Story Sent in by Julius:

Gwen and I were in a play together and flirted like crazy. One night, a week before the curtain was to go up, I invited her back to my place, and she said she'd bring the wine.

She and I drove to my apartment separately, and we went upstairs. Not long after I had uncorked the bottle and handed her a glass, my buzzer rang. I wasn't expecting anyone else, and I hit the intercom.

The voice on the other end said, "This is Chris. Let me up. "

I couldn't recall knowing a Chris, and especially a Chris who I'd invite over while I was romancing. I asked, "What's this about, Chris?"

He replied, "Is Gwen there?"

I turned to Gwen. She looked at me as if hearing the conversation for the first time. She said, "It's okay. You can let him in. He's with me. "

"Who is he?"

"He's with me."

"Right. Friend, boyfriend, brother, chaperone—?"

"He's my… friend. It's cool. You'll like him. "

I buzzed him in. Gwen explained, "On the way over, I texted him to come over. Hope that's okay. "

When I opened my apartment door for Chris, he breezed right past me and gave Gwen a hug. Then he acknowledged me enough to ask, "Have any beer?"

I did, but I put my hand out to him, in greeting. "Hi Chris. I'm Julius."

He looked at my hand, then squeezed next to Gwen on the armchair that was really only designed for one person. He put his hand on her thigh and asked her, "How are you, baby?"

At that point, I decided to remain polite but make it an early night. I brought Chris his beer, and then I said to both of them, "So, I need to make it to bed early tonight. You guys cool with heading out in 20?"

Gwen frowned at me and asked, "So soon? Is it because I invited Chris?"

Chris took some level of offense to that, and he stood up and said to me, "Me being here shouldn't be a problem." He then stumbled back onto the armchair and muttered something that sounded like, "I should just pee on your floor."

I replied to Gwen, "I'm sorry. I just forgot that I need to be up early. And you know what? Yeah. I don't recall inviting Chris. I thought this would be just you and I."

Chris stood up, slammed his beer on my coffee table, and pounded toward the door. He then spun around, grabbed his beer, and then returned to his angry exit. Gwen stayed put. Chris turned to her and said, "Come on, baby. Let's blow."

A strange smile then appeared on Gwen's face. She said, "This is a fun situation. Two guys who want me. Decisions, decisions..."

I cut her off. "Do you want to stay and hang out or not?"

She gave me a sour look, then said, "Well, you have to be up early, so..." She stood and walked to join Chris at the door, then asked me, "Can I have a beer for the road, sweet thing?"

I replied, "No. Good night." I wasn't into these weird games she was playing, and I just wanted her and her loser friend gone. They left, and I went to bed a little while later with no regrets.

Gwen and I didn't talk much during rehearsals after that, although somehow or other, a rumor was started that she tried to sleep with me but that I couldn't get it up. When confronted with these rumors, I responded that Gwen must have confused me with her special buddy, Chris.

Story Sent in by Ann:

Victor promised to meet me at a street corner for our first date. When he didn't show on time, I called him and he said that he was running a little late. He then called me back a moment later and said that he was running very late. I asked him if he wanted to postpone and he asked me if I'd mind waiting. He claimed he'd "more than make it up" to me. He was very apologetic and gracious, and so I found a nearby cafe and sat down there while I waited for him.

About 20 minutes later, he grabbed me from behind and shook me. I screamed. He released me and stepped away, like I had slapped him. He asked, "What the hell? What was that for?"

I stared at him, open-mouthed. I said, "You shook me! What did I do wrong?"

"You screamed for no reason! I don't tolerate baby behavior, and I'm not about to start now."

"So grabbing and shaking and scaring me is okay, but me reacting normally to it is not?"

He screamed into my face, and I leaned away from him. He said, "Oh, what's wrong? I just reacted normally, since a scream is a normal reaction to everything, according to you." He then screamed at me again.

I shoved past him and said, "There's nothing normal about you," and I stormed right out of there. I was afraid that he'd come after me and grab me or scream at me again, but he did none of those things.

Instead, a month or so later, I received an email from him, explaining and rationalizing all about why screams are a sign of aggression, why it's not smart to scream in public places, and curiously, he also included a thick paragraph on industrial cogeneration (followed by another paragraph that began, "Anyway, back to your behavior..."). I counted myself lucky that I had no further interactions with him.

Story Sent in by Joe:

Stacy and I met online. She was nice enough, at first, but she was a little too fond of talking to me about her father, the butcher.

She worked with him in his shop, she helped him place orders, she once beheaded some chickens, she loved weighing steak. She very clearly liked what she did, and routinely filled my head with all manner of meaty facts.

The week that Spider-Man 2 came out, she asked me if I wanted to see it, which I did. It became our first date.

After dinner (during which she had ordered pasta and a salad), we made it to the theater. When we arrived at the concession stand, I asked for a medium popcorn and soda. Stacy asked the poor stand worker, "What meat do you have?"

The worker said, "Meat? We have chicken nuggets and hot dogs."

Stacy asked, "What type of hot dogs?"

"Um, beef?"

"What quality beef?"

"Good quality."

Stacy groaned. "Nooooooo, I mean prime, choice, select, and so on."

The worker said, "I don't really know. No one's ever complained. They're really good."

Stacy laughed, "I'll be the judge of that. I'm a butcher's daughter. Let me see the package."

The worker became flustered, and I whispered to Stacy, "Why not just grab some popcorn? Or you can share mine."

She replied, "Uh, I'm doing my part to support America's meat industry. How about yourself?"

I shrugged. "I'm doing nothing at all to support it. Why not just buy a hot dog and then we can go see the movie?"

"You don't understand. I'm a butcher's daughter. If a customer came in and asked my dad what grade the meat was and he said he didn't know, do you know what would happen?"

"This is a movie theater. Not a butcher shop."

"I know what a butcher shop looks like. My father's a butcher."

The worker cut in, with hope in his voice, "Will that be all?"

Stacy turned to him. "Weren't you checking on the grade of beef?"

Without a word, he turned and walked away. Luckily, other registers were open, so other patrons were being served. However, there was a growing line behind us and I just wanted to be away from the concession and inside the theater, regardless of the quality of beef that accompanied us within.

The worker returned with a manager. She told Stacy, "We use Sabrett and Oscar Mayer."

Stacy asked, "How old are they?"

The manager patiently replied, "We just got them yesterday."

Stacy asked, "Where did you get them from?"

The manager said, "A local retail supplier."

"Which supplier?"

"Food Lion."

Stacy then asked to see a hot dog up close ("I'm a butcher's daughter. I just want to inspect it.") and the manager indulged her. Stacy looked it around and around, from every angle.

Finally, she returned it to the manager and said, "Okay. I'll have a small popcorn."

The worker blurted, "You don't want the hot dog? Seriously?"

