Gateway to the Stupid

Story Sent in by Andre:

Christine wrote to me first. She was pretty and she asked me if I could meet her for our first date closer to where she lived, a little over an hour away. I asked her, in return, if she'd mind meeting someplace equidistant.

"It has to be here," she wrote, "It'll all make sense once you come."

She wouldn't tell me more than that, but she lived closer to a big city, so perhaps she was planning a surprise, something that could only be done around her area. I agreed to her terms and drove out to meet her.

We met at the edge of a small town, on a main street. I asked her what she had in mind to do. She said, "I know a place where heaven touches earth. A gateway to paradise and the great beyond. Want to see?"

Not what I was expecting, but I played along. I followed her in my car to the ruins of an old wooden farmhouse. She stepped out of her car and we went inside the empty building together. She pointed to the middle of the hay-strewn room and said, "There it was. It was a blue and white swirling vortex, and I heard my grandmother and great-grandfather. They told me to jump in and follow them, but I asked them how I'd make it back and they told me that I would never want to come back."

I didn't see any such vortex, or any evidence that one had ever existed there. I told her, "Well, maybe it's moved on. Did you want to get lunch or something?"

She walked all the way around the building, looking up and down. Once she seemed to be satisfied that there was no trace of a gateway to the great beyond, she returned to me and said, "Yeah. Let's just go do stupid lunch."

Lunch, back in town, was not enjoyable in the least. She was despondent and attached the word "stupid" to everything she said. "Yeah, I went to the stupid University of North Carolina." "I ate stupid crackers for dinner last night." "Movies are stupid."

No real chemistry there, so I returned home and never saw her again.

Doggy Don't

Story Sent in by Sara:

Charlie and I met on a popular dating site and talked online for a solid week before he asked me out on a date. He offered to pick me up at my house (I didn't have a car at the time).

I was dressed and ready for the date. When I opened my door to let him in, I noted two things: one, he wore a fire-engine-red ball cap, and two, he had, cupped in his two bare hands, a small pile of petrified dog doo.

"Found this on your lawn," he said with a misshapen grin, "This yours?"

"Eww, no!" I backed away.

He dropped the contents of his hands right at my front door, then ran away.

He wrote me an email late that night, an apology. However, he also mentioned how hurt he was that I reacted the way that I did. Maybe he was right. Next time that happens, I'll act overjoyed.

Dirty Prancing

Story Sent in by William:

I'm a ballroom dance instructor. When Liz, who I met online, discovered this, she asked that I take her to my dance studio for our first date. Friday night was a busy night for the studio, but I took her out to dinner beforehand, and then we went off to dance.

I demoed dances with Claire, another instructor and an accomplished dancer in her own right. When Liz and I made it to the studio, I told her that Claire and I were going to demo the dances for the crowd, but that I'd try to dance with Liz herself as much as I could. She seemed to be okay with that.

Claire and I demonstrated a waltz. After several repetitions, we milled about the crowd and I was sure the seek out Liz first. As she and I danced, she said, "You know, I can dance better than Claire." I wasn't sure about that. Liz stumbled over several steps. To that, I gave her a smile and told her that I hoped she was enjoying herself. We switched partners and continued on for a few more sets. Then, Claire and I reunited to demonstrate the Charleston.

Soon after, Liz and I danced together again. She said, "I was doing Charleston while Claire was in her soiled diapers." Claire, by the way, was actually older than Liz. But Liz went on, "She doesn't so much dance as she does prance. She has no real grace to her." I smiled and took it in stride. After all, Liz was technically a customer (I paid her way for the lesson) and I wanted to remain civil.

Finally, Claire and I showed the crowd a rudimentary tango. Liz groaned loudly during the demo, until finally, she just couldn't seem to take it anymore and stepped forward. She said to Claire, "Stop your prancing! I can dance better! Watch!" She then stepped between Claire and I, shoved poor Claire out of her way, grabbed my hands, and dragged me into the worst tango I've ever seen.

I broke away and said, "That's poor form, in more ways than one."

She gasped, spun around, and tromped out. Claire was shaken, but was able to finish the demo admirably. She and I actually ended up dating for a short while. That was, until Claire's husband (who I didn't know about) found out. But that's a whole other story.

Leatherface Wants to Meat You

Profile Sent in by Amanda:

About Me:

A long time ago I was posed a question: Sex or the saw, boy? Sex is, well, nobody knows. But the saw, the saw is family. Sooooo, it's finally time I thought about settling down and starting a family of my own. That don't mean I'm just lookin for anyone. I strictly follow a no B*tch Hog policy! A man builds a good sturdy trade by hookin' and crookin' and then Ka plooey! The Gods just kick him right in the balls. Ah no! Not this time...

A little about me: I'm orig. from the great state of Texas. I like to consider myself having a "hippie"-like mentality and view on life. Music is my life! I'm a huge fan of Iron Butterfly and Humble Pie. I'm also a Butcher by trade: No secret, it's the meat. Don't skimp on the meat. I've got a real good eye for prime meat. Runs in the family! Cook's out here chewing ass like it was steak... We gotta run for that money now! Chase that dollar, boy! Gotta go fast to catch it!


What I'm looking for:

Athletic or petite and sexy! As for BIG BONED women, well...aint nothing wrong with a bonus body! I mean, look at all that beef!

That Not-So-Fresh Feeling

Story Sent in by Jess:

Before our date, Nick promised me "four hours of non-stop fun." The first thing on his list, in person, was to break out a bottle of mouthwash, down some, swish it around, spit it out on the sidewalk, and offer me some.

"No thanks," I said.

"It's got no roofies in it," he said, "Watch." He brought the bottle again to his lips, but this time. He actually swallowed some.

"Ahhh!" he said, then held the bottle out to me.

"No thanks."

He said, "Let me bring the bottle back to my car, then."

I followed him for a few blocks, up and down streets. After a little while, I asked him, "Why are you taking us in circles? Where's your car?"

He said, "It must have been abducted! We must go on a quest to find it!"

