Perhaps She Saw a Squirrel Performing a Handstand

Story Sent in by Dick:

Laura and I started dating about a month and a half before my birthday. She offered to take me to a Green Bay Packers game for the event, which I thought was a really generous offer. I even told her, "You don't have to do that," but she insisted. To thank her for that, I insisted that she let me take her out to an excellent meal, and although she was hesitant at first, she finally agreed to it.

The dinner went great. No complaints there. The day of the game, a little less than a week afterward, was when the "fun" really started.

The plan was for me to meet her at her house, and then drive together in my car to Lambeau Field. When I arrived at her house, I rang her doorbell. No answer. I knocked on her door and then called her. Still no answer.

As a last resort, I tried her door. It was open, and I took a few steps inside and called for her. No response. That was weird. I called again and walked in a bit further, until I reached her kitchen.

There she stood: erect, wide-eyed, and staring out the kitchen window at something I couldn't see.

"Laura?" I said, "Are you ready to go? Did you hear me calling for you?"

She stared out that window as if she was made of stone. I looked out the window, myself, but there was nothing there aside from trees and the neighbor's fence.

"Laura? What's wrong?" I shook her gently by the shoulder. She felt tense. I situated myself in front of her as best as I could and repeated her name over and over. I turned her head to face me, but when I looked into her eyes, it was as if she was looking right through me.

I spent the better part of a half-hour moving her gently, trying to make her laugh, tickling her, and talking to her. She was catatonic. I told her that I was going to call 911 if she didn't respond to me, but she made no movement and said no word. She was definitely still breathing, and when I stopped touching her, she remained standing but stood stock still, staring away.

I didn't wind up calling 911, and I didn't find the Packers tickets anywhere. In the end, I gave up and left. No game for me, that day. I tried her by phone a couple of times afterward, and that evening, I even stopped by again. That time, however, her door was locked. I thenceforth gave up on her, and never saw or heard from her again. I have no idea what her problem was, and I'll probably never know.

Don't Catch Any Bugs

Story Sent in by Mary:

Anthony had a problem that didn't strike me until a couple of minutes into our first date: his mouth was constantly in some state of open.

The two photos that accompanied his profile were of him with a closed mouth. In real life, though, the overall impression was that he was either constantly surprised or constantly wondering about something. Even when he wasn't talking, his mouth simply hung open. It was comic, at first, but I soon wondered if there was something wrong with him.

The curiosity overcame me during dinner. He chewed with his mouth open as much as possible, and some of his pasta actually fell out of his mouth as he ate and spoke, so I brought it up: "Is your... mouth all right?"

He said, "Yeah, why? Is there something on it?" and wiped his mouth with his sleeve.

"No, it just, it's just... never mind. Forget it."

"What is it?"

"Forget it. It's not a big deal."

He groaned. "Tell me."

"Your mouth is just... I don't know, it's just sort of open... all the time. It's not a big deal."

He stared at me and replied, "My mouth isn't open all the time," and when he finished talking, his mouth hung open, just as wide as it had before.

"It's open right now," I said.

"No, it isn't," he said, with his mouth once again open at the end of the statement.

"You're right," I said, hoping to bring the awkwardness to a close, "Sorry."

He stared at me for a few seconds more, then went back to his pasta, open-mouth chewing it all the way. I was convinced at this point that he was not only doing it on purpose, but perhaps even trying to gross me out. It was impossible for him to not know it.

"Can you chew with your mouth closed?" I asked.

"I am chewing with my mouth closed, Mom," he replied, then took another big forkful of pasta and shoved it into his mouth. When sauce leaked out the corners of his mouth, I had had enough. Clearly, he didn't mean to take the evening seriously. I gave up trying to impress him. He insisted on paying for dinner, and when we headed out at the end of the date, he went for a kiss (his mouth very open for that one) but I pulled away.

That night I went to bed shuddering, imagining that big mouth coming to get me.

A Line of Guys Stretched 'Round the Block

Story Sent in by Santiago:

Gwen and I were walking down a busy college town main street after dinner. She regaled me with tales about her own college experiences, right there in the town. She had a lot of experiences.

She pointed to a dingy bar and said, "That's where I lost my virginity. In a storage room." We passed a furniture store and she remarked, "I dated a guy who worked here. We had a threesome one night." And when we finally turned to walk on the college campus itself, she said, "I used to meet my former professor in that building once or twice a week to go down on him."

I asked her, "Why are you telling me this?"

She replied, "Just to talk about it, I guess. Why, are you jealous?"

"No."

"Why not?"

I was taken aback by the question. So much so, that I didn't know how to respond to it, at first. Finally, I mustered, "I... well, I guess because I don't really care about your past."

She replied, "So you don't care how many guys I've been naked in front of?"

"Nope."

"Guys I've had every way from Sunday? You really don't care?"

"Nope."

She snorted, then said, "All right, then. Date's over, I guess."

Again, I was a bit surprised at the turn of events, but this time, I was a bit more equal to it. I said, "I guess," and we parted ways on the spot. Near as I can figure, she was upset that I wasn't envious of her prior encounters, although I don't really see what good could have come from things if I was. Well, her loss.

Concerning Hobbits

Story Sent in by Lisa:

Mitchell and I met in an online J. R. R. Tolkien forum. Yes, I'm a dork. Moving on, our conversations took us off the forum and into email, Facebook, and phone calls. He lived a couple of hours away from me, which was good to know.

Our talks ranged from Tolkien to Tolstoy, from Saruman to schooling, from Faramir to family. He was a lot of fun to talk to, and my mind had, even without my prompting, begun to shift him from "friend" to "more-than-friend." We had some great talks.

Finally, he brought up the idea of meeting in-person. I had a feeling it was coming, but I still felt the first-date butterflies. We found a Chinese place about halfway between us (a little closer to me) and we set the plans in stone.

Due to how well we knew each other offline, meeting in person was comfortable, almost from the start. Of course, I was a bit nervous at first, but in person, he came across as just as funny, clever, and geeky.

Everything went well, right up until dinner was served. Over his plate of kung pao chicken, he folded his hands together and said, "I'd like to say a prayer to Frodo."

Thinking this was a joke, I went along with it. He went on, "Frodo, great sacrificer, hero of us all, grant that the heat of this dinner be not so hot as the fires of Mount Doom."

He then fashioned his meal, with his fork and knife, into a mountain-like pile on his plate. As I watched, he tapped a little divot into the top of the pile, like the top of a volcano. He then pointed to my hand and asked, "Can I borrow your ring?"

I was wearing a simple silver band with a hematite stone. I said, "You're not going to throw this into... Mount Kung Pao."

"Oh, come on. It'll make it official."

I laughed. "No, that's okay. Let's eat."

He said, "I can't eat until the ring is destroyed. It's just metal. The sauce will wipe right off."

I shook my head. "Can you pretend to throw it in? I'm sure that Frodo wouldn't be upset."

"Frodo would want me to eat, and you're stopping me," he said, his voice taking on a more serious, edgier note.

"I'm not giving you my ring. Come on. Let's eat."

I ate. He didn't. He sat there with his arms folded the entire time. I tried once more, entreating him to start on his dinner, but he shook his head, sadly. I went right back to eating. As I did, I noticed him pantomiming the removal of a ring from his own finger and tossing it into his food. He did it over and over, instead of moving on and talking to me. Well, his choice.

When the waitress finally came by, she said to Mitchell, "You didn't like it?"

He replied, "I'm sure I would've loved it, but she," he pointed at me, "wouldn't let me eat."

