Dumpster Date Disaster

I was not always the goddess you see before you today. Back in high school I was a bit chubby, dawning huge dorky glasses that looked like they were a $5 grab-bin special at K-Mart. I had somewhat of a lazy eye, mom cut bangs, and zero fashion sense. I had even less social grace.

Although I haven't been able to ditch my social awkwardness completely, I have obtained what some “woke millennials” might refer to as a glow-up. I had lost weight, traded in my glasses for contacts, grew out the bangs and discovered makeup. Coupled with the fact that I had my own place, a decent job and no children, I’d been afforded a pretty lavish dating life in comparison to my awkward teenage years.

Growing up an ugly duckling, you get used to being invisible to members of the opposite sex. In those days I’d have been lucky if a boy talked to me so they could copy a homework assignment. Let alone to ask for a date. It’s quite a culture shock to then have these same guys who would have never looked at me twice, beating down my door to take me out. Mike Jones always said it best, "back then hoes didn't want it, now I'm hot, hoes all on it". This relatable rap phenomena would prove to be the catalyst in what would later be hailed as the most cringe-worthy dating experience of my adult life. Which, with my natural affinity towards finding myself in unlikely yet hilarious sit-com type situations, that’s saying a lot.

One such popular boy who didn’t know I existed prior to 2010 moseyed his way on into my Facebook DM's. As I find guys who have peaked in high school often do. Having been so out of my league in my younger years, I welcomed the attention. Ignoring the trivial fact that he didn’t seem to remember who I was, I jumped at the opportunity to engage in shameless flirting with this gorgeous man. Much to my delighted surprise things quickly escalated to hot and heavy sexting. And after a couple weeks of this cat and mouse game we agreed to take things to the next level by meeting up face to face; Making plans to get drinks at this karaoke dive bar I often frequented in those days. Having not seen (nor fantasized about) him in over a decade I’m relieved when he walks in and still looks amazing in person. Never in my wildest dreams did I think I would be close enough to this man to be able to smell him. Not willingly, at least. But there I was. And he smelled like a thousand wishes of a pre-pubescent girl coming true all at once.

We nervously ordered a couple of drinks to break the ice. As it turns out, nothing was to be heard over some drunk woman in her 40's belting out “Black Betty”. So all interaction was limited to body language and attempting to shout over the unfortunate sound of a dying cat coming from the stage. After the hundredth “huh”, Romeo suggests an alternative to the ear-bleeding cacophony. Asking if I want to go to his place so we can talk and catch up, he slyly adds that it’s conveniently located nearby. I agree, and he offers to drive us there like a gentleman. I tell him I'll follow him with my car so I can leave later. Sending the distinct message that “I'm no hussy” and “I will not be staying the night sir”. These are obviously lies. I'm playing hard to get. Probably not my best move, as I'm already hard to want. But I digress.

Pulling into his apartment complex, I am instructed to park out back in the designated parking for guests. We go up a couple flights of stairs to his place, and he gives me a tour. It’s surprisingly nice for a bachelor, and I'm actually impressed. Continuing our drinking once settled, buzzed Brittany now has the courage to suggest I give him a back massage. During our brief social media courting, he had mentioned that the type of work he does often leaves him sore. I have magical little hands like that of a leprechaun, so it was to be a match made in heaven. If nothing else, it seemed like a great excuse to get this Adonis-like man half-naked while I was permitted to fondle him. I've yet to meet a man stupid enough to pass up a massage, so he obviously says yes.

About 10 minutes or so into the rub down in some manner of seductive maneuvering, he rolls over to purposefully land on top of me. There’s some playful wrestling between us until he has me completely pinned down, forcing an exasperated surrender. Now it’s starting to seem like it’s heading down a “50 Shades of Grey” path. I, for one would have loved if this ended in some kinky love-making shenanigans. But instead of seizing this golden opportunity to escalate things by leaning in and kissing me, he does the most vile, unspeakable thing that has ever happened to me to date.

In a misguided attempt to continue the playfulness, Christian Spray decides to do that thing where you hock a loogie and suck it back up before it touches the ground. Except he does this over my face and fumbles, resulting in the dropping of a giant ball of putrid mucus directly into my regrettably open mouth. Straightaway, I will tell you I am not a fan of spit. Ergo, I'm not too big on kissing, but will tolerate it if I’m drunk enough. This is not a secret. Everyone knows this. My best friend always jokes that I'm Julia Roberts in “Pretty Woman” because of this extreme aversion to making out. Spit for whatever reason just grosses me out. I can’t do it. Even typing this now in the safety of my apartment years later, I'm getting sweaty and queasy thinking about it. (Deep breaths)

All feigning of being overpowered fades instantly as I toss him off me like a ragdoll. Running urgently to the bathroom, I barely make it to the toilet as vomit shoots from me like Linda Blair. The force in which I’m retching my guts out invites a very audible, and equally disgusting fart to the impromptu puke party. Further adding insult to injury. I barely hear the frightened “are you okay?” from across the hall as I try my best to get these rogue bodily functions back under control before I shit my pants. After violently exorcising all of the alcohol urging me to get that demon dick, my buzz is completely gone. As is my confidence and self-respect. When I know I can’t reasonably hide out in the bathroom any longer, I muster the strength to face my suitor. Calling it a night with no objection, I grab my things and get out of there. Driving home in utter silence leaves me with the full weight of the horror and embarrassment of that which just transpired.