I said, "Maybe we could have dinner? Aren't you hungry?"

He said, "I just drank a tub of mouthwash, honey. I don't think anything's staying down. Help me find my car, instead."

"Do you seriously not know where your car is?"

He replied, "Maybe. You don't know what my car looks like, so I might be lying and you wouldn't know it!" He shook his mouthwash bottle around and took another drink. "I have the sweetest-smelling breath in the nation!"

I said, "Let's just do dinner. Come on." I turned and walked back toward the main road.

He grabbed my dress and pulled it hard, toward him. I swung at his face and missed, but he let go, all the same. He stared at me, though, as if I had, in fact, hit him.

He said, "Well, I can see that you don't want an evening of fun. Bye." He opened up the closest parked car to us and drove away.

Weaseling Out

Story Sent in by Dave:

Leigh and I had been talking over dinner and had hit a conversational lull. She shot several dark looks at me from across the table, which I thought was surprising, as we had been talking and having a nice time up until then.

"What's wrong?" I asked her.

She replied, "I think I hate you."

I stammered, "O-okay... why?"

She said, "You're nice, but your face looks like a weasel. I think you're only trying to trick me into thinking you're nice."

"I think I'm actually nice. Saying I look like a weasel isn't very nice at all."

She whispered, but in a harsh tone, "Don't you judge me. I'm just stating a fact. If you don't like it, that's none of my business."

"Okay. You want to go?"

She groaned and raised her voice. "I didn't say that. Did I say I wanted to go? Did I? Did I?"

"No."

"Some weasel-faced punk isn't going to tell me what to do, God almighty, no..."

I gave her a look, then stood up. She asked, "Where are you going?"

"I'm getting our waiter."

"I said I didn't want to go. Did you even listen—?"

"I want to go. Right now." I left the table, found the waiter, and asked him to bring the check as soon as he could. When I returned to the table, Leigh was still there, and she was mad.

"What the hell? Are you crazy or something?"

"Nope. But I think you are. Mind splitting this with me?"

She picked up a fork and brandished it like a weapon, but clumsily. "I should," she began, "I should—"

"You should put the fork down before there's a lawsuit, little girl," I yelled.

She jumped at that, put the fork down, threw her wallet open, slammed a few bills and change onto the table, and left. The check arrived moments later. Her collected cash covered about 80% of what she owed, but I considered it a small price to pay to be forever parted from her.

The Air of His Ways

Story Sent in by Macie:

Out to dinner on my date with Joe, he asked me, "What kind of deodorant do you use?"

I replied, "Tom's of Maine. You?"

He said, "Pigface."

"Your deodorant's called 'Pigface'?"

"Well, that's the fancy name for it."

"As long as it works, right?"

He nodded and that was the end of our deodorant talk. Not long afterward, he asked me, "Hey, would you mind smelling my breath?"

Before I could respond, he leaned across the small table and breathed on me. I held my breath as best as I could, but the residual stench still hung in the air. He smiled at me. I said, "Why on earth would you do that?

He said, "But how was it? Good, right? Even though I ate all these onions."

I raised my voice. "Did you also eat stupid pills? What the hell are you thinking, breathing on me like that?"

He put his hands up like he was approaching a wild horse. "Whoa, now. Don't go all crazy bitch on me. It's oxygen. I didn't rape you. We need oxygen to live."

I stood up. "We're done here," I said.

"Wait! Wait!" he said, behind me, "We need oxygen! Breathing on you shouldn't be a criminal offense!"

He wrote me three emails that night, all linking to scientific papers about oxygen and the respiratory system. Each email ended with, "Let me know if you have any questions."

I ignored each one, but every Monday, for a month straight, he messaged me with, "Do you have any questions? Do you see how important oxygen is?"

I wrote him back once and asked him to stop emailing me, and he wrote back immediately, begging for another date. I ignored all future messages from him.

Gas Leak

Story Sent in by Steve:

Ciara and I went to see The Hangover Part II. We had bought popcorn and sodas, and everything seemed like it would go fine.

Before the film began, she sucked down her soda as if her life depended on it. I even commented, "Thirsty?"

In response, she opened her mouth wide enough to engulf the soda cup and belched. Her entire body convulsed with the blast. Her hand went right to her mouth and her eyes went wide. "Oop!" she said, "Sorry!"

Before I could say anything, she followed up her massive blast with a series of aftershocks: *burp* *ulp* *ulp* *bup* *barp* *braarp* *bup* *bup*

Her shoulders shook with each belch. Someone nearby said, "Oh God..."

"Sorry," she said. *ulp* *brap* "bulp*

She stood up and shook. She said, "I'll be right back. I feel like I'm going to pop." She ran up the aisle and left the theater. I followed her, concerned.

She ducked into the ladies room and I waited for about 20 minutes. She called my phone and I picked up. She said, "Steve, do you have a towel or an extra pair of pants in your car?"

"I have a towel. Why?"

"My skirt was... I just need something to wrap around myself, and I think we have to go. Can you run and get it?"

"What happened?"

"Just get the towel, Steve."

I ran to my car, grabbed the towel from my trunk, and ran back. I called Ciara up again and told her that I was going to throw it inside the women's room for her to grab, and I did exactly that. When she emerged a few minutes later, she was still in her blouse, but wore my towel as a skirt and carried a wet mass of paper towels in her arms. I guessed that her skirt was wrapped tightly within.

"What happened?" I asked.

"I want to go home," she said, "Would you mind?"

I didn't say another word about it, but we went back to her place. Aside from a single apology as she left my car, the ride was silent, and I haven't heard from her since then.

Wiffleheads

Story Sent in by Ellen:

Original Art by Craig Boldman - www.craigboldman.com

Keith and I met online, and I was excited at how big of a St. Louis Cardinals fan he was. Like me, he said he was a season ticket holder, and he bore an encyclopedic knowledge of everything Cardinals-related. Long emails were sent back and forth, and when he asked me to join him at a game, I immediately said yes.