The waitress looked at me, then asked him, "Want me to pack it for you?"

He said, staring at me, "Depends. Will you lend me your ring so that I can finish what I started?"

I replied, hoping to jolt him out of his stupidity with a clever reference, "No. The council laid it upon me to bear the ring."

He shook his head and muttered, "You idiot. I would've given you everything," then turned to the waitress and said, "Yes, pack mine up. And separate checks."

She left and he said, "I would've paid if you played along."

I said, "You'd have had a shot at a second date if you weren't some whiny kid."

"Well, one of us isn't getting laid tonight."

I gasped at the low blow, but I was equal to it. "And one of us is very grateful for that."

There wasn't much talk after that. The checks (and his packed-up food) were delivered to the table. He slipped in some cash and left as fast as he could.

In his haste, he completely forgot his chicken. It made an excellent dinner for me, the following night.

The Problem with Painted-On Pants

Story Sent in by Sherman:

Curiously, Donna wore something resembling black tights to our first date. They were so snug on her that every curve, crease, and jiggle was visible. Seriously. You could see her butt crack.

She had come across as very nice online, and her photos were indeed accurate representations of what she really looked like. If she was proud of her assets, then who was I to judge?

We were at a restaurant, and she excused herself a lot to go to the bathroom. I didn't say a word about it, and overall, I really enjoyed her company. However, at about her sixth time off at the bathroom, she didn't return for a long while. I was a few minutes away from texting her to make sure was okay, when she actually texted me:

"g2g bye."

I wrote her back immediately: "Everything ok?"

No response. She had stuck me with the check (she had barely touched her own food but still) and I was left there, without a date. I paid, packed up her food (figured I'd eat it if she wasn't going to), and left.

I wasn't planning to contact her again, but she ended up reaching out to me, after all. A very apologetic email arrived from her, and although she said she was sorry in about 50 different ways, she didn't mention a word about why she had disappeared. Nothing about an emergency or anything.

I wrote her back, told her that I accepted her apology, and asked her why she took off in such a hurry. Maybe it was none of my business, but it was nagging at me and I wanted to know.

She wrote back, "Had 2 go, pants almost ripped in 2 after bigfart."

I mentally nicknamed her "Little Miss. Bigfart" after that story, and we never ended up going out again.

Sounds Better Than What's at the Box Office

Story Sent in by Tammara:

Howard, over the course of our first date at a coffee house, asked me if I had ever seen the film Chunky Horse. I hadn't and I told him so. He asked me, "Want to?"

I answered, "What's it about?"

He said, "It's about three friends who find an old chainsaw in the woods and the phrase, 'Chunky Horse' written in blood nearby. Then one by one, they die."

"Oh. Haven't seen it."

"Want to?"

I said, "I don't know if that's my kind of movie."

"You should watch it," he said, "It's one of my favorites."

"Well, maybe," I replied.

During our second date, a trip to an amusement park, he said to me, "After we're done here, we should go watch Chunky Horse at my place."

His place wasn't far from the park, and he ordered pizza in for us. He popped in a VHS and Chunky Horse began.

It was a video of himself and two friends from about 15 years earlier. They were pretty much running around in the woods and screaming. There was no sign of an actual chainsaw, although at one point, the squeakiest-voiced of the three kids said, "Oh my God! A chainsaw! And chunky horse!"

Another kid, I couldn't tell who, yelled back, "Aagh! Chunky horse!"

More screaming and wild camera movements. I had no idea what was going on, but the kids kept running around, screaming about chainsaws and chunky horse and screaming some more.

After the longest 25 minutes I had ever waited, the movie was over. Howard gave me a big grin. "What'd you think?" he asked.

I replied, "You asked me last time if I had ever seen it. How could I have, if the only copy is this tape?"

He said, "After we made it, my father told me he sent it into HBO and that they played it late one night. I couldn't believe it. Might be a cult classic. I don't know."

I said, "Your father said he sent it into HBO and they played it? Do you think he was being serious?"

Howard's smile fell away. "Of course. Why would he lie to me about that?"

"I... have no idea."

"It was on HBO."

"Did you see it on HBO?"

He said, "It was on after my bedtime."

"Are you serious? I highly doubt that HBO would really–"

"Shut up!" he barked, "It was on HBO! My father and my other friends I know told me they saw it, and I'm going to believe them, okay?"

"Okay," I replied, "I'm out of here."

And just like that, I left the sorry little delusional man with his stupid little kiddie video.

Two of Cups

Story Sent in by Steven:

Ann and I were at her place on a second date, and things were steamy. Most of our clothes were off by the time we made it to the bedroom, and what little else she wore, I had planned to shortly remove.

She put a hand on my chest and said, "Want some water?"

I was surprised that she'd interrupt things with that request, but I realized that it was probably a good idea, so I said, "Sure."

She left the bedroom and returned shortly thereafter with two cups of water. She set them on the nightstand and said, "Be right back," and then disappeared into her bathroom.

For all purposes, it had been a great date up to that point, and there should've been nothing at all to complain about.

When she came back into the room, though, she gave me a smile, drank down some of her water, then spat it out all over the place.

"What the–" she choked, then spat out again, onto the floor. "What did you do?"

"To your water? Nothing."

"It tastes like gasoline! Here!" She shoved the cup into my face, spilling it over my chin, neck, and chest.

It smelled fine to me, and I took the cup. "It smells... fine."

"Drink it!"

I took a sip. It tasted like water should, and I told her so. She picked up the second cup and drank it, then spat it out, again, all over her floor. "Ack!" she coughed, then slammed the cup onto the nightstand and ran for the bathroom, banging the door shut.

I drank from the second cup, and it also tasted like water. It smelled fine. I wasn't sure what her problem was, but I thought it would be smart to check on her. I knocked on her bathroom door and called for her, but there was no response. However, I did hear the shower turn on. Well, this had become a bit awkward. I opted to wait for her until she came out.

Around a half-hour later, she emerged from the bathroom in a towel. I asked, "Feeling better?"

She nodded, then came over to the nightstand, picked up a cup of water, and drank it. "Uck!" she choked again, then made a gurgling sound, then ran for the bathroom one more time, closing the door behind her. I couldn't believe it, but sure enough, through the door, I heard her puking.

Guessing that the date was probably over, I dressed and called for her, through the door. "Ann, are you okay? Ann?"

No answer. Again, just to be sure, I returned to the cups of water, sipped at them both, and came to the conclusion that if there was anything wrong with the situation, it wasn't the water in the cups.

I heard Ann yell through the door, "I'll be all right. I'm sorry. You should just go."

"Are you sure?"

More puking. "Yes. Go."

"Can I get you anything?"

"Get out! Go!"

I did as she asked and never heard from her again. I wasn't really expecting to, I guess.

"I've Never Seen Such a Small Nose"

Story Sent in by Kimberly:

George and I were having a decent first date dinner together. It came out that he was in his late twenties and still lived with his parents. Bit of a red flag, but it wasn't the dealbreaker. After a few moments of silence, though, he initiated his master plan.

"I cannot tell a lie," he said, "It's just like Pinocchio."

I asked him, "What is?"

"My dick," he replied, "I cannot tell a lie!" He smiled.

"Whoa!" I said, shifting back from him, "Too much information."

"Sorry," he said, "I never know how much is too much to share."

"On a first date? Anything about... private parts is usually off limits."

He glanced down at his lap, frowned, and breathed really quickly. "Oh no," he said, "Oh no, no, no..."

"What... er, do I want to know?"

He gave me a guilty look and said, "Look like 'ol Pinocchio's been telling lies... again."

