

Unlike some of the other stories, this one has a “happy” ending.  Get your minds out of the proverbial gutter folks, not THAT kind of happy ending!  Ok, so it did eventually and indirectly result in THAT kind of happy ending, but on with my tale.

It was an honest mistake. Because these dudes are ELECTRIC! Get it, electric? See what I did there?

I met Roofie Guy via HowAboutWe.  I must admit that I wasn’t really that

interested based on his picture and/or profile, but the date suggestion, go to a Burlesque Show, was  intriguing and way more creative than some of the other ones out there (I’m looking  at you “Let’s do it” and “Let’s go to a bar”.  Get with it guys!).   I should have known I was in for a Bad Date Chronicles kind of evening when his first email in response to mine talked about the favorable proximity of his residence in relation to the club we would be seeing the show at as well as the status of the bar in his living room (fully stocked, including absinthe no less).  Against my better judgement, and because I was honestly excited about seeing a real-live burlesque show I ignored that massive red flag and went ahead with the planning.  There was also an awkward email exchange about Tesla in which I thought we were discussing the heavy metal band and he thought we were discussing the father of commercial electricity.  Really this thing was doomed from the start now, wasn’t it?

There was an hour or so to kill before the show started, so I bellied up to the bar and ordered myself a drink.  Little did I know that I would be, more willingly than ever, buying all of my own drinks that evening.  He arrived just as I was draining my first cocktail and upon first glance I thought he looked like Patton Oswalt.  In other words – he looked a lot like I was expecting him to look based on his profile, but I actually have a soft spot for quirky looking dudes so this was far from a dealbreaker.  That’s where the similarities ended.  This dude was dead SERIOUS.  I guess growing up a bit short, pudgy and liberal in the Bible Belt will do that to a fella.  By the time he started telling me about how he was really from outer space, I had checked out and decided, as I am wont to do, to try to enjoy the evening anyway.  So I didn’t even blink when he asked me if I did drugs.

“No” I replied as he started to rattle off every substance known to man and how much he enjoyed/didn’t enjoy each of them.  For the sake of conversation, I admitted that I had always been curious to try X but had been just too much of a chicken shit to try it.  That’s when, gleeful smile spreading across his face, he pulled a small airline-sized bottle of vodka out of his pocket.  He announced that its contents were vodka mixed with X.  Well now, I’ve just hit the jackpot I can see him thinking.  I am not exactly a drug expert but luckily have watched enough 20/20 and after-school specials to know that when a man pulls a vial of liquid out of his pocket it usually means one thing and one thing only –  roofies.  This was confirmed for me when I asked some friends with more, ahem, experience with this sort of thing if it was possible for one to mix X with alcohol and they looked at me with horror.  Apparently X is not water-soluble so the alcohol would have rendered it inert.  Or something like that.

Just before the show started, I ordered myself another drink (Ok, I did it while he was in the bathroom just to avoid the “can I buy you a drink” conversation) and settled in for the show, which was FANTASTIC.  I thoroughly enjoyed myself.  During the performance, he mentioned no less than 3 times the fact that he lived just blocks away from where we were and that we could very easily head over to his place after the show.  I guess my half-smile, nod, change-the-subject maneuver didn’t convey my meaning well enough because afterwards, he brought it up yet again.  At this point, I was tired and hungry and more than a little bit creeped out and just wanted to get the hell out of Dodge.  I thanked him for a lovely evening, gave him a hug and then experienced what can only be described by watching this (warning – you will never be able to erase this from your memory).  I will say no more about that.

I’m ashamed to say, in the haze of post-kiss awkwardness and just general I-can’t-fucking-believe-this-ness, I told him I had fun and to call me.  Yes, I know, I know that was so wrong of me.  But my goodness, the dude was practically BEAMING and I could tell that he thought he had knocked this one out of the park.  A few days went by and I thought I was out of the woods, meaning he was going to pull “the fade” but the emails and texts began coming in earnest.  Just one, then another and then another until I finally had to email him back with the got-back-together-with my ex excuse.

