We’ve all had a bad date or two.  I am no different, in that I share with the common man a number of romantic foibles and misadventures.  My penis has led me into some spectacularly bad situations.  None of these peccadilloes, however, have ended with me curling into a ball in a dingy stairwell like a traumatized kitten.  At least, not until this one.

Having moved to Chicago fairly recently, I was looking to meet people, particularly girls.  No shit, right?  Unfortunately, I’m living in Hyde Park, deep in South Chicago.  All the girls at the University of Chicago are frumpy, generally unattractive, and free of a sense of humor.  To get a decent one, you’d have to kill or outduel at least 4 or 5 nerd warriors.  Neighborhood girls, on the other hand, had different but equally significant issues such as (a) three to seven pre-existing children, (b) a drug problem, or (c) having less than a full complement of teeth.  Since it was approximately seven miles to the nearest datable woman, I decide to try online dating.

I had a coupon for E-Harmony, so I signed on, filled out an interminable questionnaire, and got to business of online seduction.  The computer matches me up with several people, one of whom was a student who lived in Wilmette (a suburb about five miles north of Chicago).  She seemed fairly normal, at least through email.  We arranged to meet for dinner and see where things went from there.

Driving up, I should have known enough to turn the car around when I get a furious call from her while I was parking.

N(oah): Hello?

C(hick): Noah, where are you?

N: I’m parking.  I’ll be there in a minute, right on time.

C: No, you’re late!  I’ve been waiting since 7.

N: I thought we were meeting at 7:30.

C: No!  7!

In retrospect, this is foreshadowing.  At the present, it was no big deal.  I made a mistake.  Except I hadn’t.  Later, after I made it home, I discovered that she was off.  By then, I wasn’t too surprised.

I park and head out on foot to meet her.  We’re meeting at a bookstore in downtown Evanston, a suburb of Chicago I’m not too familiar with.  I head into the bookstore and I spot her.  You know how you can see someone for just a second and know that, even though they’re not necessarily unattractive, you’re not into them?  I was having one of those reactions.  She just wasn’t doing anything for me.  Three seconds in and no second date.  Still, I decided to play it regular.  We could still have a good time tonight.  If I’m lucky, maybe she’d have some cute friends.

It took me seconds to figure out I wasn’t into her physically.  It took me two minutes to figure out that this girl is an insecure tool.  She’s blathering on about herself at a mile a minute.  She’s very focused on her studies (she’s my age and is working on a second bachelors), she’s very independent (but she lives at home), blah blah blah.  Do I want to eat sushi?  There’s a great place around the corner.  Also, I should know that she is very into physical fitness.  She does aerobics 3 times a week.  Maybe I should try it to get myself into shape.  I fight the urge to tell her I just finished competing in the US National Triathlon Championships, and am not about to start taking fitness tips from her.  She also wants me to know she’s a vegetarian.  That gets my attention.

N: Wait, you said you wanted to get sushi right?  Isn’t that... usually pretty fishy?

C: Oh no [she looks at me with a look of pity for my limited capacities]!  Lots of sushi is vegetarian.

We arrive at the restaurant and sit down.  There is one vegetarian roll which is basically carrot and cucumber wrapped in seaweed.  I say nothing.  She mentions that she eats five or six small meals a day.  I should really try it; it’s much healthier for you.  The waiter comes up.  She says she’ll order for us.  She proceeds to order the vegetarian roll and a small miso soup.

“For you sir?” asks the waiter, turning to me.  No, no, says my date.  That’s for both of us.  The hell it is, I say, breaking my silence.  I’m still trying to be polite, so I avoid ordering meat, but I pack as much onto the order as humanly possible.  It’s late and I’m hungry.  Conversation is flat as we wait.  I decide I never want to see her again.  In addition to the difficulty in getting a word in edgewise, I’ve now noticed my date has a peculiar facial tick.  Every few minutes, she rapidly flicks her tongue in and out like a snake testing the air.  Several times she does this while I am talking, and my voice fades away as I stare at the freakshow in front of me.  After an eternity, our food comes.  With her mouth full, my date’s ticks are momentarily shielded, and I am able to launch into a story uninterrupted.  In the three or four minutes it takes me to complete the tale, she’s eaten roughly 80% of the food, including most of what I had ordered.  I am still hungry as the check comes.  No offer to split the bill is forthcoming.  We sit there, as I debate the respective virtues of sinking money into this date versus losing more than the hour of my life I’ll never get back.  Deciding I can always get more money, I throw a credit card at the bill, and we’re back on the street.  I’m preparing to inform this girl that the “see where things go” part of our date will be “nowhere” when she mentions that she wants to pay me back by buying us a few rounds of pool in a nearby pool hall.  Normally, I would have punched her in the ovary and left, but there’s an NFL playoff game I want to see the end of.  Off we go.