Stacy said, "You're talking to a butcher's daughter. Believe me: I know meat."

Off to the theater we went with nary a hot dog between us. I spent the rest of the time focusing on the film, and looking forward to ending the date and never seeing the butcher's daughter ever again.

Story Sent in by Bess:

Drew and I had gone out on four dates already. For our fifth date, he promised me an outdoor adventure.

"Fifth date," he said when he picked me up from my place in his car, "Hitting the big time."

He was in many ways a dork, but I always found it endearing. It was early morning, just after sunrise. He had planned to take me somewhere about an hour away, but aside from the aforementioned fact that we would be doing something outside, I didn't know what else to expect.

After a jovial ride (at least considering what time of day it was), we arrived at a park and stepped out of his car. He opened his trunk and took out a roll of white shag carpeting. He carried it to the middle of a field, and I was right behind him.

He unfurled it and set it down, then turned to me. "It's as clean as I could get it. Climb in?"

I frowned. "Climb in?"

"God, yes," he said, "Lie down on it. I'll wrap you up like a burrito. That's part of the fun. We'll do me, next."

I had no idea what he was planning, but as I said, I had been on enough dates with him to have some sense that he wasn't going to chop me into pieces. I lay down on the carpet, and he rolled me up in it and stepped back.

"Now count to 50," he said, "then you can unroll yourself."

He stepped behind me, so that I couldn't see him anymore. I began the count, but by the time I made it to 20, I heard his car engine go on.

I unrolled myself, just in time to watch him floor it away. I called and called him with no response, so I swallowed what little pride I had left and called my sister to come pick me up.

When I did bump into him, about three years later, I asked him what his deal was. He replied, "Yeah, you know, I just got, you know, tired of you. I'm a man."

I replied, "An actual man would've just been straight with me, instead of, you know, being an asshole." He shrugged, and that was our last conversation.

Story Sent in by Jacob:

Before my date with Kathy, she complained of laptop trouble. I offered to help her fix it, and she brought it with her on the date. We set it up on the dinner table and I cracked it open. It wouldn't even make it past the operating system loading screen at first, but I finally was able to make it in.

How surprising it was, then, when I made it to her desktop and found scores (literally - there had to be over 60) of Microsoft Word document shortcuts, all with titles that were variations on a theme: "JACOB SUCKS.doc" "JACOB SUCKS A FAT ONE.doc" "JACOB IS AN ELEPHANT.doc" "JACOB LOVES SHEEP.doc" "JACOB LIKES KIDS A BIT TOOOO MUCH.doc" "JACOB ON FIRE LOL.doc" and my personal favorite of the ones I was able to see in the short glance I had: "JACOB JACOB FUKC JACOB.doc" (or something very much like that).

"Whoops!" Kathy said, spinning the laptop back to herself, "Um, forget you saw those."

I said, "It's kind of hard to forget 'JACOB SUCKS BALLS.doc.' Something I said?"

She slammed her laptop shut. "Nothing anybody said! I don't know what you're talking about!"

"Uh, Kathy–"

"Nope! Don't know. Not a thing. No idea what you're saying. Nope."

"Uh–"

She covered her ears with her hands. "La la la la la! I can't hear yooooooou!"

The rest of our very short dinner went back and forth like that. I couldn't make it past the appetizer (indeed, I'm surprised I stuck around long enough for the mozzarella sticks in the first place) and I insisted that we part ways right after they were served.

Story Sent in by Edith:

I wore a pendant that my aunt had given me, on my first date with Tom. It was a small, abstract silver charm with three little spheres mounted on a small backing. He gravitated to it immediately.

"Whoa, those supposed to be testicles?" he pointed and asked with a smile.

"No. It's just a design. My aunt gave it to me."

He laughed. "Your aunt sure must like testicles."

"I'll be sure to ask her."

"Is she hot?"

I gave him a look.

He said, "As hot as you, I mean?"

"She has good taste, which I guess is more than I could say for myself at this moment."

That wiped the smile off his face. "You talking about me? Or the food?"

We hadn't eaten yet, so it didn't take him long to solve the riddle. He stood up and said, "Well then, what the hell are we doing?"

At first, I thought it was a rhetorical question, so I didn't give him an answer. When he continued to stare, I replied, "We're ending the date."

And so we did, barely after it had begun.

Email Sent in by Sim:

Story Sent in by Lester:

Connie and I had a date planned, which she called me to postpone because she said she was going to the hospital for something minor. I didn't press the issue, and a couple of weeks later, we finally met up over Italian dinner.

After some small talk, our dinners were delivered and she said, "You're probably wondering why I was in the hospital."

I replied, "You don't have to tell me. I'm glad it was just a minor procedure."

She said, "Procedure? No. Not that type of hospital. I committed myself to a mental hospital for a few days."

Feeling my interest in Connie automatically drop, I nonetheless gave her the benefit of the doubt. I asked, "Are you okay, now?"

She said, "Yeah, I am, thanks."

"Good."

I went back to eating my chicken as if nothing was wrong, but she looked at me for a while, then blurted, "You think I'm crazy, don't you?"

I replied, "You haven't said or done anything crazy to make me think that. You could've gone to the hospital for any number of reasons. That doesn't mean you're crazy. I'm just glad you're okay."

She said, "No, you're expecting me to do something insane. Like this."

She grabbed her side of spaghetti and tomato sauce and dunked it on her own head. She then puckered her entire face, held the bowl of spaghetti on her head, then stood up and made for the bathrooms with it.

When she didn't come back after around 15 minutes, I asked for the check, paid, and left.

Story Sent in by Carrie:

Ed had picked me up from my apartment on our second date. He had planned to take me to dinner and a club a few towns away. The fastest way there, typically, was the highway, and he pulled onto it.

"Oh, no... no, no, no, no, no, no, no!" he yelled.

Traffic. Lots of it. Bumper to bumper. He coasted to a stop, and there we sat. He groaned.

"It's okay," I said, "If it doesn't clear up by the next exit, we can get off there and take local roads."

"It's not okay. This is a date. I am hungry."

"I'm hungry, too, but–"

"Well, that settles it."

He pulled onto the shoulder and shot us down, past the traffic.

I gave him a frown. "Ed? Uh, Ed?"

He pulled off the highway and off-roaded it into an embankment, and up a hill toward a nearby local road. His car couldn't make the incline, though, and so it skidded and we rolled back a little bit before he reversed it so fast that I screamed. He then drove down through the embankment, in the opposite direction of the facing traffic on the highway, until he found some flatter ground. He then cut in front of a few other drivers on the local road, made a u-turn, and continued onto the local road.

"You almost killed us," I chided him.

"Almost," he grinned, "It's okay. There were no kids in the car and you're not pregnant. Are you?"