He seemed fairly devastated, and asked me what he had done wrong.  I guess the last 2 dates he had ended exactly the same way – with the girl going back to her ex.  Kudos for him on picking up on the fact that he may be doings something wrong.  Note to self – come up with more plausible excuse for not going out with someone again, like, oh I don’t know, the truth!  I admitted that the multiple attempts to get me back to his place starting with the INITIAL email put me off  (which he denied doing, by the way) but didn’t mention the fact that I was fairly certain he was going to drug me.  We traded a few emails more back and forth and wished each other luck.

So what’s the happy ending?  Well I didn’t get roofied and wake up in a sex dungeon for one.  Two – it was my initiation into the wonderful world of burlesque and the great neo-burlesque scene happening in and around San Francisco.  It’s a world that I have fully embraced and become a part of.  Plus, I met Mr. Monogamist at a burlesque show (as well as this guy, which is its own deliciously awkward story) so there have been many, MANY happy endings as a result of this edition of the Bad Date Chronicles.

The Bad Date Chronicles – The Racist Ace Ventura Edition

Back in my college days in the late 90’s I experienced what remains until this day, the WORST.  DATE.  EVER.  I am hard pressed to imagine a scenario that could hold a candle to this one and so it is with great pleasure that I bring you the story of The Racist Ace Ventura.

One fine evening I had plans to hang out in my dorm room with my ex-boyfriend.  No – not THOSE kind of plans.  We were completely, 100% platonic friends.  Both of us were transplants to Southern California and dealing with a lifestyle so different from where we grew up that it was cozy and welcomed to remain friendly with each other.  This night, however he had brought a gift for me – one of his delicious, finely muscled  friends from the base (he was in the military at the time).  I had a weakness for military men back then. Not sure if it was the delectable bodies they had from all that training and working out.  Or the intoxicating danger that they could, at any time find themselves in. Or perhaps the douchey alpha-male bros-before-hos attitude they all seemed to espouse.  (Hey – I was 18.  Cut me a break!)

After a few beers, my ex fell asleep and I spent the rest of the night talking and yes, making out with his buddy.  He told me the heartbreaking story of the marriage he just ended (at the tender age of 21) to his high school sweetheart because the child she passed off as his was actually fathered by his former best friend.  You can’t make this shit up folks.  This was a real life white-trash Jerry Springer episode come to life and I just ate it all up.  He was just so wounded and bereft about it and the sight of this rather large and imposing man being so vulnerable was almost too much for me to bear.  Chalk it up to homeless puppy syndrome but panties were almost dropped right then and there, just mere hours after I had met this guy.  However, I just didn’t want to bone down with him while the dude I boned through most of high school was asleep in the same room.  So we made plans for the next weekend which also happened to be my birthday.  Happy Birthday to me indeed!

I was beyond excited.  After all, I had a sneak peek of what my birthday present would be (hint:  it was large and lived in his pants).  The plans were of the classic rom-com variety – dinner at an Italian Restaurant followed by “movies” in my dorm room.  We both knew what was going to go down.  That is until, he showed up at my dorm at the appointed time bearing a rose for me and 2 6-packs of Mickey’s Fine Malt Liquor Brew for himself. The next hour or two consisted of me watching in horror as he proceeded to drink ALL 12 OF THEM.

No. Let me tell me "ass" YOU a question!

I’m not sure whether or not Ace came out during the 1st or 2nd 6-pack.  What I do know is that he was here to stay.  And he was angry.  So here I was in my dorm room with a highly intoxicated man who was expressing the deep pain and regret in his life in that melodious and not-at-all annoying Ace Ventura voice.  Dinner reservations were fast approaching so I did what anyone in this situation would do – I phoned a friend to help me get his ass in the car and to the restaurant.  Don’t judge – this guy was the hottest thing I had ever gotten my hands on and I was bound and determined to sober him up and get some awesome birthday sex out of this ordeal.  (Did I mention the large present he had brought me?  The one in his pants?)  What better way to do this than shovel a plateful of pasta and bread down this throat?