I said, "All right," and when the waitress came back, I requested the check. I didn't want to spend a single minute longer with this guy.

Sometimes, the Phone Is Smarter

Story Sent in by Albert:

Margaret and I walked around a mall together. It was our second date, and I was already pretty sure that there wouldn't be a third one. She was really into herself and it didn't seem to matter to her at all that I was there. It was like a browsing and shopping trip for her, which she could've done on her own time.

She led me to a cell phone store and must've tried out every demo phone in the bunch. She was particularly interested in the smartphones and specifically one model, some Android clone or other.

Well, it was fun, but it soon became late and time to consider dinner. I asked her where she wanted to go, but she was too involved with that phone to pay much attention to me.

She said, "Oh, I dunno," and she kept messing with the phone.

I asked her, "Why don't you just buy it? You really seem to like it." For real, we were in there for close to 40 minutes.

She gave me a look, then pulled out her own cell phone. It was the same exact one as the demo she'd been playing with!

I said, "But that's your exact phone."

She said, "Duh!"

"All right... why did you come in here to play with the demo of a phone that you already own?"

She replied, "I like playing with the demos, is all. All right. Let's do dinner."

We split dinner, and there was definitely no third date.

A Piece of Work and an Apple Product

Story Sent in by Emily:

Ty and I were out to dinner on our first date when he pulled an apple out of his pocket and asked me if I wanted it.

"No thank you," I said.

He took a bite out of it, chewed, then asked me again, "Want it?"

"The apple? Er, no. It's all yours."

He said, "Might as well start merging germs early, you know?"

He took another bite of his apple. I asked, "Merge germs?"

He said, "Yeah. I mean, what do you think kissing and sex is? I think that sharing an apple is pretty benign."

He held it out for me again, as if I'd change my mind and happily eat it. I said, "No thanks."

"You should," he advised, "I'm planning to have some of your dinner. I mean, it's cool if we share, right?"

"I... guess."

He took another bite of his apple, offered me some one more time, I turned him down, then he finished it. I hoped that would be the end of that awkward discussion.

Dinner arrived, and after we had both started, he asked me, "Can I see your fork, for a sec?"

"Why?"

"I want to show you something cool."

Without waiting for an answer, he grabbed my fork out of my hand, then used it on his own dinner. Gross!

He handed it back to me, after eating a few forkfuls, with a huge smile on his face. He said, "Now you'll have to merge germs. Sorry."

Actually, I didn't. I set the soiled fork aside and grabbed another fork from a nearby empty table. He looked at me as if I had dealt him a mortal insult, then laughed to himself and said, "You're a real piece of work, Emily."

I'd rather be a piece of work than some gross asshole who wants to merge his germs all over. I asked for the check the next time our waitress came around, and Ty never ended up calling me for a second date. Thank God.

Splitting Up

(An action is worth a thousand words. On Jared's Inkwell. - JMG)


Story Sent in by Dwayne:

I found Rita's profile and messaged her. She was a ballet instructor who, unusually (as far as my experience goes), had two bachelor's degrees. We fell into deep, long conversations almost at once, first by email, then IM, then phone. I was amazed at how comfortable I felt with her, and how quickly the conversations went to full-on carnal mode. We hadn't even met each other yet, but we already, apparently, turned each other on.

We met at a restaurant for dinner, and to my confusion, her personality came across as reserved to the extreme. She hardly looked at me, didn't eat a bite of dinner, and barely spoke.

I offered to pay, all the same, and she thanked me, but it was all over much, much faster than I thought it would be. She hardly said a word!

After the "date," I wrote her (I thought calling would be too confrontational) to ask her if everything was okay.

She replied back as her usual bubbly self, as if nothing at all was wrong. The first line of her email read something like, "Oh, yeah. Everything's good," and then she went right into telling me some funny story or about some forthcoming concert she wanted to catch. Nothing more specific about her 180º personality shift.

Okay...

I'm sure I asked her one more time if everything was all right, as she really, really came off as extremely shy, to the point of appearing uncomfortable with the entire situation. You have to understand that by electronic means, she was one person, and in-person, she was someone totally different.

We wound up on a second date, this time to mini-golf and then to a club where there was a band performing that we both liked.

Once again, in-person, Rita was as quiet as quiet could be. She played mini-golf as if she was at a funeral. Before the concert, I detoured us to a Starbucks to grab a light snack, but mostly I meant it to tackle this issue head-on.

As we sat down, not far from the music venue, I asked her, "Rita, what's wrong? You're a very quiet person, in-person. Online, you're extremely talkative. Is there something that's upsetting you?"

She sighed, as if she had expected and dreaded this conversation. She said, "I think I'm the same online as I am offline. I'm sorry."

I said, "You and I have five-hour-long conversations online. Your emails to me are a dozen paragraphs. If you've said two sentences to me tonight, then that's a lot. Are you shy?"

"No," she said, "I'm the same person, both ways. I don't know what else to tell you."

She was definitely not the same person, and I didn't really like her offline self. Still, there seemed to be nothing that I could do about it, so I gave up on trying, and after we ate, we went to the club.

At the club, she was the only person not dancing, smiling, or having any sort of good time. After the first two songs, she asked me, "Can we go?" and so we left and parted ways.

I didn't bother to email her, but a couple of days after the date, a message arrived from her, as hale and chipper as an eight-year-old. It contained her usual, puppy-like enthusiasm and curiosity. It was full of what I had really liked about her in the first place. But within it was no mention of her behavior on the date.

I wrote back a short message, saying that I simply felt that there was too great a difference between the parts of herself that she showed me, and that we'd likely be happier with other people. Never heard from her again.

Bad Santa

Story Sent in by Eleanora:

Seth and I had been seeing each other for a little over a month when my family and I invited him to spend Christmas with us. On Christmas Eve, we had a nice family dinner, told stories, all hung out long into the night, then finally went to bed. Seth and I had separate bedrooms.

My bedroom was next to the second-floor bathroom, and at one point around the middle of the night, I heard someone taking a shower. That was unusual. Maybe it's Santa, I joked to myself, then fell right back to sleep.

In the morning, we entered the living room to discover the Christmas tree and all of its ornaments hurled and twisted on the ground, as if an ogre had clubbed it over. Some of the ornaments were broken. The presents, mysteriously, were untouched, and there was no further sign of a break-in.

Suspicions fell on Seth immediately, as he was the only guest in the house. Plus, a used towel in the upstairs bathroom smelled a lot like pine needles.

Before things became too heated, I took Seth aside and asked him if he had perhaps accidentally stumbled into the tree or had an accident in the middle of the night.

He brushed me off with a grin and said, "Nah, I was just having fun. Wanted to see what your family would do. Keep it a secret with me?"

I suggested to him that he leave as soon as possible, and after asking me repeatedly if I was serious, he did.

My family and I managed to have a beautiful Christmas after all, and I broke things off with Seth shortly thereafter. What he was really hoping to accomplish, I'll probably never know.

When Push Comes to Shove

Story Sent in By Alex:

Kelly and I were out on a walk on our first date when our talk turned to the countries to which we've traveled. I listed off mine, which included France.

She cut in, "Whoa. France? Really?"

"Yes. Have you been?"

She snorted and laughed loudly. "Does it look like I've ever been to France?" She then shoved me so hard that I thought it was a bona fide attack. It came out of left field, and nearly knocked me off my feet.

I said, "What the—what was that for?"

She said, "Oh, chill out. I'm just clowning around."