He picked me up at my apartment and drove us toward Busch Stadium. When it was within sight, he made a confusing set of turns, and headed away from the game. I asked him, "Where are we going?"

He replied, "Quick pit stop. I want to get us some game gear."

Twenty minutes later, he parked us in the lot of a Toys R Us. As we headed inside, I told him, "We're going to miss the first innings."

He ignored that and led me to the sporting goods aisle. Once there, he found a wiffle ball set, then broke it open, right there, and set it up. "Play ball!" he yelled, and smashed the ball and tee right over, in the aisle. He threw the bat up into the air, and it hit the ceiling. He clapped, yelled, "Woo! Play ball!" and ran around the aisle as if he was running the bases.

Two sales associates came running over and one of them said, "Sir, you're going to have to leave."

He ran over to where the plastic bat had landed, then picked it up and screamed, "Play ball!" one more time, before smashing it three times into various toy boxes (doing more damage to the bat than the boxes themselves) and shoving past all of us, out of the store.

I was, in a word, horrified. The same associate who had told him to leave asked me, "Are you with him?"

"No," I replied, then hurried to another aisle and called a friend, who was able to pick me up about an hour later.

I didn't hear from Keith again after that, and I'm glad for it. I was ready to use his head as a wiffle ball.

James (in the) Woods

Story Sent in by James:

During my first online exchanges with Kim, she told me about the wooded area behind her house and her explorations thereof. She had never journeyed too far back there, and wondered openly at how far the forest extended. As we became better acquainted, I offered to explore it with her, and she said that she'd take me up on the offer.

When I arrived at her house, I noted that she was dressed in a nice black and gold dress. a strange choice for traipsing around in the woods.

She explained, "It's so hot out, it just keeps me cool."

I didn't argue, but I had a feeling that something wasn't quite right. She was dressed for an evening on the town, not a dusky forest adventure.

She led me into the woods, over bramble, root, and log. "There's a cave back here somewhere," I heard her mutter, then she said, "Or was it this way...?"

The sun was setting. She had a flashlight, but even so, I didn't want to be caught out there in the dark. I voiced that concern to her (we had also planned to eventually grab dinner) but she didn't seem overly concerned. I piped up about it more and more and Kim spoke less and less. She also zipped ahead of me, more and more often. Five steps, 10 steps, 15 steps ahead. I was able to catch up each time, but it seemed as though she was deliberately trying to lose me.

Finally, she stopped in her tracks and shone the light at a thick clump of maple trees. "What is it?" I asked her.

She said, "Look at—" and she switched the flashlight off and ran.

"Kim!" I shouted, "Kim!"

I ran after her, at least, in the direction it sounded like she went. I soon lost her, and so I walked in a straight line until I found a road, about 15 minutes later. I called her a few times but she didn't pick up.

Once I made it back to her house, I tried her once more. The house was dark and I was through with games, so I went straight home.

She called me the next morning in the middle of breakfast. She apologized and said that she had another date that same night and figured that I could make it out of the woods myself.

I called her insane, and she hung up on me.

No One Messes with the Jesus

Story Sent in by Roberta:

Alex and I met on the Internet. Our first time meeting in person was at a park, and we talked together as we walked.

It was when we were on the sidewalk, on our way to lunch, when he pointed up at a telephone pole. It was a wooden one, shaped like a cross.

He asked, "Do these remind you of where the Jesus died, or is it me?"

I said, "I guess so. I don't really give it that much thought."

"They're designed that way on purpose. During the apocalypse, they'll be used once more. For followers of the Jesus."

I nodded and gave him a smirk. "All right." I was ready to move on to dinner.

"You think I'm joking?" he turned to the pole, "We could've made them any shape imaginable. But we made them into crosses!"

"Maybe they're made that way so that they can hold more wires."

"They were made that way to hold Jesuses. You'll see. Enjoy your time with me now. When the road is lined with Jesuses, you'll see that I was right."

I sighed. "Okay. Ready for dinner?"

"This whole road," he went on, pointing up and down the street, "Paved with the Jesuses. It'll rain the Jesi from the sky. Jesi on crosses, right onto your pretty little head. Then what will you say?"

"...Ouch?"

"The Jesus on a telephone pole, growing right outside your head. Does that answer your question?"

"I never asked you a question."

"You asked if I wanted dinner."

"Yes. And you went on about Jesus. Remember?"

"Well, we'll all be going on about the Jesus, soon enough."

"So, dinner?" I asked, but I didn't really mean it. I said it to be polite.

We ended up at dinner, and he picked his nose the whole time and spoke to the boogers. What a great night.

Planet of the Horses

Story Sent in by Howard:

Patricia had a humorous profile, so I wrote her and finally worked my way up to calling her. Her voice was strange: low and slow. It took her about thirty seconds to say a sentence that it would take you or I about ten seconds to say, and she enunciated everything. Still, she was very nice and I liked her, so I asked her out on a date.

Things went to crazytown in less than five minutes. When we first met, she shook my hand, which I thought was charming, and then she did a sort of twirl under my arm, as if we were dancing. Then, she said, "Oh my God, you're like the sun," then released my hand and started... jogging around me, in a circle.

"What are you doing?" I asked, expecting a punchline.

"Orrrrrbiiiiitinnnnng. Iiiii'mmmm aaaa pllllannnnnnnnet," she explained. Well, that made things clear.

As she trotted around me a few more times, she made a sound that was reminiscent of a horse whinny, then stepped away from me and said, "Iiii'mmmmm soooooorrrrrrry. Thisssssss wonnnnnn't worrrrrrrk ouuuuuuuut." She nodded, said, "Byeeeeee," and she walked away.

When I checked her profile the next day, searching for any sort of clues, her profile was still on the site, but all of her essays were deleted.

The Handyman Can

Story Sent in by Betty:

Stefan and I met on the Internet, and he offered to take me out to dinner and a nice walk on a local pier for our first date.

