That's Hardly How a Texan Should Treat a Lady

Story Submitted by Sherry:

Over the course of a week, someone had slipped two notes under my apartment door.  They weren't anything frightening, just little things like, "You're lovely and I'd love to take you out sometime.  Signed, Your Secret Admirer."

I had one friend in my building, and I asked her if she was the one leaving them, as a joke.  She said that she wasn't.  I racked my brain to figure out who else it could be.  You had to ring a buzzer in order to gain access to the building, and it had to be someone who knew where I lived.

I wrote a short letter, addressed it to "My Secret Admirer," and left it outside my door.  It read, "Dear Secret Admirer: Thank you for your messages.  I'm curious about you, so please meet me tonight at 8 at Kieran's Pub.  I'll be at the bar."

That night, while I was at the bar, a guy I had never seen before walked in with a cowboy hat and matching boots.  He strode up and sat next to me.

In the thickest, most fake southern accent I've ever heard, he said, "Hey there.  I'm Kent, your secret admirer."

I introduced myself, and asked him how he knew me in the first place.

He replied, "Ain't you the purty-est sack a-water I've ever seen in these here parts?"

I looked around.  Was this a trick?  In fact, that was my next question.  I smiled and asked, "Is this some sort of joke?  Who put you up to this?"

"No one," he went on in his drawl, "I live in yer building.  I helped you a few months ago when you were carrying in some boxes.  'Member?"

Ah, yes.  Kent.  I did remember him.  The guy who offered to hold the building door open for me while I carried in some packages.  Kent, whose idea of help was to grasp my butt with both hands as he squeezed past me to open the door.  Ah, yes.  I had forgotten him, but mostly because I had wanted to.

I slid away and said, "I appreciate the sentiments, but I don't think I'm the right gal for you."

He stood, as if to block me from leaving.  "Aw, I think you are."  He reached for my shoulder and I pushed his arm away.

"No, Kent."

The bartender leaned over.  "Is there a problem?"

Kent answered, "Why don't you get back behind the bar, fuck-nugget?"

I slipped aside him and walked out.  He followed me and caught up.  He said, "I thought we were gonna have dinner."

"No, I don't think so."

He grabbed my shoulders and said, "Kent don't take no for an answer, little lady."

I kicked him in the groin. He yelped and let go of me.  I jogged away, trembling, down the sidewalk.  He called after me, "You fucking bitch!  You fucking bitch!"

I made it back to my place and locked the door.  I was planning to pack a few things and stay at my friend's apartment, but Kent banged on my door.

I yelled that I was going to call the cops, and he stopped banging.  Instead, I called my superintendent.

Apparently, I wasn't the only one who had a problem with Kent.  In fact, the first thing that my super asked was, "Kent?  That the boy who blasts fucking country music at 2 in the morning?"

The super also had some of Kent's antics on camera.  Kent was kicked out of the complex shortly thereafter.  Yee haw!