I recently went on two blind dates for the simple reasons that I was a) bored and b) not having too much luck dating the usual way. The results were entertaining but utter disasters. I’m a pretty strange human being (“quirky” would be the nice way of putting it), but on these blind dates, I was thoroughly out done.
The first blind date began innocently enough. He was Italian and had a lovely face. But then the evening progressed. The weirdest subjects were brought up. At one point, he made a Psyduck noise, told me that we were all Pokémon, and then proceeded to place a hand on the table, look deeply into my eyes, and ask seductively: “Which Pokémon are you?” I squeaked out “Vulpix?” and changed the subject as fast as I could. Don’t get me wrong, I like Pokémon as much as the next geek, but the intense eye contact made it a little too weird for me.
At some point, we managed to start a more normal conversation about the month I spent in Spain a couple years back. “Ah, yes. The Spanish. Not the worst nationality,” he casually remarked. Oh boy. But the offensiveness didn’t end there. For some reason, the topic of rape was brought up. (I honestly could not tell you how this happened.) He told me that he had two near-rape experiences. I made a polite gasp and leaned in closer over my lasagna.
The first, he told me, was when he was walking in a dark alley and a “Singapore man” looked at him strangely. I waited for the rest. There was nothing more.
The second time, he continued, was when he was on a plane and a man took a picture with him and then “touched him like a homosexual.” Yes, because that’s what a near-rape experience is.
Because he was Italian there was a bit of a language barrier. He made the mistake of asking about my academic family. Now, I love my academic family to pieces, but we’re all kinds of bizarre. I explained my academic family, trying to skirt as much of the crazy as possible, but when I came to the subject of some of our parties there was no way to pretend we were completely innocent. There just wasn’t. “It is good to be sexual,” he commented. He inquired further. I put my face in my hands and mumbled that my academic brother was once given a blow job in front of a room full of people. Italian boy looked at me, cocked his head, and asked, “Blow job… is this… a good gift to get?”
The second date was just as bad. The guy walked in, and to start with I was pleasantly surprised. He was hot. Like, damn, dat face. We shot off questions in rapid succession as soon as he sat down. I began to wonder if this was a revival of the Spanish Inquisition. He then talked about himself. A lot. He was a nationally ranked bagpiper (in America), he was from the same city in America as me, his academic family abandoned him, he had just gotten a tattoo- wait, tattoo? “You’ll have to show me sometime,” I said, half out of politeness and half out of desire to see that hot face again in the future. And then he took his shirt off. In the middle of this really fancy restaurant. With nothing on underneath. Who does that? His tattoo was, admittedly, pretty damn awesome. Swirls of vivid color adorned his arm, and I may have swooned a bit, despite the embarrassment.
He continued to talk. I spent the next hour politely nodding. He wants to drop out of St Andrews to join a metal band. “Academics just aren’t really my thing, ya know?” I didn’t know. “But whatever,” he said, not waiting for my reply anyway. The word “whatever” proved to be at the foremost of his rather limited vocabulary. He also eventually proved to be just as offensive as my last blind date. Some great quotes were: “UK people have shit taste in music. Absolutely everyone only listens to techno,” “UK people just don’t work as hard as Americans. Like, I don’t even get homework in film studies,” and, my personal favorite, “The gays here just aren’t as well kept as in America. Like, they don’t even care about the dirt under their finger nails, but whatever.” Insert internal SCREAMING here.
So, basically, I’ve decided I’m going to become one of those old spinsters with fifteen cats. I’ll change my name to Dolores. Every night, I’ll sit back in my rocking chair, close my eyes, listen to the soft meowing of the only males I’ll tolerate, and thank my lucky stars I don’t have to deal with any more blind dates.
Photo credit Iofoto Images