When he first saw me, in front of the restaurant, he gave me a big smile and took my hand to lead me inside. It was… strange, but perhaps he was just being friendly. He dropped my hand only when the hostess led us to the table, and then once we were seated, he reached across the table for my hand once more.

Putting him off for a bit, I made conversation and he chatted with me well enough, but he kept his hand on the table and wiggled his fingers around, as if to remind me that I had forgotten to take his hand. I hadn't forgotten.

We chatted on as the waitress served us our drinks and eventually our meals. His hand never left the table – in fact, it had crept closer to me, wiggled, and shook more and more often. His eyes would dart to it as we spoke, as if trying to make me look at it.

Finally, after the plates were cleared, the dam burst. "Take my fuckin' hand!" he snapped.

My heart beat faster. Gone was the friendly-enough Stefan of the past hour. When I made no response, he shook his hand at my face. "Take it! Take it! Bind us together with fingers interlaced! Just take it now!"

"Hey," I said, "Want to split the check?"

"I want you to hold my hand."

"Wash your hands, first. You just ate."

"Fine!" he threw his napkin across the table, stood, and stomped away, toward the bathrooms.

I put my part of the check down, right in front of where he had been sitting, and I tore out of there, cheetah-speed.

Skin and Out

Story Sent in by Chad:

Helen and I met while I was actually seeing someone else. I was shopping online for a gift, a satchel, for my then-current girlfriend. Helen had a few handmade products up on Etsy, I found a bag with a great design, and I purchased it from her. Turned out, she lived in the same county that I did. She wrote me a very grateful thank-you message, and I wrote her back once I had received the satchel she had made. I was impressed with the materials and quality of design. And so even after I gave it to my girlfriend, Helen and I maintained a decent correspondence, back and forth, talking about everything and anything.

Some months later, I was out of the relationship, and my messages to Helen became more frequent and more flirtatious. It progressed to me asking her out, and so we wound up at dinner.

She had been pretty chatty over the Internet (she told me that she didn't like talking by phone) but in person, she seemed quiet and nervous. Well, so was I. We talked back and forth for a while about this and that, and I finally engaged her on the topic of her crafts.

That opened her up. She talked about handbags, shoes, vests, hats, and so on. She was very interested in making her own designs, and I was glad that she finally seemed to feel comfortable.

She was talking about projects on which she had worked when she said, "Sewing human skin is a bit of a challenge if you don't time it right: too thin or too brittle, depending on how long you wait."

I was sure I had misheard her. "Sewing what?"

She replied, "Human skin. It's pliable and very soft, but you really have to take care of the material, otherwise it'll–"

"You've sewn with human skin?"

She laughed. "Not all the time. Just once, and it didn't come out well. I don't think I'd show it to you. It's brittle. Next time, I know what to do."

"How did you come by human skin? Did you use your own?"

"Ha! No. Of course not. Those are just some... trade secrets."

Dreading the answer (really, any answer), I asked, "What did you make out of it?"

She seemed at this point to realize that the conversation had taken an unpleasant turn, at least for me, and so it looked like she was again socially shutting down. Her eyes darted around and she leaned back in her seat. She muttered an answer, I asked her to repeat it, and she said, louder, "A coin purse. It was small. I didn't harvest very much."

Just a little was enough for me. I asked for the check pretty quickly thereafter. Maybe it was wrong of me to call it quits, but her admission coupled with her quiet, evasive demeanor convinced me that there wouldn't be a second date.

Weight for It

Story Sent in by Mary:

Ronald found me online. First big red flag on my date with him was during our lunch. He asked me, "You get a lot of sick emails from BBW-fetish guys?"

I know very well that I'm overweight. Still, it was a rude thing to ask, and so I decided to make it hard for him. "No. Why would I?"

No response from the loquacious Ronald.

Moving on, we were on a walk after lunch when he asked, "Anyone ever play 'slap-the-flab' with you?"

"Uh... no."

"It's like tag," he said, "I tag you and you have to tag me back."

"Hmm. No."

We walked side-by-side for a little bit, but he soon dropped behind me and I turned to him to find that he was impersonating the way I walked in an insultingly exaggerated manner. He swung his arms around, puffed out his cheeks, shut his eyes, and spread his legs about as wide as they would go.

"Is that supposed to be me?" I asked.

"Uh-huh." He then shouted, "Flab punch!" then slapped my stomach, hard, and took off.

I took off after him. I might be larger than average, but I'm surprisingly fast. He jumped over a low stone wall surrounding a park, and I kept pace with him. In fact, I was faster than he was, and when I caught up, I tackled him to the grass.

He wasn't wearing a big, stupid smile anymore. He was upset and squirming. I swung myself into a position in which I was sort of sitting on his upper back. People going by must have thought we were just two over-affectionate lovers. Eww.

I said, "If you ever slap me or another girl again, you'll be sorry. Understand?" It was a silly thing to say (how would I ever know if he did something like that to another girl?) but it was the first thing that came to mind. If anything, I wanted him out from under me as quickly as possible. The whole thing made me feel at once victorious and gross.

"Get off me! Oh my God, get off!"

"Understand?"

"Yes! Okay, I'm sorry, get off! Holy–"

I rolled off of him. He sprang and bolted off. I hope that a lesson was learned that day.

That Disease That Turns People into Cows

Story Sent in by Edward:

Colleen and I had a good thing going. We had been seeing each other for about three weeks, and at the end of a fun night, we wound up on her couch, making out and doing the requisite touching. We hadn't had sex yet.

My hand found its way between her legs, and a few moans on her part clued me in that I had hit a good spot. After several minutes, I brought her to climax, and after the fireworks, she leaned against me, and all was right and well.

Then, she shoved me away, nearly right off of the couch. "Get out!" she screamed, "Get out now!"

I stared, motionless, wondering if it was a joke. She jumped up, smoothed out her clothes, stomped over to her front door, swung it open, and pointed at it. "Out!"

I stood, but I must have been too slow for her. She ran back over, grabbed me, and yanked me out of her house, then slammed the door behind me.