"No! That was insanely stupid."

He slowed the car down, made a right onto a residential street, and pulled over. He asked, "Do you want children?"

"I–what? What does that have to do with this?"

He grumbled and said, "All right, then I'll take you home. I owe you that much, I guess."

Without a word, I jumped out of his car and called a friend to pick me up. Nothing could convince me to spend one more minute in that potential deathtrap with him.

Story Sent in by Mariano:
Deb and I had been out on five dates together, and things were going great. She really seemed to like me, I liked her, and a relationship appeared inevitable.

At some point during one of our many, many conversations, I let slip that I didn't like clowns. They don't terrify me, but I just think that they're pointless and never as funny as they try to be. I remember telling Deb, "There are much easier ways to get someone to laugh than to dress up in giant rainbow shirts, floppy shoes, and freaky makeup."

Well, the day on which we were supposed to have our sixth date, I had a lousy day at work and I called Deb up before the end of the day to tell her so. "I'm in a crappy mood," I said, "And I don't think I really want to go out tonight. Will that be okay?"

Deb sounded disappointed. "I'm sure I can cheer you up," she said, "Are you sure you don't want to get together?"

I knew that if anyone could cheer me up, she could. Still, I just wanted to be alone, and I didn't want my bad mood to rub off on her, especially so freshly into the good thing we had going on. We postponed, I apologized multiple times, she said that she understood, and that was that.

Not too long into my evening of beer and video games, my doorbell rang. I looked through the peephole and saw a clown on my front porch. A giant tent of a shirt, curly purple wig, floppy shoes, and yes, freaky makeup were included. I stared through the peephole for the longest time, trying to figure out who it was and why they were there. The best guess I had was that he was there for a kid's birthday party and had arrived at the wrong house.

I was, as mentioned, in a bad mood. I also mentioned that I don't like clowns. Without thinking too much about it, I went around to the back of my house where I had a gardening hose all coiled up. I uncoiled it, turned on the water, prowled around the side of my house, and soaked the clown to pieces.

The clown nearly fell over, shouted, and ran off my lawn and down the sidewalk. It made me feel so much better, as if fate had dealt me a truly once-in-a-lifetime circumstance, and I had taken full advantage of it. I went back inside to continue my lonely night. My phone rang. It was Deb.

"Why the hell did you soak me?"

Oops! Deb was the clown. She had decked herself out in a misguided attempt to cheer me up. Luckily, she had taken it well, and she had probably cheered me up the only way that I could have been cheered up at all. We're still together, but thankfully, there have been no clown antics since.

Story Sent in by Amy:

Will wrote to me online, and unlike most of the messages I received, he was capable of stringing more than two words together into a complete thought. I don't even remember if it was that simple fact or his charm (likely both) but after a couple of weeks, he asked me out. It was my first date in two months, and I was glad for it.

He took me to a cafe with a small assortment of sandwiches and a wide variety of baked goods. He warned me, "Don't eat too much. We need to be limber, tonight."

Yuck. I thought what you're thinking, but I asked him, just to be sure, "What do you mean?"

His answer will haunt me until the end of my days: "I have a neighbor who dresses up like a horse. Every Friday night, he invites two other people over who dress like the same horse, and they sit in his backyard. You need to see it."

I bit. "He dresses like a horse?"

"Or she. You know, I have no idea if it's a man or a woman. I've never seen him otherwise. His house is all overgrown."

I asked, "Do they tramp around and neigh and graze?"

He became more focused on it, as if my own interest was a lightning rod. "No. They just kind of sit down around a table and eat. It's like a coffee party, but they're all in horse costumes, and almost every Friday. You in?"

Will lived on a quiet suburban street. We parked and he led me onto his second-floor back deck. It looked out over several backyards (two on either side and three behind him, those of the houses of a parallel street) but the one he had referred to was obvious: it was a fenced-in, tropical island of growth. Tall grasses, tangled trees, and, through the foliage, one or two ancient lawn ornaments.

There was no movement, as the sky darkened. Then, a light went on in the backyard, and then, someone stepped out of the old white house, into the yard. He wasn't in a full horse costume, as I had imagined, but he wore a horse mask (it was obviously a he), an undershirt, and what looked like black sweatpants.

The horse-man tossed his head from one side to another, then neighed. He slid a metal table and chairs out from around the side of the house, then sat in it.

Shortly thereafter, silently, another horse-person, this one in a similar mask, emerged from the house with a tray, bearing a teapot and cups. The second horse-person sat down, and then a third horse-person arrived, this one in a dress that looked like it was from colonial days. All three sat down at the table with the teapot and cups, and although no one drank, all three spoke in hushed tones.

Will gave me a look. I gave him a wide-eyed shrug. After all, what else could really be said?

Then, Will slid away from me, walked down the steps from the deck to his yard, and pressed himself against the fence, not too far away from where the horse party was taking place. Will then smiled up at me and nickered, like a horse.

All three horse people's heads turned in his direction. They couldn't see him, past the fence, but the first one, undershirt-horse, stood, picked up a broom, and crept closer to where Will stood.

Oblivious, Will neighed. He smiled up at me. I waved at him to move away from the fence. He either didn't see or was too invested in horsing around. The horse-man knocked at the fence with the broom, and Will scampered off.

The horse man glanced up at the deck, and although I was low to the floor, I didn't dare move. In retrospect, I'm not sure what he would have done that could've hurt me, but still, where I come from, one doesn't mess with a horse who brandishes a broom.

Will, who had apparently run inside through his front door, tapped on his back door and I rolled myself over to it. He said, "Date over. Good night." It might have been my imagination, but he had what looked like a dark stain streaming from the crotch of his slacks.

He closed the door on me, leaving me to wait until the horse-man returned to the table. I slipped downstairs as quietly as I could, hurried to my car, and left. Will never contacted me again.

Story Sent in by Samuel:

On our first date, Laura and I went to a diner where they sold ice cream floats. "They're awesome here," she told me, "but I'm not sure if I can drink a whole one by myself."

I said, "We can split one."

She agreed with that, and after our meals, we ordered a single float with two straws. It was delivered to the table, and we went to work on it.

She warned me, "Try not to get too many of your germs inside the glass. I can't let myself get sick."

I suggested, "If you're worried about it, why don't you drink first, and then I'll finish it?"

"That's stupid. We should both drink at the same time. Just watch your germs."

"I, uh, I will."

Apparently, I must not have been reining in my germs well enough, because after a few seconds of co-drinking, she said, "I told you to watch your germs. I can taste them through my straw."

"I think I'm drinking, same as you."

"Just watch your germs."

We tried again, and I drank, through the straw, like anyone else. She pulled away from the float in seconds.

"Why don't you just finish it, yourself? So intent you are on polluting it with your bugs. I can taste them, like old soap."

