So, I was talking to a friend the other night about dating disasters.
…The kind of stories that completely kill your self confidence and self respect directly after they occur, but later laugh at…once time has set aside enough distance and perspective to truly appreciate the morbid crappiness of it all.
I have less stories than most, due to adamantly being against the whole function of dating to begin with. I used to blame the fact that I’m terrible at it, as an excuse…until I realized that everyone is terrible at dating, and that’s just how people accumulate good party stories.
…So now, to fight off the regret of not having the great humiliation coos, I indulge in other peoples. Like a sport. And collect them as if they were trading cards, to whip out and use as my own fake arsenal when we have had one too many and someone in the group begins with the age-old:
“…So this one time? I was on a date and it was so bad that…”
…Anyway, the conversation brought up so many good horror stories from the past, (as I dug out my fake ammo and compared it with her real stuff), that I thought I’d reflect on them a bit. The true distance a person will go to to achieve certain ends, the failed sexual exploits, the maxed out credit cards in lingerie, the date prep, the wimpy sex, the psycho stalkers, and more!
True life stories I have (along the way) collected, include:
Woman One: Debating if boyfriend of six months is uber religious or just gay (because he refuses to get intimate with her) she lays out an entire scheme associating herself with a trench coat. Every time she wears it, she surprises him with a special event, or sneak-meet, or lunch date or what-have-you. A training ground, set up like Pavlov’s dog, to be unconsciously receptive to said trench coat and whatever neat delights become associated with it. This all culminates on Valentine’s Day night, when wearing only lingerie underneath, she invites him over to watch movies and secretly seduce him. She sets the tone with honest-to-god Barry White music, pre-cued up, and does her little dance and unveiling, only to realize by the totally horrified look on his face that the Pavlov experiment does not (in fact) guarantee a goddamn thing. And also: Yeah…he’s prob’ly gay.
Dude One: Breaks up with Dude Two. At around three o’clock in the morning. Dude Two is thrown out of the apartment…toasted beyond repair, and in the kind of weep-screaming meltdown usually reserved for teenage girls having something to do with Justin Bieber sightings. He does not leave or in any way attempt to save his dignity. Instead he goes on a tangent of, “I love, you…you fucking whore!” intermixed with “No one EVER will treat you as good as me!” and “Why are you such an asshole?! Baby, open the door!” This goes on for some time. Hours. Ending (eventually) the following morning…with people on their way out to work, stepping over his crumpled form, asleep in the doorway…his body reduced to a sour chemical compound of sick, last night’s dinner, and heartbreak.
Woman Two: It had been a while. Things were getting rather rusty from lack of use and our lady fair needed a good old fashioned lay. So, she set her eyes on a sure thing, a beautiful recommendation of a past casual sexing friend. At a party, she goes for it. Problem is, he’s about five gallons of the hard stuff, ahead of her. So far ahead, in fact that at the casual hint of possible seduction, she finds herself mid-party, thrown over his shoulder a-la Tarzan, and carried off into the night. The miracle of arriving safely to her apartment, and in such a blatantly virile capacity, all but undoes Woman Two. She is ready for this! This is EXACTLY what is needed! Casual! And immediate! Animalistic! No strings attached! With endless possibility, as there is no fucking way he will ever remember a beat of it, so wasted to the world he clearly is. But first: to pee. Empty out his bladder of half a ton of tequila and cheap rum…naked, wandering out into the apartment: roommates be damned…he finally reaches his intended destination. He thinks. And then: it happens. By the gallon. A non-stop stream. As Woman Two, hugs onto whatever bedclothes she can manage to save…while he empties his tank (despite her screaming protestations) all over her entire bed…before passing out. Directly into it.
Dude Two: A stalker magnet. Has the habit of dating what would be referred to as the, “bad girl type.” Which is exciting and eventful and incredibly hot…in true pattern…until he breaks up with them. And then: it’s not. Or rather: it still is, but in the not-so-good way. In his short span of (still young) dating life…he’s had tires slashed, windows broken, cell phones annihilated, walls fisted, table tops cleavered, his face sharpee’d in his sleep…closet set on fire, and sofa…literally…pooped on. Apparently it is either worth the end-game, or he’s an unteachable idiot…because as of current time of print: he shows little sign of habit change, despite.