The pool hall is actually a bar and grill with one lonely pool table.  We play.  On the way over, my date tells me that she’s really, really good.  Even though I’m taking her assurances with a grain of salt, I’m hoping this is the case- she’ll beat me a few times, I’ll get to see the game end, and we’ll go our separate ways without a hint of the homicidal rage I’m starting to feel boiling to the surface.

My date does prove to be an exceptional pool player.  Exceptionally shitty.  I’m like everyone else when it comes to pool.  I play once a year, usually when I’m out with friends, and then don’t think about it until the next time.  I’m beating her so bad it’s not even funny.  The first game ends without her sinking a ball.  The second game, I’m deliberately trying to lose, to no avail.  I’m watching the football game, making no pretense of being even remotely interested in her, and going so far as to text my friends about what a bad date I’m on.  My date is getting pretty mad at her poor billiard abilities.  She’s cursing at herself, getting pissed, and playing even more poorly.  A pair of 10-year-olds challenges us for the table and we (I?) lose handily.  She suggests another pool hall.  The playoff game’s going into overtime.  I agree.

Amazingly, despite my total lack of interest, this girl is really  into me.  On one of my shots, I need to stand in the space she’s occupying.  I ask her to move.  “Why don’t you move me,” she asks coyly, pushing her butt toward me slightly in a thinly-veiled reference to which portion of her anatomy I should manipulate her by.  I throw up a little in my mouth and move to the other side of the table to attempt an awkward, behind-the-back version of the same shot.  Fail.

The Steelers win and we’re back on the street.  She’s parked in the same garage I’m in.  My mind is in overdrive.  Having worked so hard to stay polite, I need to figure out a way to get out of this situation without (a) saying I’ll call or talk to her later or (b) being forced into some sort of intimate situation.  Fortunately, I have a plan.  I learn we’re in the same parking garage.  I’m on level 3, she’s on level 5.  We’re going up, and I’m babbling like a drunken orangutang.  When the doors open for my floor, I would say something to the effect of “Ohmigod, this is my stop.  It was really nice meeting you,”  then a quick hug, and I’m out.  Or so the plan went.  There were even several other people in the elevator, reducing the likelihood of something awkward happening.  The door slides open and I say my quick farewell.  I reach out to hug her (with pelvis back, as one hugs his grandmother) and start to turn away.  I am home free when, abruptly, a pair of hands seizes onto the lapels of my jacket.  My date has latched onto me and, before I can use my superior strength to free myself, has drawn her face to mine, kissing me full on the lips.  Not a peck either; I’m getting the the tongue.  As she rams her tongue between my startled lips, possibly the grossest thing that has ever happened to me occurs: she has one of her little tongue seizures, directly into my mouth.

I’m in shock.   I have effectively been orally raped by one of the most repugnant women I have ever met.  I sort of stagger out of the elevator, watch the doors slide shut between me and the glistening, lusty eyes of my attempted lover.  Over her shoulder, I catch a look of pity from one of the elevator passengers that seems to say “I know.” I stand there for a moment, stunned by the assault from this girl’s pulsating tongue.  After an unknown amount of time passes, a little voice in the back of my head starts to speak.  You know the little voice?  The one that says that you’re in trouble?  It was yelling now.

Little Voice: Uh, Noah.  She’s on level five of the garage.  She’ll be back down any second and she’s probably horny.  Get your young ass out of here!

I comply, and begin looking for my car.  However (I shit you not) I was so discombobulated by what just happened that I couldn’t find where I’d parked.  I was scurrying around, growing increasingly panicked.  Time was running out.  What do I do, little voice?

Little Voice: You want to find out what she’s gonna do to you?  Hide, dumbass!

Without further ado, I ran into the stairwell of the parking garage and crouched down like a frightened rabbit avoiding a wolf.  At each sound I would snap my head around, trying to hear if anyone was coming for me.  After half an hour, a minor bout of retching, and a good bit of shaking later I crawled out of the stairwell and managed to find my car to drive home.  After a cleansing shower and a copious amount of brushing any mouthwashing of my oral cavity, I settled onto my couch to try to find a rape crisis hotline.  First, I checked my email.

Oh no.  No way.

There’s an email from this chick in my inbox.  She must have typed it the moment she got home.  I post it here in its cut-and-paste entirety:

Hey there Noah:

Just wanted to say that i had fun tonight. Sorry it was such a short evening, but it would have been hard to have made out with those big crowds! I'll call you in a few weeks when I ease into my new schedule and we'll hang out again.  ;)

Happy New Year,

[name redacted]

If you can beat this date, my hat is off to you.