Maybe she simply played rough, but I wasn't sure. It was a gutsy move for a first date, but perhaps it was her way of flirting. I decided to move past it, but it wasn't long before...

"Did you have a treehouse as a kid?" she asked.

"No. Did you?"

"Nope! Ha!" she yelled, then shoved at me again with that same, stupid laugh.

"Cut it out!" I said.

"I'm just playing," she said, "What's your problem?"

A playful punch, I could understand. But this was full-on shoving, and there was no reason for it. Before I could answer her, she barked, "Answer me, faggot!" and shoved me again.

"All right. That's it." I said, and walked away. I didn't hear her say anything else, and she didn't follow me. I was half-expecting another shove, but it never came. Neither, of course, did another date.

Wrong in the Tooth

Story Sent in by Mary:

The summer after high school graduation, Rich, a former high school classmate, asked me out to dinner for a Friday night. He was pretty quiet during our date and I took that to mean that he was shy. As he had picked me up at my house in his car, he drove me back home.

When we pulled up to the curb, he asked if he could come in to use my bathroom. I let him in, and I waited for him in my parents' living room as he did his business.

When he exited, he wore a gigantic grin, the most expression I had seen from him all evening. "What is it?" I asked him.

He said, "I used your toothbrush!" then laughed maniacally and tore out of my house, jumped in his car, and took off.

I threw my toothbrush out and, unsurprisingly, didn't go out with him again.

Strung Along

Story Sent in by Dennis:

Carolyn was a local guitarist who I met, actually, by stumbling upon her stuff on MySpace. I struck up a chat with her, listened to all of her stuff, and asked her if she wanted to grab drinks sometime.

When we met up, she told me that she was working on a new track and asked if I wanted to listen to it. I definitely did, so after we were done at the bar, she led me to her car and popped a CD into her stereo. It started out well, sounding like the rest of her music, but a little over a minute in, the CD skipped. Badly. Carolyn, though, didn't move a muscle, or indicate at all that she heard it skipping.

I asked, "Um, should we try a different CD?"

"Why?"

"Because it's skipping."

"It's not skipping," she explained, "That's my song."

The CD time-ticker was blinking on 1:07. It was clearly skipping, and I pointed that out to her. She reprimanded, "That's just how it sounds! Shh!"

I kept my mouth shut, and listened to the skipping CD for another six or so minutes before she switched it off. "What did you think?" she asked, with a straight face.

I said, "I liked the first minute, until it skipped."

She said, "It didn't skip. What didn't you like about the rest of it?"

I replied, "I didn't hear the rest of it."

"Fine," she said, "Good night."

Surprised by her abruptness, I didn't think to argue, and when I stepped out of her car, she took off. The only explanation I could come up with was that she was seeing a way to get rid of me, which is strange, because she agreed to go out in the first place!

Stupidhood

Story Sent in by Ashley:

Gene, in his first message to me, said that I could be a "centerfold." I thought it was a little forward to think of me in a nude spread, but he was otherwise way more personable than the other twerps who messaged me on that site. It was also my first time trying online dating, so I replied back to him and found myself actually enjoying myself.

On our first date, he took me to a bar and grill with an outdoor patio. We talked about each other and he said that he was a photographer and said repeatedly that I would make a great model.

He handed me his "card." It was a tiny slip of paper, obviously torn out of a lined notebook, and with handwritten contact information. I laughed.

He asked me what the problem was. I told him that his card looked like a fifth-grader's card. He said that it was that way because he was an artist. Then he asked if he could take photos of me.

I told him that I was more comfortable not being a model, but he kept insisting. He said that he had taken photos for Maxim, Playboy, Penthouse, and National Geographic. Whether or not he was telling the truth, I told him that I didn't want to model, and that I was firm on that.

Then he started making excuses, telling me that he charged way too much for "someone like me" to afford his photography services, that I had a nice face, but it was, "last year's face," that I was on the cusp of "matronhood," and that I had "mannish features."

I asked him why he had the sudden change of heart. Not five minutes earlier, he was practically begging me to take my clothes off for a photo. He said that upon inspecting my face and body, he changed his mind. I said nothing, but remembered that.

After dinner, he went for a kiss when we were outside, but I gave him my cheek. Why would he want to kiss someone who was so matronly and simultaneously mannish? I wished him a good night.

He emailed me the next day to say that he had a good time and that he wanted me to come over and have a look at his photography studio. I replied that upon inspecting his sincerity and personality, I had changed my mind about wanting to see him again. No response to that.

Go-Nuts

My first couple of years in college were spent up in Boston, and while there, I had the pleasure of making Melissa's acquaintance. Although we went to the same school, we met over a dating site. We did dinner a couple of times, and she invited me up to her dorm room to watch A Clockwork Orange (nothing happened). Time passed, we fell out of touch, I transferred schools, and until the magic of Facebook, I never really thought much about her.

One day, thanks to that aforementioned magic of Facebook, a friend request arrived from her. I was happy to receive it. From what I remembered of her, we had always had a good time together, and I looked forward to the chance to reconnect.

Wouldn't you know it, she was working for a TV station not 20 miles away from where I lived! We made plans to meet for lunch on a Saturday.

Melissa showed up, looking great. The years had been very kind to her. She gave me a big hug and we had a great talk over lunch. So far, so good.

She did ask me a question, however, that at the time didn't come across as very queer: "Do you remember Isaac Morrow?"

Tried as I might, I couldn't recall anyone by that name. I asked Melissa, "Was he a mutual friend of ours? I honestly can't remember him."

"Never mind," she said, and I never-minded it.

Our talk turned to fond memories of places in Boston, including a coffee shop (now unfortunately closed) that made its own donuts. Ah, those were good, good donuts.

"Want to go to Boston?" she asked.

"What, like right now?"

"Yeah!"

From where we were, Boston was about a three-hour ride away. I didn't have any other plans for the day, and I definitely enjoyed the company.

So that's how I found myself in my car, with Melissa, heading up to Boston for donuts. She seemed to be mighty pleased, and the conversation went from testing-the-waters flirtation into straight out this-is-what-I-would-do-with-you-if-you-weren't-driving.

I needed gas, and so I pulled over in a small Connecticut town. Keeping with the day's spirit of spontaneity, Melissa suggested, "Let's drive down the road and see what we find."

Worked for me. After filling up, we drove down an overgrown set of local Connecticut roads and parked next to a grown-in field with an old-looking white silo.

"Let's go check it out," she said, and I was all in favor of that.

When we made it to the silo, though, something strange happened. She pointed to a spot on the ground, a patch of dirt not unlike most others, and sank to her knees. She said, "This is where he is... where he's buried..."

So much of our conversation had been jovial, I thought that she was setting me up for some sort of punchline. I smiled and asked, "What's buried here? My hunger for Boston donuts?"

She said, without looking at me, "No. No. Isaac Morrow."

Then she cried.

Huh. Well. Didn't quite know what to make of this. I put an arm around her and said something along the lines of, "It's okay, shh, it's all right," but I had no idea who Isaac Morrow was, what we were doing in the field, or why Melissa was acting this way. She couldn't have intended for us to end up at that precise spot, since although it was her idea to explore around the area, I was the one who decided where and when to stop for gas.

"Can you..." she choked, "Can you leave me alone for a bit?"

"Okay," I said, drawing away from her by a few steps.

"No," she gulped, "I mean maybe just leave me here. Take a drive and come back in, in like an hour?"

This was madness. "Melissa, what the hell is going on? Are you being serious right now?"

"Yes," she said, more than a few touches of annoyance in her voice, "Just leave me. You don't remember him, but I do. Just go. Go!"