I thought about knocking, in hopes that we could talk out... whatever had just happened. I texted her instead, something like, "I'm not sure what just happened... call me if you want to talk."

I didn't hear back from her that day, or the day after that, or even the day after that. I did hear back before the week was out, a short text that read, "Hi. I'll call today."

The day came and went and no call ever came from her. I thought about calling her, instead, but I didn't want to put any pressure on her. I was at a point where I figured that she didn't want to see me anymore.

This was confirmed when she texted me another week later: "MOO MOO MOO MOO MOO MOO MOO. Bye."

Master Disaster

Story Sent in by Ariane:

I wore a skirt on my first date with Sean. We met in front of a bar, and I nearly fell over when the first words out of his mouth were, "Ooh, a skirt. Thoughtful of you to think of easy access for me." He smiled and gave a sort of snort-laugh.

I asked, "Um... are you serious? That's not happening."

He held out his hand, palm-upward, in my direction. "You'll find my hand a good fit. I've been trained to find the g-spot by the master."

He stepped a bit closer, and I smelled the booze on him. I walked away as quickly as I could. He followed me. I heard him say, "My master taught me... my master, my master taught, my master, he taught me how to bend and fold and just give you the shivers. Let me in. Let me in or I'll huff and I'll puff and I'll blow your... your... I forget."

It was easy to maintain a distance between the two of us, as he was a stumbler. I made it back to my car and drove off.

Did I mention that a friend had set us up? I called her and told her everything. She apologized profusely, and I never heard a thing from or about Sean again.

The Wettening

Story Sent in by Russell:

Maura and I made plans to go out on another date together, after a couple of good times out. That Saturday, she was running in a 5K and, as the finish line was near my house, she dropped off some clothes at my place, then came over to shower after the race, with the expectation that we would go out afterward.

She was taking a long time to shower in my upstairs bathroom, but I was watching TV and lost track of the time. That was, until I heard the sound of water, pitter-pattering in my kitchen. I stood to investigate, and found water pouring through the kitchen ceiling, soaking everything: the cabinets, the floor, the sink, the walls.

"Maura!" I called for her and ran upstairs.

The upstairs carpet and hallway were soaked through. Not everywhere, but in the area around the bathroom, especially. I knocked on the bathroom door and called for her.

"Yeah?" she asked as if nothing was wrong, "What's up?"

"We've got a flood going on here. Turn off the water!"

Water poured out from under the bathroom door. What was she doing in there? She said, "Sorry. I take long showers. Everything all right?"

I said, "It's soaking wet out here, and my kitchen is flooded!"

A hesitation, then, "Oh. Whoops! Hang on. Can I borrow your robe?"

She had let the tub fill and overflow. We spent the rest of the evening bailing out the tub, drying things, and toweling things off. She apologized over and over. "I swear, I just wasn't thinking," and so on. I asked her how she couldn't notice that the tub was overflowing during a shower. She didn't have a satisfactory answer for that.

We ended up ordering in and falling asleep on the couch. We dated for a little while longer after that, and we're friends now. I was never really able to make it over the fact that she just didn't see that the tub overflowed. A wet date, I guess, isn't always indicative of a good time.

That's the Way the Mercedes Bends

Story Sent in by Val:

Brad and I met online. He was cute and had started his own upholstery business. Within a week of his first message to me, he asked me out on a date.

We were supposed to meet one evening for dinner. I arrived in front of the cafe a bit early, and I was nervous, but couldn't wait to meet him.

He showed up in a superhero mask and shiny, dark blue spandex.

"Whoa!" he said, pointing at me from down the sidewalk, "A lady in distress!" He ran for me, grabbed my arm, then pulled at me, as if to yank me away from the restaurant.

"What's all this?" I asked him.

"Your made-to-order superhero man. I'm Elastic Man! I am so bendable man!"

He let go of me and demonstrated some stretches with his arms and legs. Truly, he was a marvel of flexibility.

I clapped, deciding to play along. He then bowed low and said, "Elastic Man wants you to bend with him!"

He grabbed for my arm and tried to bend it. I ripped away and said, "Uh, I don't think I'm as bendable as you are."

"Elastic Man says to bend or end!" he said, "Bend or end!"

He stepped away and bent around again: on his back, on his side, sitting, standing, a full acrobatic demonstration, right on the sidewalk. If he had a hat or coffee cup, he could've probably collected a good amount of coin from passersby.

After a good five minutes, I said, "What say we grab dinner, Elastic Man?"

He jumped to his feet. "Bend or end, my lady. Bend or end."

He looked at me, expectant. I didn't know what to do, so I tried a simple stretch, hoping that it would be enough. He shook his head, took several big steps back, tripped over the curb, and smashed back, into a parked station wagon.

"Oooh!" he cried out.

I ran to his side. "Are you okay?"

He regained his footing, nodded, and said, "Let's get dinner, my lady." He presented me with his arm, and escorted me to the restaurant.

We attracted some stares, to be sure, but overall, dinner was mostly painless. He kept asking me if I would bend for him, and I continuously, politely declined.

When the check came, I offered to pitch in. He refused the offer, paid, and ran off right afterward, his fist hoisted high in the air, off to fight crime or save a cat or bend or whatever he wanted to do with the rest of his life.

The World Spins Madly On

Story Sent in by Marshall:

On my third date with Tina, I took her out to a steakhouse for dinner. I had paid for meals the first couple of dates, and she hadn't bothered to offer to help. I would have refused it, but the offer would have been nice. It was a minor blip in an otherwise good time together, but it bugged me enough to suggest splitting the meal the third time around, after the check was on the table.

To that suggestion, she replied, "How much do you make?"

I said, "That's not really your concern."

"How much do you make?"

"So is that a no for splitting this?"

"It's a question: how much do you make? How much do you make?"

"Twelve dollars. Can we split this?"

"Well I make five dollars, so no."

"But I've already spent all twelve of my dollars on our first two meals."

She groaned. "Really? Then by 'splitting' you mean that you want me to pay for the whole thing. Is that it?"