I replied, "Maybe that's a taste in the glass, already?"

She laughed. "I've tasted man-germs before. I think I know what they taste like."

I finished the float (which tasted fine to me) and then we left the diner. Her behavior had turned me off a fair amount, but the date wasn't done yet.

"I want to go on a walk," she said.

I followed her as she walked through town and a park. By "walked," though, I mean that she jogged. In her date outfit. Strange, but I kept up and finally, at the end of our jog, she turned to me and said, "I'm thirsty. Can we stop somewhere to get some water?"

We went into a convenience store and she bought a bottle of water. Outside, she drank it down, then spat some of it out, right on the ground. She said, "Ugh! How did you get your germs in this?"

I said, "You just opened it, yourself. Maybe they're your germs."

"No!" she said, apparently horrified, "They're just, they're just, your germs! They're still coating my mouth from that float before! I have to get mouthwash. I need it now."

She ran back inside the convenience store with her bottle of water. When she returned outside with a little bottle of mouthwash, I told her that it was nice to meet her and that I was going to leave. She held up a finger to me as if she wanted me to wait, as she swished the mouthwash around and around in her mouth for well over a minute.

I lost my patience and said, "Okay. Bye." I left, and as far as I know, she's still cleaning out her mouth from the germs that never were.

Story Sent in by Amalia:

Rob and I were walking through a city park on our first date together. There was a hanging chair swing, big enough for two or three, hanging near a playground.

"Go sit on it," he said, "I'll push you."

I sat down, and he pushed me. It was relaxing and fun at first, but then he pushed me harder and faster and higher. It reached the point where he was shoving at the swing.

I said, "I don't have to go this high. Slow down."

He then grabbed the seat and shook it, as if he wanted nothing more than for me to be off of it. He jerked me back and forth until I jumped off, and then he sat down.

"At last, it's my turn," he said, "You gonna push me or what?"

I pushed him gently at first. Then, he said, "Push me, you know, like you mean it. Not like a twat."

I shoved the chair. He yelled and fell off, onto his face, then screamed.

It seemed to me like he was pretending, but when he didn't stop screaming, I approached him and asked if he was okay. He didn't answer me, except to squirm around on the ground. He didn't appear to be cut or bruised anywhere. I told him, "I'll go get help. Be right back."

I forgot to go back. Oops.

Story Sent in by Nathan:

My friend Steve wanted to set me up with his friend, Pearl. All three of us went out to dinner, in the hopes of sparking some sort of connection between Pearl and me. We sat down in a restaurant booth and talked for a good while over some wings. Pearl was cute and we seemed to be hitting it off.

After about an hour together, Steve excused himself for the bathroom. After he left, Pearl leaned in close to me, over the table, and for an instant, I thought that she was going to ask me something personal, or at least fun.

She asked, "Have you ever seen Steve's dick?"

I replied, truthfully, "No."

She said, "But you've been friends since what? Grade school?"

I said, "But wouldn't you know it, we never had occasion to trade glances at each other's parts."

She leaned back and said, "He has a constant erection. Have you ever noticed it?"

I shook my head. "I don't usually check him out."

She whispered, "He let me sit on it, once. We were naked."

Ha! Oh, that's great. I took a wing and ate it slowly, hoping that my diverted attention would prevent her from saying anything else.

She said, "He wanted me to go down on him, but I laughed him out of the house."

"Mmm hmm," I nodded, trying my best to appear as uninterested as I was.

"It was great," she continued, "It was right before we got here."

Ah, and look who's back! Hi, Steve! He sidled in, next to her again, and this time, I couldn't help but glance at his pants, although it didn't look like anything was at all erect. Pearl definitely saw me looking.

For the rest of the evening, we talked about comparatively innocuous things, and then bid each other good night. I didn't even ask Pearl for her number, as she seemed too much of a drama-magnet, regardless of whether her claims were true.

The next day, I spoke to Steve over the phone and he asked me what I thought of Pearl. Being good friends, I confided in him what she told me. He laughed and said, "Yeah, I dated her sister briefly and Pearl walked in on us screwing around. She must have been staring at us for, like, an hour. I think it messed her up. She's never been with a guy."

Well, that was that.

Story Sent in by Ciara:

Nick and I were out to dinner on our first date, and he was very good at making eye contact with me. Too good. The guy practically stared at me the entire time, whether he was talking or not. Even when our food came, he spent more time watching me eat than looking at his own dinner as he ate, himself.

After I couldn't take it anymore, I said, "You sure do like to look at me." I hoped this would make him a bit more conscious of it.

Instead, he smiled and said, "Seven-hundred, twelve."

"Seven-hundred, twelve what?"

"Times you've blinked."

I blinked. Then again and again.

He grinned. "I'll keep count. Don't you worry."

I blinked super-fast, winked one eye, then the other, fast and alternately.

"Stop it," he said.

I didn't. He sat back and said, "Whatever. Those don't count since you're doing them on purpose."

"But I'm blinking, and at least one of these blinks is one that I need. And you're not counting it."

"Stop it," he said again, and that only made me blink faster. "Stop it now," he said again.

I went on for another few seconds, then stopped. "Wow," was all he said, and I was in silent agreement when he called the waitstaff over for the check, to bring the dinner to a hasty close.

He said a quick goodbye, and was off. I didn't expect to hear from him again, but he wrote me an email to explain that he thought I blinked too much and listed several health hazards that could result:

Story Sent in by Scott:

Cassie and I had been out on two dates. They were both great, and she always sounded enthusiastic to interact with me, whether by email, phone, text, or in person. In fact, she initiated most of said interactions. I was excited about her, too. So when she suggested that we hit up a local haunted house for Halloween, I was all over it.

We arrived there, and she took my hand as we approached the community center, where it was set up. She insisted on paying for both of us (I had paid for our first dinner together, and the subsequent game of laser tag), she took my hand, and we entered.

Less than ten seconds after entering the world of black lights and strobe, a guy in a hockey mask jumped out at us. I jumped, and Cassie screamed, taking my arm.

I held her tight and we continued on. That was, until, a guy in a wolfman costume leaped out and roared.

"Yaaaaaagh!" Cassie screamed, then bolted away from me, tore through the haunted house, rounded a corner, and was lost to sight.

I pursued, avoiding all the guys jumping out at me along the way (and there was a good amount of them).

I exited through the back door, just in time to see Cassie flooring it away in her car. It confused me first because I wasn't sure why she'd act that way, and second because she was my ride.

I called her and left a message, then I called her again. She picked up, yelled, "Aaaaaaaaagh!" and then hung up. I called her a third time, and she screamed, "Gaaaaaaagh!" and then hung up.

I texted her, "What's wrong? Are you okay?"

Her response: "AAAAAAAAAAAHH!!!"