Now, I’m pretty sure that the Ace Ventura franchise, being the successful multi-movie venture that it was never dealt with issues of racial inequity, affirmative action and misogyny (unless, of course I was SERIOUSLY not paying attention) but this guy decided that it was the perfect cover for him to just shout out any old thing that came to mind.  The entire way to the restaurant, he hung his head out of the car window, doggie-style, and shouted out the most offensive thing he could at whoever was passing by.  Stop lights were a particularly harrowing experience.  It’s a small miracle that nobody shot at us, as we were in a pretty crime-ridden part of the city.

Things didn’t get any better once we got to the restaurant and got seated.  I’m pretty shocked that the staff seated us at all.  Maybe they, much like myself, couldn’t believe that this was actually happening.  Picture this – a rather large, visibly intoxicated man with a crew cut literally supported by two tiny college girls show up at a suburban Italian restaurant.  But hey – we had reservations so…

The next hour or so was surreal.  He insisted on speaking in the Ace Ventura voice the entire time and yes, even ordered his food that way.  Each time the waitress, who was obviously concerned and let’s face it, frightened, came by he commented on some part of her anatomy or ordered her to go get him something else.  ALL IN THAT VOICE.  This dude was NOT getting any less drunk as the minutes ticked by.  When he started to get up to “Ass me a question” and knocked over a very large glass of water all over my lap and onto the table, I gave up.  Check please!

Me and my girlfriend got this guy out of the car and upstairs to my room. She looked at me once as if to say “good luck” and beat a hasty retreat.  Safe in my room, I figured I would start the movie, let him sleep it off and then pounce on him in the morning when he was sober.  I was bound and determined to salvage this encounter in any way I could.  I had gone way to long without sex and was still willing to overlook the horrors of the evening.  But it was not to be.  He mumbled something about having to use the bathroom, stumbled out of my room and then…nothing.  He disappeared.  Hours went by and I finally gave up and went to sleep.

The Bad Date Chronicles – Sloppy Seconds Edition

As far as first dates go, “Don” and I had a pretty fabulous time.  We met on OK Cupid and traded sufficiently witty emails and text messages for a few days before he asked me out to dinner the following week.  He made reservations at a cute little place just blocks away from the studio where I take my weekly dance class so that it would be most convenient for me to meet him there.

Don marked a milestone for me – my first foray into dating someone in their 40’s.  Up until now, my dating diet had consisted of a steady supply of boys in their mid-twenties, or Snickers as I like to call them.  Because they really, really satisfy you as the old jingle says.  But we all know what happens when we eat too much junk food.  System gets all clogged up.  What I was looking for was a serious dose of fiber.  A nice big bunch of broccoli.  Don was my broccoli.  I know.  Not the most romantic notion of all time but lately I had been finding older men attractive.

They were everywhere – hot dads with babies strapped to their backs, silver foxes all dressed up for work in crisp suits, aging bearded hipsters on bicycles.  And I wanted one!  I actually wanted to date someone my own age or – gasp! – older.  Not because it was the “right” thing to do, but because, all of a sudden, I found them attractive!  I changed my age requirements online from 25-29 to 28-44.  I was very pleasantly surprised at the number and attractiveness of all the older dudes in my area.  It was time to give it a try.

Dinner was delicious, and the conversation was fun, a bit flirty and relaxing.  We traded battle stories about our dating experiences, and laughed at the overabundance of Machu Picchu pictures online.  (Apparently this happens just as often in female profiles.  Who knew?).  We even delved into our marriages and post-marriage relationships.  Before I knew it, 3 hours had flown by and he walked me to my car.  The kiss goodnight was great.  Serious chemistry.  He even asked me out for a second date!  It was damn near perfect.

The Bad Date Chronicles – The Sexsomniac Edition

I met the Sexsomniac (nickname to be explained shortly) after seeing his ad and picture on the Craigslist “men seeking women” section.  Honestly, I was looking for a new place to live, but when I couldn’t find the 5-bedroom palace with swimming pool, sauna and butler for under $1500 a month I started getting bored.  I figured, if I could find a great deal on a race car bed (which I had) then why not a man?  Plus, it was free and I just didn’t have the motivation to pay for and reactivate my Match account.