Playing along, I replied, "I took out a loan to cover half of the meal. Are you going to split it with me or not?"

She said, "How much do you make? If you tell me, I'll split it with you."

"Split it with me and I'll tell you."

She made a fist. "See this? It'll be on your face in less than a second unless you tell me how much you make right now."

Still thinking that this was tense, but lighthearted, I cracked a smile. "Now you're threatening me with violence? I–"

She swung at me, and I dodged away, but not fast enough. Her knuckles clipped my nose, but didn't hurt me. Stunned, I watched as she drew her arm back across the table and breathed heavily, in and out like a marathon runner.

Just wanting the date to be over, I took the check from the table and told her that I'd be right back after squaring things up.

I found our waiter and handed him the empty check folio. I pointed in the direction of Tina's table and said to him, "Before we pay, she had some questions about the bill." He nodded and said he'd be back at our table shortly.

I then left. A torrent of angry, humiliated texts from Tina flowed steadily into my phone over the following couple of days. I had felt bad for the waiter, in case Tina didn't pay up, but I was able to infer from her texts that she did. Good.

Sometimes, It's Not Sunny in Philadelphia

Story Sent in by Ethel:

John and I had already been out together a few times. He owned a duplex with a back deck that had a spectacular view of the surrounding mountains. He asked me over to his place for midnight drinks, and said that we could sit in lounge chairs, talk, and watch the sun come up. It sounded great, and so I packed a small bag for my little overnight at his place and drove over with high expectations.

It started out great. We had a couple glasses of wine each, talked about our various creative projects, past experiences, and so on. It was great, at first.

As I had a feeling I would, though, I nodded off after a couple of hours. He poked me and said, "Hey. Don't fall asleep."

"Sorry," I muttered, then did my best to carry a conversation. Still, it was to no avail. I zonked out again, and again he roused me.

"Don't fall asleep. You said you'd stay awake to watch the sunrise."

"Mmmm," I said, or something probably similar. That's the last thing I remember until the morning. When I woke, it was cold, I was shivering, the sun was up, and John was nowhere to be found.

I stood, stretched, and made for his back door, thinking he was inside. It was locked. I knocked on it, called out for him, and waited on the deck as the birds chirped away. I knocked again, and there was no answer. I called him on my phone, thinking that maybe he had gone out to grab something for breakfast. No answer. My bag was inside his house. I knocked again.

The door swung open, and a very angry John stood there. "What the hell do you want?" he asked.

I said, "What's wrong?"

He laughed. "Oh, nothing. You just promised to stay awake to watch the sunrise with me. Here," he said, throwing me my bag, "This is all you wanted. Good luck out there." He slammed the door shut. Confused, sad, but ultimately relieved, I went home.


*

Why are so many Americans single? Here's a well-researched New Yorker review of Dr. Eric Klinenberg's book, Going Solo: The Extraordinary Rise and Surprising Appeal of Living Alone.

Brotherly Love

Story Sent in by Kris:

I met Natalie online. We traded pictures, emails, and a couple of short phone calls. Eventually, I asked her if she wanted to meet. She did, and we picked out a restaurant.

When I arrived there, I told the host that I was meeting someone. A guy who didn't look older than 18, with bloodshot eyes, and about my height, approached me. He gave me a smile and said, in Natalie's voice, "Hi. I'm Natalie." He then cleared his throat and continued, in a deeper voice, "But my real name's Nick."

"Hello, Nick," I said.

He leaned in close to me and said, "I think I know your older brother. You don't want to sleep together, do you?"

I don't have an older brother. I replied, "No thanks, Nick."

He said, "Thought I'd ask. Know where I can get some action?"

I replied, as politely as possible, "Try Gruber's. It's a bar about a half-mile down Main."

He nodded, walked past me, then turned around to say, "You have my number, just in case."

"Bye, Nick."

He shrugged and left the restaurant.

Nowadays, it's only after I've related that experience that online women understand why I always ask them, "You're really a woman, right?"

Seal of Approval

Email Sent in by Boris:

I HAVE INFLATABLE BEACH BALL AND YOU WILL STAND ON IT AND I WILL THROW RINGS AT YOUR WHISKERED SNOUT. FOR EVERY RING YOU CATCH I WILL GIVE YOU A DOLLAR BILL! THIS WILL BE OUR FIRST OF MANY DATES TOGETHER.

ORK ORK ORK!

SUSANNE

A Glass House Is Not a Home

Story Sent in by Pamela:

My first date with Dave went well. We had dinner and drinks, and gave each other a big hug and fumbled kiss at the end of it.

Everything seemed fine until he called, two days later. He said, "You don't need to keep texting me. I was planning to call you."

I hadn't texted him at all. In fact, this particular phone call was the first interaction we had had since the date, and I reminded him of that. He wasn't moved. "Yeah," he said, "All of these texts is a little excessive. I was definitely planning to call you back."

I repeated the truth: I hadn't texted him once. In fact, after a couple minutes of this back-and-forth, I asked him, "If you're not interested in going out again, you can say so instead of making this up."

Then he instantly became apologetic (while not admitting that he had lied about anything): "I'm so sorry! I definitely want to see you again. Let's just pretend that this never happened. Oh, I mean, of course I want to see you again..."

Perhaps he had confused me with someone else. It was no secret that we were both in the dating scene. He apologized over and over, and I made it clear (once more) that I hadn't texted him at all.

"Sure, no problem," he said, "I want to see you again."

See me again he did, the following Thursday. We went bowling, saw a movie, and had dinner together. We made out for a little bit in his car, and then the date was over. It went well, I thought.

He called me two days later. "I can't do this," he said, "It's like you're obsessed with me. All these phone calls and texts? Come on."

I hadn't texted him once or called him. I said, "Not this again. Double check your call logs. I think you'd know it if I called you. It would be, you know, me on the phone."

"Stop calling me non-stop," he said, "I mean it."

I was done. "You'll never hear from me again." I hung up.