I texted, "Mind coming back to pick me up?"

"AAAAAAAAAAAHH!!!"

Okay, then. I called a friend to grab me. I tried Cassie again a half hour later, and her voicemail picked up. I tried her again an hour later, and the same thing. I didn't leave a message either time, and resolved not to call her again. Clearly, she would call me back when she wanted to.

She didn't that night, nor the next day, nor the day after that. I texted her, "You okay?" and to that she responded, "AAAAAAAAAAAHH!!!" again.

I texted her, "Just give me a call when you want to talk."

"AAAAAAAAAAAHH!!!" she replied. Never heard from her since.

Story Sent in by Katherine:

Larry called me at the exact time we were due to meet for our date. He said, "I know this sounds crazy, but I've locked myself in my car."

I asked, "Can you unlock the doors and then step out?"

He replied, "Not that simple. I'm parked on Fletcher Street."

I rounded the corner to where he was parked and found him in the back seat of his car, locked in novelty handcuffs. I opened his car door and asked him, "What's the story, here?"

He said, "That's not important now. I need these off me."

"Where's the key?"

"Not–er, not available to me at this time. I have to go to a hardware store and just get them hacked off."

I walked him to a close-by hardware store but waited outside. Should I really have walked in there with a guy in handcuffs? That would have been a fun explanation.

I waited and waited and waited, until finally the place closed up. I knocked on the window and asked the clerk if the guy who had entered in handcuffs was still inside.

The clerk said, "I cut through the connecting chain and one of the cuffs when he up and left through the back door. He still had a cuff on, and he didn't come back."

If anyone out there encounters a guy with a single handcuff on, then tell him that he owes me an explanation.

Story Sent in by Thomas:

"I'm not like other girls," Rose warned me in one of our first online communications, "A lot of things about me are kind of more guy-like than girl. I don't mean physically."

Glad for that, I discovered that she meant more with regards to interests and sex drive, at least according to her. She liked taking computers apart, was a sports fan, and was also an aspiring glassblower. We spoke for a good bit, then went out on a first date.

Whoa, she had a beard. That was not a feature in her profile photos. I'm not talking Santa Claus here, but it was thicker than a typical woman's facial hair. It was a fair-colored patch that extended from her chin to right below her nose. She resembled my father, in fact.

"Hey," she said, giving me a hug, "How've you been?"

Our online conversations had gone well, but, as superficial as it sounds, I didn't want to kiss her or do anything physical with her at all. I mean, she had more facial hair than I did, for crying out loud. Still, I didn't want to end things before they had begun, and maybe it wasn't a bad idea to give her the benefit of the doubt. Maybe there was a rational explanation, although I couldn't figure one out, for the life of me.

So we had dinner, then drinks, and then I wound the evening down. As we walked down the sidewalk, she said, "I'd like to see you again."

"You're a lot of fun," I said, stalling, "Definitely keep in touch."

"Would you like to get together again?" she asked, making it harder for me to avoid. Thing was, I didn't know. She was fun. But she had a beard.

I replied, "Yeah, we can hang out."

That wasn't the answer it seemed like she wanted. She asked, "Well, is everything okay?"

"I–"

"Is it this?" she rubbed her hairy face up and down.

"Yeah... well, I mean, it's... it's a little, well, it's sort of..."

She let me flounder around for a few more seconds before she said, "It's not my fault. It's a curse. And it'll only get thicker as time goes on."

"Can you shave it?"

"All razors break upon it."

"Oh."

So we're still friends. Acquaintances. Occasionally in touch. Seldom in touch. Less and less in touch.

Story Sent in by Em:

Philip took me out to dinner for our first date and he sat next to me, as opposed to across from me. I asked him, "Wouldn't you rather sit across, so that we could see each other better?"

He replied, "But then I'd be further away from you, and I can see you just fine from here."

I let it lie. Perhaps he was just quirky that way.

Nope. As dinner went on, he slid closer to me until I had to ask him to stop. He did, and dinner went on.

After dinner, we walked down the sidewalk and he put his arm around me. I felt it was too early for that, and I pulled away. He asked, "This is a date, right?"

"A first date," I replied.

He put his arm around me again, and again, I pulled away. "Want to get dinner?" he asked.

"We just got dinner."

"It didn't really feel like it. You were pulling away from me the entire time. We need a redo."

"I think we need to go home."

He said, "Look, I'm sorry if I'm a bit awkward. Let me just–" and then he went to put his arm around me again, and this time pulled me in for a kiss.

I thrashed and spat full in his face. He let go of me, stared at me as if he was contemplating doing me harm, then wiped the spit off of himself and licked it off his hand.

"I'll consider that first base," he said, "Thank you."

I gave him the finger, said, "Then consider this a home run, asshole," and stormed back to my car.

Story Sent in by Austin:

Jenny invited me to her apartment for our third date (the first two had been nice enough), and she said that she had some fun activities planned. The first thing she did was grab a small box of raisins and hand me a similar box, next to her open, 15th-story window.

"Throw them out the window. Go on," she said.

"The raisins? You want me to pitch raisins out your window?"

"Yes. And the people on the sidewalk outside will wonder what the hell is going on."

I frowned at that, but then I opened up the box and tossed out a raisin, thinking that it wouldn't hurt anyone, even if it hit them.*

"Ugh!" she spat, "You're doing it wrong!" then she threw her entire little box of raisins out the window, then grabbed mine from my hands and threw that one out the window, too.

"Want chicken?" she asked. She went to her fridge and pulled out a partially-eaten chicken and held it up in her hands. Before I could answer, she threw it, also, out the window. I watched as it splatted against the sidewalk, 15 stories below. The sidewalks weren't well-populated, but someone shouted, and a few people ran over.

"Are you nuts?" I asked her.

She yelled, "Why? Want to be next? Get the hell out of my house!"

I left and never saw her again.



*

*Click here to find out if a penny thrown off the Empire State Building will kill you if it hits your head!

Story Sent in by Carmela:

Don, a guy I was dating, was moving out of his apartment, and when I asked him if I could help him with the move, he took me up on it. He wasn't going far, just across town to a place closer to where he worked.

As I was piling up the clothes from his closet, I came upon an open bin with several white paper bags inside. One of them had a girl's name written on it, in black ink. Then, I noticed that all of them had girls' names written on them, all in black or blue ink. What was in the bags was none of my business, but I was definitely curious. The bin itself was light, and the bags moved around easily, making me think that whatever was in the bags wasn't at all heavy.

He came into the room not long afterward, didn't seem to notice the bag-filled bin, sorted through some clothes, and then we took a break for lunch.

"So, you found my special bin," he said.

"The one with the bags? Yeah. What's the story with that?"

He laughed and said, "Oh, they just have hair and nails and swabs of... this and that from the girls I've dated."

