Two Sheets to the Wind

Story Sent in by Marty:

Irene was late to our date at a private, local, garden park. It was open seldom, and it was a beautiful day to be out among lots of unusual flowers.

I called her up and it went to her voicemail. Traffic, perhaps. Then, she called, out of breath: "I'm so sorry! I'm at a bed supply store and there's no signal in there and I completely lost track of time!"

"It's okay. I'm at the garden, so I'll meet you–"

"Can you meet me here? I'm picking out bedsheets."

The store wasn't very far, about one town away. I drove over and found her with about a dozen packs of bedsheets in a shopping cart. She gave me a nice greeting and I asked her, "After this, you want to hit up the garden?"

"Of course," she said.

We went shopping a bit more in the store, she returned all but one pack of bedsheets to the shelf, and then she checked out. In the parking lot, I asked her, "So, I'll meet you at the garden?"

"I have a better plan. Follow me." She led me around the store to the rear parking lot. Bordering on it was a patch of trees, beyond which was an apartment complex. She took me in among the trees and broke open her new pack of bedsheets.

"Let's play a game," she said.

"Okay… what sort of–"

She wrapped the bedsheets over my head and tightly around me. I laughed. What was she up to? It was strange, but I tried to have an open mind about the whole thing. We had known each other for less than a week, having met online, after all.

I heard her walking all around me, tightening the sheet, tucking it under my arms, between my legs, and into my pants. Finally, I heard her say, "Okay, now hold that for a minute."

I laughed again. "What sort of game is this? Are you going to paint a target on me and set me loose in the woods or something?"

No answer. "Hello?" I asked again.

Still no answer. I stood there like an idiot for another 30 seconds before I took the sheets off of myself and looked around.

Irene wasn't there. I called for her and looked around in the immediate area. No sign. I returned to the parking lot, with her sheets crumpled in a clump in my arms. She wasn't there. I stuck the sheets in my car, went inside the store, and looked up and down every aisle for her. Nothing. She was gone.

I walked out of the store and tried her cell. Voicemail. I left her a message to tell her that I didn't understand the game and that I would meet her at the garden. She didn't show up to the garden, and so I enjoyed myself there.

She never called me back, and to this day, I haven't heard from her. I still have her bedsheets, although I've since used them as drop cloths.


  1. Ain't no sunshine, when she's gone.

  2. It's not warm when she's away...

  3. And she's always gone too long, every time she goes away?

    I guess I'll just say the obvious, that the game was called "Ditchadate". I probably would have just slunk home and wept, rather than looking through the store for her... by saying that he called and said he didn't get the game it's like he's just asking for the jerkier among us to call him a desperate pussy. But I won't. I think she's a bad person for it.

  4. I think he can be forgiven for it not being completely 100% obvious that she was ditching him from the moment she wrapped him in bedsheets. She had just purchased them, said that she was playing a game, and he, for all intents and purposes, barely knew her.

  5. Evolutionary psychology tells us that when a man has a choice between approaching a woman and risking the embarrassment of rejection or doing nothing, he should ask himself: would I rather get laid or avoid feeling bad?

    Similarly, OP did the right thing. It turned out badly, but there might have been some goodies at the end.

  6. What is a 'drop cloth', that's what I want to know??

  7. Julia: it is, apparently a cloth used to drop, aka ditch your date.

  8. OP: Do not, repeat - Do Not ever go snipe hunting with anyone.

  9. *pout* I was really hoping they were going to have sex in that little wooded area in front of strangers' apartments. :( I bet OP was too.


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