If you’ve ever trolled Craigslist for a date, for anything really, you will be entertained and appalled in equal measure.  Some men come at you with humor (I once had sex for 1.5 hours.  Of course, an hour of that was spent crying.), descriptions of their..ahem..equipment, their barely concealed misogyny (Looking for a real girl, no drama no bullshit. Just be real) or their very specific requests (Searching for Asian woman. 5’1.5′ and under with no kids and a good sense of humor.  Oh and must love grapes).  Bad spelling, grammar and punctuation abound.  You really don’t go on Craigslist hoping to find the man of your dreams, but if you’re just looking for a date, it’s really not much worse than any other way. Bad dates come in many forms, and they issue forth from many dark corners of the internet.

After being genuinely stunned, frightened and vaguely sad for humanity in general, I stumbled upon the Sexsomniac’s ad.  It was very unassuming, almost Puritan in its simplicity.  “Hi, my name is “Seymour” and I’m 30 years old.  I am in the process of finishing my law degree and am looking for a great girl to meet and see where it goes from there.  I’m 5’10” and 160 pounds.  Hope to hear from you!”  Ok, not terribly witty or outstanding or even remotely interesting but there was a picture attached and I couldn’t deny that he was an attractive fellow.  I decided to take a chance on it being a) a really, really old picture or b) a picture of someone else.  I replied to the ad, attached some pictures and was mildly surprised when, less than a day later, I received a reply. We corresponded for a day or two, and the emails were succinct, witty and I was impressed by his grasp of the English language in general.  I gave him my cell phone number and was delighted to receive a text message, asking me when was a good time to call later that evening.

The appointed hour came, and right on time I received a call. We must have spoken for a little over an hour and had a very spirited and intellectually stimulating conversation about politics, relationships, world events, etc.  There were lots of laughs, a dozen little delightful coincidences and absolutely no awkward silences.  So when the time came for us to hang up, I was more than willing to accept his invitation to have a drink later on in the week.  A day or two passed and he texted back to confirm our date, along with the time and the place that he had picked out. I immediately took to Yelp to check out this place, and it was adorable!  Patio with twinkly lights, great beer menu, right outside of the BART station so that I wouldn’t have to walk very far to get there.

I couldn’t remember the last time I had been this excited for a first date, and I put on my favorite date outfit and paid extra attention to my hair and makeup.  In short, I looked amazing!  I got to the bar a bit early and scoped out a seat on the patio, contemplating whether or not I should pre-game the date since I was starting to get a bit nervous.  Before I could do that, he arrived, looking better than his picture and smiling in a way that made his eyes crinkle up in the most adorable way.  My heart gave a little lurch as I stood up to hug him hello.  We made our way inside and got a couple of beers and then headed up to the second floor to find a nice quiet table.  Things seemed to be going very well.  The beer was great, the company was even better and we were getting along wonderfully.

About 15 minutes in, he leaned in and let me know that he had to tell me something.  And…here we go I say to myself.  The deep dark secret, the dealbreaker that everyone has was about to be revealed to me right here on the first date.  Trying to conceal my disappointment, I leaned in.  He tells me that he has a condition in which he performs sexual acts on whoever he happens to be in bed with in the middle of the night.  The next morning, he doesn’t remember doing it.  In essence he’s sleepwalking.  But instead of walking in his sleep, he’s fucking in his sleep.  The condition is called, I kid you not, Sexsomnia.  Lucky for him, I watch 20/20 and 48 hours so I have actually heard of this condition and to be honest, I’m a bit relieved that this is the big secret, and that it’s out.  Am I thrilled about it?  No, not exactly but I’m not completely horrified.  I make a mental note to never sleep over, but at this point there’s still too much promise to pull the fake “my cat is on fire” phone call.  All that was about to change however.