He called me right back and I let it go to voicemail. He called me again. And again. And again. And again. And again. And again. Close to 50 messages and texts, all told. They finally tapered out after about two weeks.

Don't-Over

Story Sent in by Carlo:

Ella was late to our date. There was no phone call or anything resembling an effort to contact me, and so I tried her phone and she picked up.

"Hi!" she said, chipper as anything, "I'm stuck in my mailbox."

"You—? Okay, how did that happen?"

"I just stuck my hand in, and now it won't come out. Weird, huh?"

"Yeah. So, are we not meeting up, then? Do you need help?"

She replied, "I think I can break it off my arm. Try me again in 10."

She hung up. Guessing that it was an over-elaborate scheme to weasel out of the date, I left the garden center where I was to have met her, and I took a walk further into town.

I called her back 15 minutes later, just to be sure that there was to be no meeting. She picked up and said, "I'm here. Where are you?"

"You're at the garden center? Why didn't you call?"

"I asked you to call me. Did you forget?"

We argued back and forth for a few minutes, and when I made it back to the garden center, there she was.

"Hey," she said, "We need a do-over. Wait here."

She left before I could say much else. About 10 minutes later, she called and said, "Hey. I'm stuck in my mailbox. I'm going to be late." Then, much louder, she said, "Call me in 10."

I went home instead.

Sucker

Story Sent in by Milly:

My first date with Edgar was short. We sat down together, he reached into the bright blue shoulder bag that he carried with him, and pulled out a tube-shaped vacuum cleaner attachment.

"Know what this is?" he asked.

"Part of a vacuum cleaner?"

He nodded, then inserted the tube into his mouth and said something that I couldn't understand.

I asked, "What?"

He pulled it out and said, "I said, 'It can be something else, like something for sucking. Or it can also be something you can do around my house that's never been done in my house before.'"

I asked, "Sex?"

He replied, "Vacuuming. If you're not going to screw me, you might as well make yourself useful."

Ten seconds later, he was on a date all alone.

First and last time online dating.

Take 'Em to the Peachtree Dance

Story Set in by Ryan:

Claire and I, for our first date, had planned to go to dinner and then dancing at a nearby salsa/cha cha place. Dinner went all right... she had a habit of panting. Like a dog. If we stopped talking for more than five seconds, she'd breathe in and out quickly. Maybe it was nerves. I even asked her if she was okay, but she said that she was. I didn't want to embarrass her, so I let it be and hoped that it would stop.

After dinner, we walked toward the dance complex (it was only a couple of blocks away) and she reached into her purse and pulled out a razor blade. I asked her, "What's that for?"

"Your face," she said, calmly.

"My face doesn't need a razor." My hand went to my cheeks, which I had shaved not three hours before.

"It's for your pimple," she explained, "It's the only way."

"What pimple?"

"Erragh!" she groaned, and stuck the razor out at my face. "Just take care of it. I won't watch."

"I'm not going to hack at my face, pimple or not, with a razor you just pulled out of your purse."

She rolled her eyes. "It's clean... I'm... clean."

"Maybe we can just go dancing?"

"Pimple first."

"Let's just go dancing."

She swung her arms down and then up and then down one more time, like she was shaking an invisible person in front of her. "Pimple first! Pimple first!"

"All right!" I shouted, "I'll meet you there. I'll find a bathroom, take care of the pimple, and meet you at the dance. Okay?"

She nodded quickly, panted with excitement, turned, and headed off, in the direction of the dance hall.

I went home. She texted me a couple of times before she figured it out.

Great Scott!

Story Sent in by Ann:

Ben worked in research and development for a large engineering company. He found me on a dating website and came across as a bit of a dork, but he was funny and had a lot to say. He offered to take me to a really nice restaurant at the top of a city building. First date went great. I insisted on splitting the check with him, and he asked me out for a second date, this time to a museum, lunch, and a movie. It was also great.

Third date, he planned something a bit different. He said that he was working on a "fun project" in his parents' backyard, just outside of town. We drove out there (separately) and he led me to the backyard, where, under a giant tarp, he had what amounted to a port-o-potty strapped to an old dryer, with some wires sticking out of both of them. I should also mention that he had four large speakers set up on stands in each corner of the yard, facing the "device." Wires ran from the speakers into the house and also to the machine.

"Behold the time machine," he said, "Step inside."

I laughed. "Are you serious? No thanks."

"Please," he said, sinking to his knees, "It is sooooo much fun. I promise you that you'll love it. I wouldn't ask you to do it unless I had tested it out and known it was safe."

I said, "Why don't you do it first and show me?"

Without a word, he stepped past me, climbed into the toilet, and closed the door behind him. It shook a bit, back and forth, although I'm pretty sure it's because he was making it shake. Then, through all four speakers, Huey Lewis's Back in Time blasted, nearly knocking me over with the volume of it.

I banged on the bathroom door and yelled for Ben. "Okay! That's enough! Come on out!" The door was locked. I banged and banged, and after the song ended, it started up again. I knocked a few more times, then sat down on his back stoop to wait for him to emerge. After I waited about five minutes, he didn't, and so I left.

He never contacted me again. I wonder where in time he ended up.

Water You Waiting For?

Story Sent in by Avery:

It was one of the hottest summers I can remember, and the local fire department opened up one of the nearby hydrants so that residents and their children could cool down, right on the street. I called up Doreen, who I'd been dating for a little while, and told her, "There's an open hydrant on my street. Come on over and bring your bathing suit. Then we can shower and do dinner."

She loved the sound of it and said that she'd be right over.

When she arrived, I was already in my bathing suit and had towels ready. She was dressed in a nice outfit. I told her, "You can use my bathroom to change."

She gave me a look. "Change? Into what?"

"Your bathing suit. For the open hydrant. I figure we can get a little wet, come back here, shower, go out to dinner–"

"I'm not playing in a fire hydrant. Are you nuts?"

"Oh. Over the phone, you said–"

"You never mentioned anything about a hydrant. Are you insane? In all that rusty water with those diseases?"