I left. After driving around for about 15 minutes, I found a mom-and-pop coffee shop that had donuts. Guessing that we likely wouldn't make it up to Boston, I ate one and grabbed a few to go, to share with Melissa, whenever she was done, as I guessed that her excessive bullshitting would make her hungry.

I arrived back at the silo about an hour after I had left. She was lying on the ground with her eyes closed. The skin around them was bright red, as if she'd rubbed it to excess.

"Melissa?" I whispered.

She opened her eyes, rubbed them, looked at the patch of dirt on the ground once more, and said, "Okay. Okay." She nodded, then turned to me and said, "Let's go."

I said, "It's a little late to go up to Boston. It all right if we just head home?"

She nodded again, and we climbed into my car. When I showed her the donuts, she barely acknowledged them.

We hardly spoke, all the way back, and when I dropped her off at her place, I offered her the donuts one more time. She shook her head and left my car without a word.

I typically consider the burden of contact to be on the crazy one, so I didn't reach out to her after that, and I haven't heard from her from that day to this. As for her Facebook account, I ended up blocking it, because the whole situation just creeped me out a little too much.

Incidentally, I took the opportunity to look up "Isaac Morrow" as he may have ever related to me or anyplace that I ever went to school. I didn't find a trace of anyone by that name (which I changed for the purposes of this story).

Thanks for reading!


- JMG

Gym Rats

Story Sent in by Geraldine:

Eugene and I met at the gym. It was actually the last place in the world I would've thought that a guy would try to pick me up: I was usually a sweaty mess. However, he'd always give me a smile or a wave and I'd acknowledge him back. One day, I guess he mustered up the courage to come and talk to me.

We did the requisite exchange of numbers and after a couple of weeks, we were out on a first date together. He told me all about how he volunteered in animal shelters and had always kept a bunch of pets of his own.

Not too long before dinner ended, he excused himself and I watched as he went to speak to someone who I guessed was a manager. Eugene spoke to him in a low voice, so I couldn't hear (especially among the sounds of other diners) but the manager's response was definitely audible: "No, no, no. We don't have rats."

Eugene said something else to him that I couldn't hear, and then returned to the table.

I asked, "What was that about?"

Eugene said, "I keep rats, and was wondering if they had any here that I could try to trap and take with me, instead of having them kill them."

"You asked the manager if you could... catch rats?"

Eugene said, "I think what I do for them is more humane than what fate they suffer in a trap, don't you?"

I had to agree on that, but the lengths of Eugene's commitment to rats went far beyond that. His mood noticeably changed, and he shot dark looks all around. He said, "That liar... every place with food in it has rats. It doesn't matter if you're McDonald's or a five-star place with an ocean view. Everyplace has rats."

I tried to explain, "Maybe he didn't want to say that, since, you know, people are eating here."

He said, "Oh, I'll find the rats. They'll try to stop me, but I know where they like to hide."

Eugene stood and walked away, and at first I thought he was going to the bathroom. Instead, he did a sweep of the restaurant, looking down around the corners and walls. At one point, he knelt next to an unoccupied table and smeared his finger on the tile floor.

When he returned to the table, he had a smile. He held his finger up to me. It had a thin layer of dirt on it. He said, proudly, "Look. It's rat-dust."

"Rat-dust?"

He nodded and put his finger down. "I knew they had rats here. I'll talk to a waiter. They'll probably be more inclined to talk than the manager."

Sure as that, when our waitress came by the with check, Eugene asked her, "Excuse me, do you have rats, here?"

The waitress glanced at me and replied, "Not that I know of, sir. I'll take the check whenever you're ready."

He paid for dinner and I thanked him, but he bemoaned the restaurant's "culture of silence" and whined about "justice for the rats." Thankfully, though, he performed no more rat reconnaissance and we left the restaurant with most of our dignity.

After we left, we took a short walk and he asked me if I wanted to maybe take a walk to his place to see his "rat collection." I declined as politely as possible, and we didn't talk about rats for the rest of the date, which wasn't that big an accomplishment, I guess, since the rest of the date took all of two or three minutes.

I just didn't feel quite right with him, and so I made an excuse and we parted ways. To this day, I still see him in the gym, and we're polite to each other, but I think he received the hint.

But You Tried to Fight It

Story Sent in by John:

Amber and I were friends in college, and only friends. I would've asked her out, but whenever I was single, she was attached, and vice-versa. We stayed in touch intermittently after graduation, and one day I decided to pick up the phone and check in.

Success. She was single. So was I. I asked her out to dinner, and we had a great time together. For our second date, she invited me to her apartment for a home-cooked meal. I was nervously optimistic, but at the time, I had a mostly good feeling.

I showed up with flowers and ice cream. She gave me a big thanks and a big hug. I asked her if I could help with anything, but she said that she was handling it all. It smelled like olive oil and pasta and grilled veggies. She excused herself to the kitchen, and closed the door behind her.

After trying to maintain a conversation with her while I waited in the living room and scanned her DVD library for anything good, I found myself in need of a bathroom. Instead of calling to her, I popped my head into the kitchen to ask her where her bathroom was.

Her stove top was engulfed in flames at least three feet high, and her kitchen was filled with smoke.

As for Amber, she was sitting quietly, stirring the contents of a metal bowl at her kitchen table, for all intents as if nothing was amiss.

"Amber!" I called out to her. She snapped her head up at me and I pointed to the stove.

She yelped, leaped up, and dumped the vegetables that were in the bowl onto the fire, which did exactly nothing to extinguish it.

Between coughs, I was able to ask her if she had a fire extinguisher, and she pointed to the cabinet below her sink. I grabbed it and sprayed it all over the stove. The fire went out much faster than I thought it would, almost like a candle.

My heart was thumping, but even at that point, I wanted to have a sense of humor about the whole thing. I turned to her with a smile and asked her if she was okay.

She replied, "Now that you ruined dinner? No. I'm not fine. Thanks a lot, asshole."

Oops! I saved her apartment and possibly her life. My bad. I left under her scowl and we haven't spoken since.

Pleased to Meter

Story Sent in by Courtney:

In high school, Travis (who was a junior, like me) and I met up one evening in a quaint downtown area that was lined with parked cars on both sides of the street. When I first encountered him, I saw him filling a parking meter, I assumed, for his own car.

He said, "I'm doing my good deed for the day." He pointed up and down the road. "All these meters were expired. I'm tossing a quarter into every meter so they hopefully won't get tickets."

I replied, "That's really nice of you, but after six, it's free to park at the meters."

He froze and stared as if I had just ripped out the collective guts of his family and knotted them together into warm, moist, but surprisingly functional jump rope. His mouth made a weird square shape that still chills me. He emitted a cry and slapped at the closest meter.

"Travis!" I said, "Stop! It's not going to give you your money back!"

"I hate this place!" he screamed, then ran away.

As we were both in the same high school class, it was inevitable that we'd bump into each other again. I told my best friend the story, which in retrospect was like telling the entire school over the loudspeaker. Word spread quick, and whether because of that or not, Travis never breathed another word to me.

Step in Time

Story Sent in by Jose:

I was early to my date with Theresa, and so I waited for her on a bench outside of the restaurant where we were due to meet.

At 6:58pm, two minutes before we had arranged to be there, she showed up greeted me, then glanced at her watch.

"Shit!" she said, her mouth open wide, "I'm two minutes early!"

"It's okay," I replied, a bit taken aback by how shocked she seemed to be at her earliness.

"It's not," she replied, "I don't want you to get the wrong idea about the kind of girl that I am. Wait here."

