Since beginning my blog I have been inundated with dating horror stories from fellow love-seekers out there. I decided every so often I will post one of these lovely stories. Thanks to this anonymous contributor for her story! Please note this one is rated R due to content…
After being dumped by a guy who was still in love with his ex-girlfriend, I decided to give Match.com a try. I signed up for a 3-month membership and spent several hours crafting my profile, cropping and auto-enhancing the most flattering pictures I could find and doing my best to sound as smart, sophisticated and fun-loving as every other twenty-something in ODL (online dating land).
Soon after “launching” my completed profile, I was ready to check out some dudes. A profile with the name “ImperviousToCold” caught my attention–a graduate student at a prestigious university, he seemed smart, interesting, and pretty cute. We messaged back and forth several times and decided to meet in person.
The first date was, for lack of a better description, slightly uncomfortable. We met for drinks at a swanky bar of his choosing, where my Marshall’s skirt and I felt very out of place. The conversation flowed fairly easily, but he was somewhat cocky and criticized my favorite author. My older, more mature self wouldn’t have even entertained the thought of a second date, but immaturity and low self-esteem clouded my judgement and I decided to give Mr. Not-So-Modest another shot.
On the second date, we met up at a more relaxed bar for drinks and a few rounds of ping-pong, which was much more my style. After several cocktails and failed attempts at appearing the least bit athletic, we ended up at his parents’ expensive and tastefully decorated apartment (they were out of the country, probably hobnobbing with royalty and bathing in foie gras). We sat down in the living room, where awkward small talk led to a makeout session of epic proportions. Now, when I say epic proportions, I mean that there was an epic amount of saliva on and around my mouth–my chin, my nose, undoubtedly my hair. So much of his saliva was where it shouldn’t have been that I was concerned he might have dry mouth. He must have gotten a hint from my aggressively closed-mouth kissing, and turned the intensity down a few notches.
Mr. Not-So-Suave led me into his bedroom, where I discovered that you’re never too young to wear pleated khaki pants above the belly button. Various articles of clothing later, our makeout session turned horizontal. As we rounded third base, the Steven Tyler mouth was back and in full effect. Desperate for air in my lungs and a blow dryer on my face, I put the brakes on our intense cuddling. Mr. Not-So-Lucky laid back on the bed next to me, and made some remark about the home run he’d just hit. Excuse me? Was there another woman in the room? Because from my very sober point of view, nothing had entered my–er–home plate. I tried to assure him that he had not scored, but he was convinced that the deed had been done. Was he a virgin? Wishful thinking? I’m not a particularly large person, so it didn’t seem to be a case of getting “lost in the folds” (if you know what I mean). I left soon thereafter, with no intention of going on a third date.
Several days later, Steven Tyler called me. After our bizarre evening, I was surprised to hear from him. He stammered his way through a very awkward post-second date breakup. Relief washed over me, and I wholeheartedly agreed that the spark just wasn’t there. He continued to stumble over his words, unsure of how to end the call. I wished him good luck and hung up the phone.
Several years later, while skimming the New York Times wedding announcements, I saw a picture of Mr. Not-So with a soon-to-be Mrs. Not-So. I’ve never felt Oh-So-Lucky.