I had to crack a smile. "I definitely mentioned it over the phone. It was the first thing I mentioned. I said to bring your bathing suit. Plus, kids and their parents are playing in it, so I'm pretty sure that it's clean enough. We can shower after."

"You never mentioned it. I swear to God. And anyway, I don't have my bathing suit with me, so that's that."

She was convinced of it. I shrugged and said, "Okay. I'm going to go to the hydrant for a few minutes, then I'll be back."

She stared at me, open-mouthed. "What did I just finish telling you? I'm not going to play in the hydrant."

I said, "That's fine. I haven't done it since I was a kid, and I want to just run through it. I'll come back, shower, and then we can go out to dinner."

"You're just going to leave me here?"

I replied, "Just for a few minutes. Probably less than 10. I had my heart set on it, and I want to do it."

She said, "If you think for a second that I'm going to want to... want to... be seen with you after you're covered in dirt and feces from that hydrant–"

"Feces?"

"If you go to that hydrant, then I'll just go home. Simple as that."

I went to the hydrant, and we stopped dating immediately thereafter. It was worth it to cool off. And it was awesome.

Bliss and Makeup

Email Sent in by Vinny:

I am critic of the sites! I have seen pictures of you and you are a man! who can use more makeup! I like guys with the makeup on. I would not say this if I meant it: you would look good with makeup ons! I cannot think to be the only girl who has told you this. Ruling the world someday requires a beautiful face! You should accept the trend. Accept it and let me know what you are thinking!

Emily

Fiddler on the Proof

Story Sent in by Sierra:

Cal and I had been on two dates together. At the end of the second date, he had kissed me. He was attractive and a sweet guy, but ultimately too awkward for my tastes. When he asked me out for a third time, I told him that I wanted to stay friends, and he took it seemingly well.

Cal and I moved in some of the same friend circles. It wasn't until a few weeks after that I heard from a friend of a friend that he had been telling people that we had slept together. A lot of people. Apparently, he had been starting conversations with, "Hey, I'm Cal, the guy who slept with Sierra."

After receiving confirmation from enough people (and denying it across the board), I called him and confronted him about it directly. He said, "Well, considering I have proof, I don't think you're in much of a position to deny anything."

"Proof?" I was livid, "What proof?"

He said, "Give me a few minutes, then check your email."

A message arrived from him. He had written, "See for yourself: proof we did it :)" and had attached six sound clips of various people saying, "Yeah, they slept together," or, "I can't believe they slept together," or, "Wow, they so had sex!" None of the clips mentioned him or me by name. I didn't even recognize any of the voices.

I wrote him back to say that clips of random people claiming something doesn't prove a thing. In fact, if that was all the "proof" he had to offer, then I'd say that I ended up vindicated.

He called me shortly after I hit send and said, "They all say that we did it. Why not just grin and bear it, now? Why don't we just do it, now that everyone thinks we have?"

I replied, "No one thinks we have. And if you claim it to one more person, then I'm going to forward this ridiculous email you sent."

He hung up on me. I hoped that my threat had hit home. However, about a month had gone by when another friend asked me if there was any truth to it. I briefed her on the story, forwarded her the email, and she told me, "I don't think that anyone's going to sleep with him, after this."

Indeed, he's been curiously absent from any communal outings, ever since.

Hoo Goes There?

Story Sent in by Patrick:

Melanie and I had met on a dating site and we went out to dinner together for our first date. To my recollection, nothing stood out as out of the ordinary, and it went well enough for me to want to ask her out again. After the date I went home and eventually went to bed.

At two in the morning, my phone rang. It was Melanie. I answered it. She asked, "Hello? Is this my boyfriend?"

"Uh, it's Patrick. Are you okay?"

A long pause, and then, "Huh? Is this my boyfriend?"

"It's Patrick, Melanie. Did you have a bad dream or something?"

Another long pause, then she hung up. It was creepy, but I was soon afterward absorbed back into sleep.

A half-hour later, my phone rang again. I picked it up. It was Melanie. She said, "Hooooo. Hoooooo? Hoooooo."

"I'm going back to bed, Melanie. We'll talk later." I hung up and put my phone on silent.

In the morning, I saw that she had called twice more. I decided to wait a day or two to call her back, and when I finally did, she told me, "Hey Patrick. Look, you're a nice guy, but I'm going to go out with someone else as my boyfriend. His name is Ron and he owns a car."

"I own a car."

She hung up.

That's Not How You Do April Fools

Story Sent in by Cheryl:

In high school, I had a bit of a crush on George. He was in my grade, quiet, and we had barely ever spoken. Still, he seemed mature, always gave me a smile, and we were in three of the same classes that year, and so I tried my best to subtly gain more of his attention.

We were working together on a group social studies project, and finally, after as much hinting as I could drop, he asked me out on a date for the weekend. I was eager for it, and so, it appeared, was he. He did have a strange request though.

"Could you get your nails done before we go out?" he asked, "I like pretty nails."

Not thinking twice about the request, I went out for a manicure and complete nail treatment that Friday, after school. The next day was April first, the day of our date. George had asked me to meet him at a restaurant, and I parked right next to him in the restaurant's back lot.

We both stepped out of our cars at the same time. This was, you have to understand, something I was looking forward to for at least a couple of years. I was nearly ecstatic to be there with him.

He strode right up to me, said, "I've been taking karate. April fools!" and slapped me, full on, right in the face.

I almost collapsed to the ground, and I involuntarily started to cry. He stood there, looking at me for all the world as if nothing unusual had just happened. Then he looked at my hands and said, "Nice nails."

I made my hand into a claw and swung at his face, raking my nails across his cheek. He screamed, staggered back against his car, and shrieked, "You bitch! I'm going to tell everyone what you did!"

He hurried back into his vehicle and screeched away, but I could definitely see tears on his face.

That Monday, in school, I explained the situation to my teacher, and she transferred me to a different group, as I requested. I've never spoken to George since.