With that, she hurried off at a power walk down the sidewalk and around the corner. Unable to do anything but wait for her, I stuck around until she returned, at 7:05.

"Hey," she said, then glanced at her watch again. "Damn it! I'm late, now! Well, the evening is ruined."

I let a short laugh slip. "The evening isn't ruined. I'm just glad that you're here. Let's go inside–"

She stomped on my foot as hard as she could, in her high heel. It didn't hurt me too much, but she must have hit me at a bad angle, because it seemed to hurt her quite a bit.

She said, "Ow! Asshole! Guess the evening's ruined now, isn't it?" and she stormed away. To this day, I have no idea what she was thinking.

Propellerheads

Story Sent in by Sara:

Carl and I stopped in a local university's art gallery during our first date. While I considered each painting, sculpture, and installation, then moved on, he was fixated on a small statue of two nude lovers embracing, but wearing big propellers on their heads. It was well-made, although I didn't understand the concept, but Carl studied it from almost every angle for close to a half-hour.

Finally, I approached him and asked, "You really like this one?"

He replied, "Maybe you can help me figure out how they do it. With both of their propellers going, they'd collide with each other."

"They probably tilt their heads back. I guess."

He left me standing there and hurried to the gift shop. I followed him there, and found him looking around for something.

He said, "I'm looking to see if they sell those propeller hats, here."

I asked, "Why would they do that?"

He replied, "It's an iconic piece of art. I mean, it's the centerpiece of the gallery."

I gave him a funny look. "It's a piece by a senior thesis student among a Bearden, a Hopper, and a loaned Warhol. It's good, but hardly a centerpiece."

He stepped close and said, "Aren't you even the least bit curious to try it with those hats on? You're an artist, right? You can make them, if they don't sell them, here."

"You want to do it with propeller hats on?"

"Wouldn't you?"

I stepped away from him. "Uh... no."

He nodded. "Because our propellers will collide, right?"

"It's a little early to be talking about how we're going to have sex."

He said, "Yeah, but just for me to imagine back home later on, just a yes or no, would you be cool doing it with a propeller on?"

"No."

"Damn it," he said, then walked out of the museum store. I took a few steps to follow him, then stopped. I turned instead to some of the little trinkets they had on sale, suddenly finding them more interesting than any more time spent with Carl.

When he came back, he asked, "Am I on a date with myself, here? Come on. Let's go."

I replied, "You go on ahead. I'm going to check out some of this stuff."

Without a word, he turned and ran out of the gift shop and museum. The date was over, and I was fine with that.

Alcohol Licks

Story Sent in by Dominic:

Felicia and I met for drinks at a local pub for our first date. We sat at a table, ordered and received our drinks. Although the bar was dimly lit, she still noticed–

"You have a cowlick," she said, "on the back-right side of your head."

Instinctively, I pressed my hand to that part of my hair and felt around for the offending strands.

She said, "No, it's more, no, try... ugh!" She liberally dipped four fingers into my vodka tonic, reached over, and rubbed her wet hand against the side of my head.

"That's better," she said.

"Thanks," I replied.

Then, she sighed. "Are you going to be all weird, now that I've had my hand in your drink?"

I hesitated. It was a little weird to put your hand into someone's drink, for whatever reason, but I didn't think it was that big a deal. Then again, who knows where her hand had been...

Before I could reply, she answered for me: "I knew it. You think it's weird. You think my hand's gross, like it's been in some kind of herpes vagina."

"Herpes... what? No, I don't think that." To put my money (or my beverage) where my mouth was, I took a sip of my drink.

"Gross!" she said, as I set the glass down, "You really just did that?"

"Should I not have?"

She replied, "No, I mean, my hand's clean, but still. I can't believe you trusted me."

"Should I not trust you?"

"Should I take your glass, go fill it with toilet water, and come back here? And you'll drink it? You're a doormat, man!"

"I was thirsty."

She gave me a long stare, and I took the opportunity to have another sip of my drink. Felicia shook her head and said, "Whatever. Don't think this'll work out." She raised her glass to me, as if she wanted me to toast it. I didn't, and she drank it all on her own. She left shortly thereafter.

¡Vómito!

Story Sent in by Charlotte:

In a college political science class, I found myself working on a project with Liz. I can barely remember what the project was about, but I do remember how cute, smart, and funny Liz was. I actually found myself looking forward to working on the project, over the course of a couple of weeks, as it meant spending time with her.

One particular Saturday, we were in a basement study room in the library, just the two of us, researching Marbury vs. Madison or Batman vs. Superman or some other Supreme Court decision, when she took my hand. It was such a sweet, simple gesture, and the smile she gave me, to this day, still makes my heart melt.

I can't imagine how I mustered the courage, but I somehow was able to coherently ask her, "Want to go out for dinner, after this?"

She thought for a moment, then asked, "Like a date?"

I remember nodding emphatically. My heartbeat must've been audible in China. She squeezed my hand, said, "I'd love to," and then she released my hand and turned back to her books and notes.

Forget about concentrating on anything, at least on my part. I began to sweat, and I felt slightly faint. Yes, it sounds corny, but I just really wanted this.

We went to a Mexican place, just off of campus, for dinner. I thought that I had my nerves under control, although I felt like everything I said to her, over dinner, was trite.

Dinner was served, and we ate. My stomach felt a bit sour, but again, I chalked it up to nerves. It wasn't until after we had eaten and we finally stood up that the wallop of nausea hit me like a truck.

My legs went weak, and I remember nearly falling over. I recall stumbling my way to the bathroom, nearly colliding with a half-dozen people, tripping over some kid, and smashing into the restroom at the moment that (it felt like) a week's worth of food bubbled up my throat and splattered against the walls, the floor, and myself.

I heard the sound of the bathroom door opening behind me, as I sank to a squat. I prayed that it wasn't Liz.

Liz crouched beside me, put an arm around me, and half-dragged me toward a toilet. I must've vomited at least three stomachs' worth of contents all over the place. I don't ever remember feeling that nauseated.

I do, though, remember feeling a curious sense of ease, as if I was beyond humiliation at that point, and at a kind of Zen. I had accepted that Liz and I would probably not be going out to dinner again, and that I was somehow cursed.

Liz, however, was great. She helped me clean up, walked me home, and didn't even complain when I barfed one more time, on the way back, all over her shoes.

I was definitely the bad date here, but Liz was a class act. She even asked me out again, and while nothing long term ended up coming out of it (she's actually married now, with kids), we're still friends, and I'll always be grateful to her for caring and looking out for me.

The Problem with Those Independent Places

Story Sent in by Billy:

Kristy and I were on a local volleyball team together, and after several games, we became friendly, closer, and I finally asked her out for coffee. We agreed on a Starbucks.

We met just outside the cafe, and she said, "Would you mind if we went somewhere that wasn't Starbucks? I have a thing about giving money to big chains."

Fair enough. I asked her, "Did you have another place in mind?"

With that, she walked right past me and into the Starbucks. It was an unexpected act, but I followed her in. She ordered a latte right before my eyes, and I ordered a tea.

Once we sat down, I asked her, "So you're cool with Starbucks, then?"

She replied, "Yeah, whatever."

We spoke for a bit, and then I saw her slip a large white pill into her coffee cup. I asked her about it, and she told me that it was for her nerves. I didn't ask her anything else about it, but after she took a few sips, she stood up and said to me, "I'll be right back."

I waited for her for about 15 minutes when she returned with a coffee from someplace else, bringing her coffee cup collection to a total of two. I asked, "You... got more coffee?"