My appetite fled. "This and... that?"

He laughed, "Oh, it's not a big deal. Lots of guys do it, they just don't talk about it. Mostly hair. And some tissues."

"Oh, God..." I said.

He giggled like a madman. "Not like body organ tissues. Like Kleenex. Nothing gross."

"Why did you keep tissues?"

He replied, "Oh, come on. You don't keep keepsakes of your exes? Some guys are really insane about it. They keep larger body parts. In bags. In freezers. Or in underground cellars, in coolers, packed with sand. I could be worse. Much worse. I just keep hair and nails and a few clumps of toilet paper."

I stood up, feeling a bit woozy. "I need to go."

He stood up, too. "What the hell? I thought you were going to help me."

"Nobody can help you," I said, then grabbed my stuff and left before he could "collect" anything of mine.

He wrote me a short message in which he berated me for hypocrisy and intolerance. Small price to pay for escaping from his place with all my pieces intact.

Profile Sent in by Sarah:

You should message me if:

SENSE OF HUMOR IS MANDATORY. Please realize what i have to say is always intended with humor and much of it humor sarcasm.

If your unfriendly and uptight then thats a good possibility as to why your single.

Your not immature, agephobic (looking for a guy 2-4 years within your age), sexaphobic or here dating because your socialy/dating disfunctional.

you have a healthy view of sex with no possible hidden baggage such as severe dating agecaps. I understand not wanting to date grandpa but a healthy agerange of 15-20 years is generaly signs your mentaly healthy (as long as your within legal agelimits). Its healthy to love sex not creepy or icky. If you dont love sex your either doing it wrong or someone has done something wrong to you with my sympathies, not interested in being your shrink and dating you. Generaly men date within 15-20 years of thier age on here/in general, women within 2-4 (wich is why your eternaly single).

you type in complete sentences and dont use words like ur and idk like a 12th grader.

your not conservative or religious. I prefer aithiests/agnostics and people that are mentaly sane.

your 18+.

you have postitive self esteem, a healthy view of sex and are sexualy active and dating active and hopefully just using the internet to add to your datelife, not because your neuroticaly disfunctional.

If your bisexual your pro threesome and not using the term because you are an attention whore and male burnout. please no more kooky chicks with the im bi but not sexual, im on a datesite but not here to date why are these jerks hitting on me,etc.

your fun, friendly, like clubbing, movies, videogames, exploring la and would not like to be a visitor with poor taste in men. :)

Story Sent in by Winston:

Lisa wore a nice outfit on our date: her hair was down, she was in a pretty blouse and skirt, but her footwear stuck out. She wore a ratty old pair of leather-strap sandals.

It didn't bother me (indeed, I'm surprised I noticed them at all), but she caught me staring and she said, "Yeah, the sandal thing. You're probably wondering about it."

I said, "It's nothing. I wasn't going to say anything."

She replied, "A girl has to have her secrets," and she winked.

"You have a sandal secret?"

She winked again and changed the subject as we sat down to eat. I was curious, but didn't want to pry, so I left it at that.

After a couple of glasses of wine, she volunteered the information without any prompting from me. Well, sort of. She said, in a sing-songy way, "I'm wearing sandals, I'm wearing sandals, can't wait to go, can't wait to gooooo..."

I asked, "Go where?"

She replied, "After this is over, I'm going to the beach with some... friends."

So that's why, I assumed, she wore sandals. Apparently, she didn't want to be bothered with switching out footwear. I didn't see a need for secrecy about that, but she wasn't finished:

"We're all going to the beach... and some of us get a little naked..." she laughed at my expression, then went on, "We've done this for years. We're old friends, some since grade school, when penises were small... some really haven't grown since then..." she laughed again. So maybe she was into the kink scene or polyamory or whatever.

"So yeah... the beach... the beach... we all get a little drunk, a little toasted, and we just all have some fun."

I nodded. It's all good.

Then she asked, "Want to come?"

What an interesting proposition. "Okay," I said.

"Too bad," she said, "You can't. All our people are people everyone knows and have been tested and with the group for years. Sorry. I only just met you."

"Um... okay. You were the one who asked if I wanted to go."

She reached for her phone and picked it up. "Hello? Yes. Okay. I'll be there. Naked. Yes. Yes, I'll be naked. Okay. Ha, me too! I'll be naked, too. Yes. We'll both be... we'll both be naked. Okay. Yes. Naked together. Yep. Good. All of us, everyone naked. Good. Very good. Very naked. Bye!"

She hung up. "So I have to go now," she said, "Can I help with the check?"

She had hardly ordered anything. "I've got it," I said, "Will you be okay to drive—?"

She stood up and left. I hope that she had a good time, and I'm grateful that she was so upfront in telling me...

Story Sent in by Elileen:

I was staying at a hotel on a business trip when I met Paul in the lobby, while I was waiting for a ride. He was reading a book I had just finished, and so I struck up a conversation. He was also through town for work, and we exchanged numbers.

At the end of the day, we met up at a local bar for dinner and drinks. He was really into himself, although I was able to deduce that he wasn't much more than a middle manager who liked his rum. After a little bit, he asked me if I was ready for a torrid hotel romance. The sad thing was that if he had played his cards right, I likely would've been into him. I was able to end the conversation shortly thereafter and head back to the hotel and to my room.

He followed me back, in his car, trailed me to my room, and after I had locked the door behind myself, he scratched at it, then knocked, then banged.

"Your man is... here... room service!" he said, "I'll service your room! Heh ha ha... you know what I mean by room..."

I called the front desk and they sent someone up. Through the door I could hear a yell and a struggle, and then I heard heavy footsteps and as I watched through the peephole, a cop took Paul from behind.

"My wife!" Paul shouted as the cop dragged him down the hall, "My wife! I... I own this hotel! I own all you little people! You are my playthings! Let me back to my bitch!"

That was the last I heard from middle manager Paul.

Story Sent in by Cecil:

Betty and I were walking around a downtown area when she asked me if I wanted lunch. I did, and she asked if we could go to a Chinese place nearby that she really liked.

When we walked through the hole-in-the-wall's front door, a cloud rushed into our faces. It was a cloud of flies. After waving my arms around like a madman and swatting flies away from my mouth, I turned to Betty and said, "Someplace else?"

Betty looked at me as if I was turning down free food at a five-star restaurant. "What's wrong?" she asked.

"The flies, and..." the unmistakable smell of curry and body odor wafted into my nostrils. I held my breath. "There's no way I'm eating here."

She said, "It's just the smell of the food. It's really good. Come on."

"You don't smell that?"

"It's just the food. Come on."

Against my better judgment, I sat down with her in the empty restaurant, thinking that I'd just eat something light, like a salad or steamed vegetables.