Now, most reasonable people would have cut their losses and taken the “L” at this point. But since I’m the Helen Keller of picking a suitable mate, I ignored the egregious red flags in front of me like a blind, deaf mute. In adhering to my life's credo, "I'll try anything once, twice if it doesn't kill me" I accepted a second invitation to hang out with booger boy a week later. His proposal years ahead of it's time, was essentially a "Netflix and Chill" type situation at his place. Since his place was nicer and I had a creepy roommate at the time, this was the logical choice. Having a solid 45 minute commute to his place, my departure text should have given him ample time to be ready. Letting someone know you are on the way is a universal courtesy that says “hey, clean yourself up. Hide all the embarrassing things in your apartment. Cease all activities deemed strange by society”.

Pulling into the same familiar lot as before, another warning text is issued as I climb the stairs. Knocking as I reach his door, I am prompted to "come in". Opening the door, I'm taken aback as I’m met with a scene straight out of Matilda. Bruce Bogtrotter is hunched over, wolfing down an entire chocolate cake with such ferocity as if being forced by The Trunchbull herself. Except unlike the movie no one is cheering him on, and for some odd reason he's only wearing boxers. In an attempt to alleviate the awkwardness from the tragic display of a grown man binge-eating in his underwear before me I tease "oh, I see you're letting yourself go these days." Knowing very well this couldn't be further from the truth. Even enjoying a midnight snack in the form of an entire cake couldn’t mar his perfect figure. He chuckled, so I assumed that the joke was received in the spirit it was given in.

Without wiping away any of the chocolate debris littering his bare chest or putting on clothes, he plops down on the couch. He beckons for me to do the same as he licks the chocolate off his fingers so he can use the remote, like a savage. Switching on the TV he flips through a couple channels before settling on watching an episode of Jeopardy. Now, that in itself isn't weird. It wouldn’t be my first choice, but it was his interaction with the show that was particularly off-putting. Throughout the entirety he hollered out hilariously wrong answers in complete seriousness. I was as entertained, as I was bewildered.

Thirty minutes or so elapsed when without warning or provocation my date starts having a meltdown over the comment I had made when I first got there. I'm hit with an emotional, "no, you know what? I had a long week at work okay? I was too tired to go to the gym today and I'm allowed to eat cake." At first I think this sudden, wild outpouring has to be a joke as I’ve spent a majority of the evening silently observing hilarious chaos. Wide-eyed and disbelieving, I am flabbergasted as he doesn’t seem to be kidding at all, and goes on to accuse me of being an insensitive bully. I’m left stunned and baffled.

Feeling like a helpless boyfriend about to incur the wrath of his raging hormonal mess of a girlfriend on the rag, I’m frozen in confusion. Luckily that little voice of reason that had been shaking it’s head like a disapproving mother all night hadn’t given up on me yet. Kicking into high gear, the once petty judgement gave way to full-blown survival mode as my inner monologue screams “run bitch, run!” Nearly breaking an ankle, I bolt out the door and down the stairs the best I can being uncoordinated and in high-heeled boots. Looking over my shoulder, I’m horrified to discover he's chasing after me.

Years of obsessively watching serial killer shows like “Criminal Minds” has prepared me for this very moment. “This is not a drill” I think to myself as the countless hours of bingeing crime documentaries seems to be paying off. Taking into account that this man seemingly feels no pain sprinting barefoot on the asphalt with all that chocolately goodness coursing through his veins. I accept I am outmatched physically. My “training” tells me I'll never make it to my shitbox car to escape before his ungodly sugar-rush speed gives him the advantage needed to gain on me. So I switch it up and clip-clop my heels in the opposite direction of my car. Hopefully, this move will throw him off and give me the time I need to look for a place to hide. Creating what the experts in the biz call, a diversion.

I spot a safe haven in the form of a dumpster in the distance. All dignity aside, I hoist myself up over the side and into the disgusting trash receptacle. I can only pray there are no other occupants. Blindly taking on rabies-infested raccoons or napping vagabonds in pitch-black darkness has to be better than dealing with a crazed man on a chocolate cake rampage, I muse.

Appearing as though my plan worked, I pray to the all powerful Investigation Discovery Network and mentally promise to send them a donation if I make it out alive. Anxiously, I wait in silence to be absolutely certain I will not been detected. As the adrenaline wears off a foreign object digging into my calf reminds me that I have some Fireball nips stowed away in my shoe. They are a bit sweaty after the pursuit, but beggars can’t be choosers, and their cinnamon goodness goes a long way to drown out the god awful stench around me. In that moment toasting boot whiskey with feral, trash-eating, wildlife, I have never been more grateful for being the type of hot-mess train-wreck that always smuggles emergency alcohol on their person.

Five or five-hundred minutes pass, I can’t be sure. But I’m satisfied enough that I'm no longer in the "danger zone". Climbing out of my garbage sanctuary, I suck up the fresh air like it’s my first day with lungs. The sweet relief is cut short as I hastily get in my car not wanting to take any chances. It is in this tiny space I am immediately more aware of how foul I smell, and it’s an issue. In a feeble attempt to drown out the offensive odor emanating off my trash covered body I spray some perfume I happen to have in my center console before embarking on my hour-long ride home.

That night I learned the hard lesson that if he doesn’t want you in your Quasimodo phase, he doesn't deserve you at your slightly better Quasimodo phase. I also learned that all the Victoria's Secret Lovespell in the world can’t cover up the shame, regret and 3 day old Chinese food smell from that night that still haunts me.

To all my ladies reading this that have also aged like a fine wine, spare yourself the embarrassment of making the same mistakes I did by being tempted by a hottie from the past. Hold out for a mysterious, tambourine-shaking gypsy who will love you unconditionally. After-all, everyone deserves their own Esmeralda. ❤️