She said, "I felt guilty about drinking here at Starbucks without supporting a local place."

I joked, "Two cups of coffee will work wonders for your nerves."

She replied, "I don't have coffee in here," then picked up the second coffee cup, popped off its white plastic lid, and spilled what looked like a clump of dryer lint down onto the table.

I asked, "Okay, um, what's that?"

She shook her head and replied, "I have to go," and carried her Starbucks coffee out of the cafe, leaving me with a small pile of... I don't know what.

I grabbed my coffee and the lint, made for the door, threw the lint out, and caught up with her outside. "Kristy," I asked, "What's wrong? Are you all right?"

She put a hand to her face and asked, "What did you do with my coffee?"

"Your coffee?"

"The one I brought in from the independent place?"

I raised my eyebrows. "The... lint? You're asking me what I did with that? I tossed it."

She rolled her eyes and said, "That just proves my point. Goodnight, Billy. Don't follow me." She pushed past me and went on her way. I didn't follow her, and since then, I've never attempted speaking to her again. It's made volleyball games a bit awkward, at least for me, but to look at her, you'd never even know that our "date" had happened.

The Perils of High Fiber

Profile Sent in by Enid:

What I'm doing with my life:

I co-work at a garden center with my friends and we basically run it the owner isn't there half the time. More than half probably. So I guess you can say I run it.

Last week I finshed a bm in the toilet and saw pine needles in it. I know I didn't eat pine needles but there in the bowl was a big pile. I havent taken a bm since then so I don't know what to do. ANyone on here a doctor? lol


I'm really good at:

Apparently poker. And taking bms with pine needles in them.

They've Already Replaced My Brain with Authentic Folgers Crystals

Email Sent in by Ben:

Dear Ben:

Sorry it's been a long time since I wrote you. I ended up scratching my computer screen with a pen and then I tried to fix it but made it worse. I inked all over my keyboard and so the whole thing had to be trashed and I lost all your info.

My computer is in a landfill now somewhere and aliens will come down years from now and find it then locate your contact info and if you're still alive then they'll beam you aboard their ship and shove my old computer up your ass but they think they'll be returning it to you, not violating you with it, like 'oh my god this computer has this guy's contact info, it must belong to this guy' and so they will try to fit it everywhere but it fits up your ass best. So sorry abut that in return...

So how've you been?

With grace,
Amy


*

Ben says, "I don't remember ever talking to this girl before."

Dog Years

(Good writers create. Great writers destroy. Click to read more at Jared's Inkwell. - JMG)


Story Sent in by Marsha:

I met John on 420 at a concert. Living in a state that is very friendly to 420, we partook together at the show. I enjoyed talking with him and gave him my number.

He eventually texted and asked me to sushi dinner. During the first 10 minutes of our conversation, I asked him how old he was. He looked at me like he couldn’t believe that I had asked that, and he wouldn’t answer for a moment. He asked, “Well how old are you?” I told him I was 35. He said, “Me too.” I thought that was strange but moved on.

He paid for dinner, I said thank you, and after dinner he asked if I wanted to go for a walk at a park and enjoy some more 420. So far his company had been good so I said yes.

I followed him to a park, which happened to be across the street from his house. He had to grab his grass and invited me in. Knowing it might not be the smartest thing to go to a relative stranger’s house on a first date, but also feeling that I was older, tall, and strong, and can kick the shit out of someone if I have to, I took the chance since it was only going to be for a second.

John introduced me to his two dogs: a four-year old, 100-pound Rottweiler named Mercedes, and a 13-year old blind, deaf, 20-pound little mutt that he had rescued four months before named Squirt. They seemed like sweet dogs and both jockeyed for attention. John started to put the moves on me, which wasn’t surprising since I went to his house, and I didn’t mind the hugging since it had been a long time for me. But I wasn’t interested in anything else.

We sat down on the couch for a minute and the dogs were at my feet. All of a sudden, out of nowhere, I felt an eruption on my feet and the two animals started fighting like I’ve never seen dogs fight in my life. The Rottweiler was munching the poor little dog like crazy, and I was sure he was going to eat him dead. John jumped up and tried pulling the dogs apart. He started beating the crap out of the Rottweiler, punching the dog over and over and over, screaming, “Mercedes, stop! Mercedes, no!”

By then I had jumped up and was standing above them all, not able to believe this drama was unfolding in front of my eyes. The whole thing lasted for over a minute, which seemed like a very long time. Finally John was able to break the dogs apart, and his little dog Squirt was shredded. The poor thing’s skin was flapping and there was so much blood. John threw Mercedes into his cage, and tried to make Squirt feel better. By then it was 9pm, and since the blood wasn’t streaming and it didn’t seem like it would fester and kill the dog overnight with infection, he decided to wait to bring her into the vet’s office the next morning, rather than having to pay $1,000 for an emergency visit at night.

I felt really bad for John, because he was so upset, and I sympathized, being a pet owner myself. Despite the unfortunate events at his house, I decided that I would go out with him again since I had enjoyed the date up until the dog fight. I didn’t knock him for doing whatever he could to get stop Mercedes from killing Squirt.

For our second date, we decided to meet for Syrian food. Over dinner, it was somehow revealed that he was actually 38. I remembered him telling me that he was 35, and so another red flag went up. Why would he lie about his age? Then I noticed him eating every single bite of his food by shoveling it up his fork with his fingers. I decided then that this guy would go into the Friend Zone.

I paid for dinner this time, and afterward, it was still light out and he asked me if I had ever been to a certain park that had a great view of the city skyline. Being relatively new to the city and having decided that he could be a potential friend, I agreed to see the park.

We drove there separately and the park did indeed have a great view of the city skyline. While we surveyed the area together, he put his arms around me and asked, "Do you suck dick?"

I told him, "I don't really want to talk about that. This is getting a little too intense for me, and I'm not feeling it."

"Are you on the pill?"

"It's also a little early to be talking about that."

He rubbed his hands together and said, “Ooh, that’s going to be fun!”

"I think you're getting a little too ahead of yourself."

He said, "You’re just like the rest. You have so many walls up, no wonder you’re still single. Come on, let's take a walk around the pond."

The area around the pond was deserted. I decided to leave, to take him out of the Friend Zone and put him into the Fucking Loser Zone. After leaving, I resolved to never speak to him again.

He texted me a couple of weeks later asking if I wanted to go to a concert. I didn’t reply. He texted me again a couple of weeks after that, and again I didn’t respond, hoping he’d get the picture. Finally, I received a text from him that said, “You know, I was disappointed by your unwillingness to go for a simple walk around a pond. There was a mom and her kids playing in plain sight but for some reason it wasn’t safe enough for you even though it was safe enough for a five-year-old. It took me a few weeks to decide to give you a second chance, but I did. I was hoping you might give me a second chance."

For the record, there was no mom and kid at the pond. I wanted to tell him off, but I took the high road, and I responded that I wasn't interested in dating him but that I hoped he found what he was looking for.

Some months later, I found him on a dating website. His age was down as 41. Asshole.

But Cookies Are a Sometimes Food

Story Sent in by Duane:

Layla showed up to our first date with a stuffed Cookie Monster. Giving her the benefit of the doubt, after we greeted each other, I pointed at it and said, "You brought a guest."

She said, as if seeing it for the first time, "Oh! Him? This? He's, he's my niece's! I'm dropping him off at her house after dinner."

Not wanting to make any further fuss about it, I silently accepted her explanation and we headed to dinner. At dinner, Layla sat Cookie Monster next to her, although she didn't mention him once. During dinner itself, I looked up twice to find her holding a forkful of salad up against its mouth, as if feeding it. She didn't catch me watching either time.