A waitress, who looked to be no older than 10, came to our table and asked us if we wanted milk. Betty asked for a water, but I didn't ask for anything. Without even placing an order, the waitress arrived at our table, several minutes later, with Betty's water and two plates of unidentifiable meat in a soup of brown sauce.

Betty dug right in. I said, "We didn't order this."

She replied, "So? Don't look a gift horse in the mouth." She slurped up the sludge. I sniffed at it and decided that I'd be better off eating mud.

The waitress came back and asked me if I didn't like the food. I said, "I'm not hungry," and she took it away.

Betty polished off her mystery meal, and when the check came, she paid for it.

After we left the place, Betty complained of a sour stomach. I mentioned to her my belief that the food in that restaurant (if food it was) may not have been as well-prepared as it should have been. She croaked in agreement, and then we found a public bathroom for her.

She was in there for a good, long while. When she came out, she was green. I offered to take her home and put her to bed, which I did. We never went out again, and I sure as hell won't bring any of my future dates to that place. As of this writing, it's still there.

Story Sent in by Joy:

Andy regaled me with stories of his military career during our first date dinner. He sure came off sounding like a hero. He saved his platoon from an airstrike, he went on a solo spy mission, he reprogrammed a drone to take out a senior terrorist... His tales all sounded heroic, but less and less possible for a 24-year-old.

Finally, I blurted, "If you're really such a big hero, then why aren't you on the joint chiefs or a captain or general?"

He stared at me for the longest time and said, "If you don't believe me, then why are we even out together? Why would I lie about anything I've told you? I'm a goddamned hero of America!"

"Okay," I said. He had raised his voice.

"I've had friends who died face-down in the mud so we could have this pleasant chat."

I cracked up. I couldn't help it! He was quoting The Big Lebowski. I said, "You're out of your element, Donnie!"

He didn't roll with it. Instead, it made him angrier. "You think I'm quoting from some stupid film? Do you know how many men died so that we could have this talk? Good men?"

"Over the line!" I said.

"Waiter!" he called out, across the restaurant, "Check!"

I giggled. He muttered to me, "People like you make my job difficult, like I have trouble remembering why I do it."

"Dude, the Chinaman is not the issue, here!"

I couldn't help but troll him, take him down a few pegs. He left me there with a crumpled ball of bills that barely covered his soup and steak.

Story Sent in by Cameron:

Sandra said that she wanted to sketch me at some point over the course of our Saturday date. We had lunch, then found a bench. She broke out her sketchbook and fished around in her bag for a pencil.

She pulled out a new pencil that hadn't even been sharpened. "This pencil hasn't been sharpened," she said.

She looked around a bit more in her bag and found another pencil, also new, also unsharpened.

"Damn it," she said, "Do you have a pencil sharpener on you? Or in your car?"

I had to laugh. "No. I don't usually carry one with me."

She didn't laugh along. "Well, you knew I'd be sketching you. Didn't seem like such a strange thing to ask about!" She stood and said, "Let's find one. Come on."

I thought that we were going to take a walk to a pharmacy or office supply store. Nope! She led me to a toy store, a diner, a bookstore, and a clothing store, none of which, oddly enough, seemed to carry a pencil sharpener.

Finally, we went to a pharmacy that had an office supply aisle, and she found a cheap green plastic sharpener. She inspected it closely, then handed it to me.

"Pay," she said.

I thought it was rude of her to ask that way, but it was less than a dollar, and she was offering to sketch me. I paid, we sat back down on the bench, and she drew.

She restarted the sketch probably close to 10 times. Finally, she said, "I'm off my game today. I'll have to do this some other time. My hand is cramping."

Disappointed after waiting for it, I said, "Okay. I'll take the pencil sharpener."

She gave me a hard stare. "But it's mine."

I replied, "I bought it. I never said it was a gift. I expected a sketch in exchange."

She said, "I think that's pretty cheap of you. Do you remember how hard it was to find it? I'm a sketch artist. You work in a hospital. What are you going to do with a pencil sharpener?"

I replied, "Not the point. I didn't buy it as a gift, I—"

"Here," she said, handing it to me. She gathered her things and said, "You just bought it again by spending me. I hope it was worth it, you cheap dick."

She left and I had a new pencil sharpener. Seemed like a fair trade to me.

Story Sent in by Carly:

Will was a persistent guy who messaged me online a few times until I replied. The delay in my response was mostly due to the fact that his introductory messages were all really short, on the order of a sentence or two: "You seem cool" or "Tell me about you." Finally, when he wrote me a longer, thoughtful message, I liked enough of what I read to write him back.

After several messages, we wound up on a date. He had asked me repeatedly if I wanted to go to a horse race. I didn't know of a place around us where a horse race was going on, but I told him that I'd be happy to go for a little bit. When we met up, though, he said, "I couldn't find a horse race around here, so we just have to go to dumb dinner."

At dumb dinner, he spent more time looking at my chest than at me. After two beers, he quipped, "Your breasts are like melon... breasts."

I asked for the check. Will picked up on the fact that things weren't going well, and he said, "What's wrong? What can I do to give you more fun?"

I replied, "Not too much at this point."

"Is this about the horse race? I told you I couldn't find a place."

I said, "It's okay. I kind of need to get home."

"Another date?"

"No. I have to be up early tomorrow for a... a meeting."

He said, "You're lying. It's early. I know you have another date scheduled. Hrrraaaggghh!" He straightened himself up in his seat and tore his shirt clean off, like the Incredible Hulk. Unlike the Hulk, however, Will was a bit chunky underneath his top.

He then attempted the same thing with his pants, but I yelled, "Will, no!" and he kept his pants on.

The check arrived, and we split it. Will kept his shirt off the rest of the date and didn't say very much, except to occasionally beg me to stay out longer. I didn't, and I left the strange shirtless man alone in front of the restaurant, without so much as a hug goodbye.

Story Sent in by Tony:

On my first date with Dana, she had the jitters and shakes like nothing I had ever seen before. We sat down and both of her arms and her legs quivered, while her face twitched.

My first thought was drugs, and I asked her, "What's wrong?"

She replied, "Sugar. I had a ton of sugar before I got here, and that's never a good thing for me."

"Why did you have so much?"

"Have you ever tasted it? It's great."

When the waitress came, Dana seemed to put forth a colossal effort to stopping her shaking. She ordered a Coke and a slice of pie.

"Are you sure that's a good idea?" I asked.

"You're not my father, okay? I can get what I want."

If her attitude was really the only thing left that could've kept me interested in her, she dropped the ball then and there. Our orders came, she wolfed down her Coke and pie, and she shook and blinked like she was in an earthquake.

"Seriously, you okay?" I asked.

"Yes!" she snapped, ending our conversation and any chance of a second date. Once dinner was over, she was barely able to stand on two legs, but held it together long enough to pay her share and make it back to her car. I watched her go, and as she took off, she backed into a dumpster! It was great.