Woman Three: A little bit of a badass in the bedroom, she finally hooks up with a new fella she’s been psudo-dating for nearly a month. Schedules finally align, the stars in their orbit, the ex has the kids, and by god, some serious sexing is gonna be going down. And it does. Apparently blowing his mind. Which rather rises her self-confidence higher (as it would), influencing her to really go for the finish line. Only, oops! Wouldn’t you know it? Perhaps he’s been benched too long…or maybe he’s playing a different position from what he’s used to. Either way, mid-tackle, said fella locks up in a seizure of pain, the pass is incomplete, and two days later…as she listens in total silence to his voice on the other side of the phone, she receives news direct from his doctor’s office…where he’s on his third testing round. Apparently, the tackle was too much for the rookie. She had broken him. His sentence of a good long benching, confirms it. Needless to say a confirmed “obituary lister”…thus ends the season. And they never met on the field again. So much for the playoffs.
Dude Three: Crushes old school, and crushes hard. He’s picky, and doesn’t feel the need to wander once his ideal is found. Even despite the total and complete lack of forward momentum. Being inventive, he creates a host of marvels and continues to throw them at her. She responds in bud-ship. Which sucks to every outside observer. In fact, it becomes the butt of jokes and for reasons far surpassing anything intelligent continues to this day. And most likely into ridiculousness of decades. Cuz its just the way he is. Stupid woman…
Women Four & Five: Getting to know one another (as people do), Woman Four and Woman Five, seated side-by-side in the dressing room, share the kinds of bits n’ pieces intimacies that people do, while performing in a show. Where they grew up…their first pets…their weird relatives…crazy dates…and eventually (as it almost always does, with show-people) the weird and funny sex stories. Like this one guy: Really good in bed. Who liked to do this one thing. Very specific. Like a calling card, so to speak. But wait. Suddenly, as Woman Five talks on, Woman Four’s face begins to harden. “When was this?” she finally asks to her astonished new “friend.” “Um. Him? Well…I mean we’ve only hooked up the one time really…but who knows, right?” “–When.” Insists Woman Four, without a flinch. “Um. Geeze…I dunno. Like…a month ago, maybe?” Woman Four slowly puts her eyebrow pencil down. She focuses her gaze on Woman Five’s reflection before her. “What’s his name,” she questions, evenly. “Oh, come on…it’s theatre…ask me no questions, I’ll tell you no lies. You know how it goes,” quips Woman Five. “WHAT. IS. HIS. NAME.,” insists Woman Four with an unmistakable intensity. So: Woman Five tells her. And needless to say…the engagement ended soon after.
Dude Four & Woman Six: She’s gone on him. Maybe at first because he isn’t interested in her that way. Maybe because of the challenge. At the beginning: anyway. She’s kinda famous for tackling the particularly hard stuff and kicking it’s ass into submission before it even knows it. Why shouldn’t a dude be the same? So: she chases him. She chases him HARD. Subtlety isn’t a talent she possesses…(though she ‘s packed with eleven-hundred other kinds.) It becomes like a rather frustrating sexual game show in the play-by-plays to the people who know of the intent, and have been following from the beginning. An exhaustive campaign. She really goes all out. And for reasons, passing understanding, he manages to hold his ground, despite this hurricane of humanity whipping all around him. Until…that is…one day. When for reasons we may never know for sure (except we really do): he doesn’t. Which will prob’ly go down in the annals of history, sexual antagonism, theatre, life, sex and happy-endings…for all of time.
…Just a choice few of the prob’ly zillions of such stories, I have currently clogging my head, waiting for the day I get that gossip columnist gig, or tell-all book deal.
…Not that I’d name names. That isn’t playing by the rules.
…I’d NEVER renege on confidences.
(…She says…holding the tarnished halo at a tilt, just above her head.)
~D