Merely making conversation, I asked her, "How old's your niece?"

"Niece?" she asked, then her eyes widened. "Niece! Yes. Er, Emma! Emma-Socks, yes. She's three. Loves Cookie Monster."

"Her name is Emma-Socks?"

She laughed. "Yeah. Her dad... yeah, long story."

Just to clarify, I asked, "This is your sister's daughter?"

"Yes. They live over in Iowa. I miss Emma-Socks a lot."

I nodded. "Lucky you, then."

"Lucky me?"

"You said earlier that you're dropping Cookie Monster off at her house after dinner. They're in town? My guess is you're not driving to Iowa, tonight." The closest Iowa town was about 10 hours away.

"Yep! They're in town, visiting my parents."

"Okay."

Dessert arrived. We had opted to split a slice of cheesecake. She smiled down at Cookie Monster and pressed a forkful of cake to his mouth, then she shot a glance up at me, catching my eyes.

She then held Cookie Monster up at me, over the table, and shook him, saying, in a gruff voice, "Ra ra ra ra ra ra ra ra ra ra ra ra ra ra ra ra!"

I tried to take it well. I even smiled. But then, she did it again. "Ra ra ra ra ra!"

I said, "Thanks, Cookie Monster."

"Ra ra ra ra ra ra!"

"Um... do you want a cookie?"

"Ra ra ra ra ra ra ra!"

I said, "That's adorable. Your niece must love spending time with you."

"Ra ra ra ra ra!"

And so it went. The only words out of Layla for the rest of dinner (which was a very short amount of time, indeed) were variations on, "Ra ra ra ra!" and "Ra ra ra la ra!" all said while brandishing Cookie Monster at me. I didn't lose my cool, and she even split dinner with me, which I didn't ask for nor expect.

Well, she did say, "Good night," after a particularly extended bout of "Ra ra ra ra ra." My theory is that she just wasn't into me and decided to throw seriousness to the winds. Or maybe she was just nuts. Either way, I didn't end up asking her out again.

Laborious Day

Story Sent in by Diane:

James and I had already been out on one date together, and it was a short but good time spent at a local coffee shop. For our second date, he asked me over to his house for a barbecue. Some of his friends would be there, he said. I was nervous, but looking forward for a chance to give his friends a good impression of myself.

When I arrived, I found James in the back, sitting in a lounge chair with a beer in each hand. Only one other guy was there, in a similar position, joking and laughing with James around an electric grill.

James barked, "Hey, there she is!" He leaned as if to stand up, but then flopped back down like I wasn't worth the effort to embrace. He turned to his friend and said, "Hey, here she is!"

"All right," said the other guy, "I'm hungry."

James reached into a plastic grocery bag next to his lounge and held a wrapped package of steak in my direction. "Would you mind cooking for us?"

The other guy laughed and I felt my face go hot. James went on, "If you do, I'll give you some nookie later."

The other guy whistled. I felt extremely uncomfortable and said to James, "Hey, can we talk for a minute, away from... er..." I was hoping that James or his unnamed friend would jump in with the guy's name, but neither of them volunteered the information, so I finished with, "...can we go talk?"

James said, "Once the grilling's done. Can't wait!" He put the package of steak down, leaned back in his lounge, stretched out, and closed his eyes.

His anonymous friend did the same, and then, with his eyes closed, said, "Think she'll give me a lap dance?"

James replied, "Probably. Once she's done grilling. If she wants any steak, herself."

I turned and left. They must've actually fallen asleep in the morning sun, because an hour and a half later came James's text, "Where'd you go?" I didn't respond.

A Dream of String

Story Sent in by Fred:

Carol and I messaged each other online for a little while. I noticed that, while she was pretty, she barely cracked a smile in any of her profile photos. I even pointed it out in a message to her: "Why don't you smile in any of your photos? I'll bet that your smile is pretty." In the same message, I asked her if she wanted to meet for drinks.

Uncharacteristically for her, I didn't hear back for several days. At the time, I assumed it was because she was busy. When she finally did write back, it was to reply, very briefly, that she was available to meet that coming Friday evening. We settled on a convenient bar, and that was the last I heard from her until that night.

When she showed up, she was all smiles. In fact, it took less than a minute for me to notice that her smile was constant. She wore a big, fake grin when she talked and when she didn't.

"You're awfully happy," I pointed out.

"Yeah!" she replied, "Well, someone told me I don't smile enough, so now I smile all the time!"

I said, "Are you talking about me? I just guessed that you had a pretty smile, and you do. I meant it as a compliment, if nothing else."

"You sure like telling people what to do," she replied, "But I have to confess, it's tiring to smile all the time! So I brought this."

She reached into her purse and pulled out an adjustable loop of white string. She pulled it over her head, right there at the bar, and set it around her mouth and tightened it, so that it looked like a weird night brace that dug into her mouth and face. She tightened it such that it pulled her lips back into a grotesque grin.

"Shee?" she said, her words distorted, "Now I shmile all the time. Fuh you."

We were attracting stares. I told her, "Okay. That's enough."

"Buh aren' you... thish ish what you wan'ed, wight? Me to shmile? Shee? Me shmile!"

I said, "I wasn't telling you what to do. I said that I thought you probably would have a pretty smile. That's all."

She turned to the bar and said, "I can' dwink cuz I'm shmiling sho much!"

"All right," I said, giving up, "Have it your way." I left her there, and she made no effort to stop me.

I have to confess that as I walked out, I was hoping that she'd come after me and explain the whole thing as a bad joke, but that didn't happen. The whole thing made me sad, but the more I think about it, the gladder I am that I didn't compliment her on something like her eyes. With her logic, she would've ripped them out and given them to me on a plate or something.

The Spins of Winter

Story Sent in by Jessica:

A few winters ago, Chad offered to take me out to a cafe and then to a local dance place. I had competed (and placed) in a few swing competitions in college, and Chad told me that he co-ran a dance studio with a friend and had even taught swing, some time ago. This implied to me that Chad was a dancer.

He rushed us through our light meals at the cafe and we arrived at the dance a bit before it started. Soon, though, enough couples arrived, the lights went down, and the music started.

Chad's skills at dancing were a bit more limited than he had initially let on. In fact, calling them skills is giving them way too much credit. His dancing consisted of spins. He spun me, he spun himself, and that was all he did. He wasn't even in time with the music. He just spun both of us around as fast as he could.

I was able to make it through about half of the first song when I stepped back and said, "I'm a little dizzy!"

He took my hands and tried to spin me again, saying, "This is how we dance."

He spun me a couple more times before I pulled away. "Seriously, Chad. I have to take a minute, here."

He looked around and asked, "How come no one else has to take a minute? Are you one of those delicate girls who need smelling salts all the time or something?"

I replied, "No, but all we're doing is spinning."

He said, "Everyone around us is spinning! How come we're the only ones talking about dancing instead of actually dancing?"

He reached for me again, but I stepped away. He said, "Okay, bitch," and sauntered away, across the room. He approached a clump of other women who were off to the side. As I watched, he practically grabbed one of them and spun her and spun her and spun her. Somehow, she was able to last for an entire song, but when the next one began, he reached for her again. She put up her hands and said what I guessed was, "No, thanks."

"Come on!" I heard him yell, but she was adamant, and he moved on to someone else.

By that point, I had given up on him and I looked around to see if any lone guys were available. I found a few, as the night went on, and ended up having a good time, all the same.