Story Sent in by Angie:

I met John at a MeetUp for local cooks. He asked me out on a first date at a restaurant, "And who knows?" he said, "Maybe we can cook for each other sometime if things go well."

First date went great. He invited me to his place for date number two. I made a soufflé, grilled vegetables, and rice pudding (old family recipe).

When I made it to his place, I saw that his spread consisted of store-bought donuts and Boston Market. The giveaway was the Boston Market napkins and obvious Boston Market food.

"I made potatoes, turkey, and rice," he said, pointing to the store-bought goods.

I joked, "Are you sure this isn't from the store?"

"No!" he screamed, "It's not from the store! It's never from the store! I can cook! I can cook!" He grabbed a handful of mashed potatoes (with his bare hand) and smashed them onto my plate. "Eat!" he barked.

I ate as quickly as possible, told him that I had a thing to go to, and left. When he asked me if I'd leave the leftover soufflé, veggies, and pudding, I told him that I couldn't. He muttered, "Bitchy bitch," under his breath, but I didn't want to antagonize him any further.

At future MeetUps, I ignored him, and he didn't have much to say to me.


*

At ROFLCon today? Come say hi! We'll trade bad date stories over a game of Nyan Cat.
LATER: Great meeting you, John, Martha, and Ryan! I'll likely drop in again tomorrow for a short while.

Story Sent in by Guy:

In early college, I took Laura to a local mall for a date: lunch, a walk, and playing stuff by ear. We ended up in a Build-A-Bear workshop and she cooed over the various example stuffed animals.

"They are so cute!" she said, "I want one!"

"Go ahead and make one," I said.

"You paying?" she asked.

"Nope."

"Why not? This is a date."

I replied, "I was going to pay for lunch, but not for every little thing along the way."

She looked at the bears and for several moments seemed as though she was going to burst into tears. "I really, really, really, really, really want a bear."

I said, "I really want a new computer, but that's just how it is."

She gave me a disgusted look. "I thought you were powerful," she said, which I took to mean, "I thought you were a rich guy and easily taken advantage of."

"Nope. Want to do lunch?"

At lunch, we went to the food court, and she bee-lined for the most expensive place. It was American fare, but all done on a fancy rotisserie thing. She ordered two chicken dinners for herself and then turned to me. I said, "You're hungry enough for two chickens?"

She said, "Well, you're paying for lunch and I thought we should do something to make this more of a date."

I squinted up at the menu board and I said, "Tell you what: you're right. Let's go back to Build-A-Bear and I'll grab you whichever one you want. Then, with your new bear, we can come back here and all three of us can have lunch."

She gasped. "You mean it?"

I said, "Race you there!"

She squealed and took off at a near-run.

I hurried in the other direction. She sent me a "Where r u?" text, to which I replied, "Home." No more texts arrived after that.



*

I'm going to be at ROFLCon today (and possibly tomorrow). If you're there, find me! - Jared

Story Sent in by Corinne:

I was out to dinner on a first date with Harvey when he asked me if I liked to Skype. I told him that I did. He seemed to like that and asked me all about the sorts of things I did on Skype: who I spoke to, how often I used it, if I had ever performed any wacky dares over it...

Eventually, he launched into a talk about his past girlfriend, and how they had been running a long-distance relationship while she was away at college. He asked me if I'd be comfortable performing sexual acts over Skype.

I asked, "How do you propose to do that?"

He replied, "It's easy: you put your open mouth right up to the camera, I put my dick right up against the camera on my end, and we just lightly rock back and forth, like you're really giving me a blow job."

I asked, "And you've done this?"

"Loads of times. Holy God, you should see my computer screen. I had to wash it, like, six times a week."

"Ugh."

He wrinkled his face. "Can you think of a better way to get long-distance blow jobs?"

"Aside from not having a long-distance relationship? I guess not."

First and only date.

Story Sent in by Ralph:

Emma's favorite subject, during our dinner date, was her ex-boyfriend. "He was a bodybuilder and a triathlete," she told me, "And yes, he was great in the sack."

I said, "I didn't ask how he was in the sack."

She smiled coquettishly and shrugged. She had been out of her relationship with this guy, I should mention, for over five years. Online, she had seemed interested enough in me, but in person, she was anything but. I guessed that she didn't like how I looked or something similarly superficial (even though my profile photos were current and we had even video-chatted once).

I asked her something about her job, I forgot what. Just to change the subject, if for nothing else.

She asked me, "That's quite the segue. Are you jealous of him or something?"

I said, "Of your ex? I don't see how I could be."

She said, "Well, I mean, I have the goods." She rocked herself slowly back and forth.

I shuddered. She said, "Eww," then stood up and left me there, alone, right at the table. I was taken aback by her reaction, but after thinking on it for a few moments, I realized that it worked out in the best possible way. It was just after we had ordered dinner, so I figured I could box up her meal and bring it home.

After I left though, I found her waiting for me outside the restaurant.

"Okay," she said, "Let's start again. Hi, I'm Emma." She stuck her hand out to me.

"Hi, Emma. I'm Ralph, and I'm going home." I tried to move past her, but she kept up with me and followed me down the sidewalk.

She said, "You're not doing it," she said, "Let's try again: hi, I'm Emma." She held her hand out toward me again, nearly hitting me in the face.

"Not interested, Emma," I said, "Go show the goods to someone else."

"Hi, I'm Emma," she continued, sticking her hand out at me again and again. "Hi, I'm Emma. Hi, I'm Emma. Hi, I'm Emma. Hi, I'm Emma. Hi, I'm Emma."

"Bye, Emma," I said, then entered my car and drove away.

She sent me texts and emails that must have numbered in the hundreds over the next two months. She wanted to start again, she wanted to go out on another date, she wanted to re-re-re-re-re-reintroduce herself to me... I wasn't having it. Finally, she stopped, and I haven't heard from her since then.

Story Sent in by Marie:

Al and I had dinner out for our first date. He said that he had something to show me, after we were done eating.

Once dinner was over, he led me to his car and opened his trunk. Inside, among other things, was a metal trash can with a colorful dinosaur scene upon it. He said. "When my friend died, he left me this. You want it?"

I replied, "No thank you. I'm sorry to hear about your friend, though."

Al gave me an ugly frown. "I just told you, basically, that this thing is like the most sentimental object in the world to me, and I offered to give it to you, and that's all I get? Not even a hug?"

"Um, I'll give you a hug if you want—"

"The last two girls I took out practically humped my leg after I told them that story."

I glanced at his leg. I didn't want to hump it, or really anything of his. Before I could reply, he threw the trash can back into his trunk, closed it, muttered, "Have a good life as a a nun, sweetheart," and drove away.