Rob’s Dating Horror Story

I asked for bad dating stories and you guys have delivered. Here is Rob’s story….

On Valentine’s Day in 2004, I was at my weekend job at the hardware store when I got a message. It read (last name changed for privacy – and comedic – reasons):

“Hey there, it’s Crystal Meth, are you going out tonight? If so let me know and we can catch up. PS Happy Valentine’s Day xx”

The name sounded familiar, so I asked my work friends if they knew her. They too thought it sounded familiar, but couldn’t pick her, so I responded with:

“I have no idea who you are, but Happy Valentine’s day to you too!”

Then it continued:

“Well, looks like I have the wrong number. So…you know my name, what’s yours?”

“I’m Rob.”

“Nice to meet you Rob, how are you? Where are you from?”

“I’m good thanks. I’m from <suburb>, what about yourself?”

“I’m from <suburb in the same city, which is completely random as a mobile number could be from anywhere in Australia>. So I’m 5’4”, 115 pounds. What about you?”

*assumes she’s learned because she uses imperial units of measurement, so I follow suit*

“Ok, I’m 6’0”, 140 pounds.”

So the banter continues over the next few days, we have a phone conversation, and – seeing as it must be fate that a random text message ends up going to someone who is a) single, b) of the opposite sex, and c) in the same city – decide to go on a date that Wednesday night (phone conversation with Crystal Meth was nice…almost addictive).

During conversations, she’d told me that hippos were her favourite animal, so when I stopped to get fuel on the way, they had fluffy hippos, so I bought one for her and put it on the dash. I also set it up with a mate that lived in the same suburb as her to stay at his place and, should things go south, I would use the “my mate needs me home by 9, because I have to help him unload his fishing boat as payment for staying as his place” excuse (that ol’ chestnut).

So I pull up outside the street address she has given me, and as I hop out of the car and head towards the gate, I hear a rumble from across the street, followed by the gravelliest voice I’ve ever heard:

“Are you Robert?!”

It was barrelling across the road towards me, the inertia more than one man should be placed in front of. It was at that moment that I a) considered saying “no, I just saw you sitting there and need to ask you for directions”, and b) realised that she wasn’t learned at all, but instead didn’t know the difference between pounds and kilograms. But alas, my frightened mouth was too quick to say a shrill “yes” and then I knew I couldn’t pull out now. So in the car she got. She saw the hippo and said “Ooooo a hippo, is that for your…little sister?” (note: I had a sub-3 year old half-sister) to which I replied “yes” and promptly threw it onto the back seat, never to be spoken of again.

“Right, that’s it” I thought to myself – she described herself inaccurately, and I’m not even sure I was talking to the same person on the phone (they sounded completely different – phone Crystal sounded sultry and fun, in-person Crystal sounded like she ate a packet of cigarettes mashed up with gravel for breakfast each morning), so I figured I’d do my best to make sure she didn’t find me attractive whatsoever: I ordered the sloppiest, wateriest meal on the menu (spag bol, with no cheese for extra sloppiness), spoke whilst eating, chatted about (fake) ex’s and pretty much rushed through the whole evening. Whereas over the phone she was fun and the conversation flowed, in order to get her to say anything in person it was like pulling teeth – except for the one piece of information she shared: that her and her friend had walked past bridal shops the day before and had said that she’d be back there soon because she’d met me. Danger Will Robinson.

I pulled my emergency “my mate needs me home by 9, because I have to help him unload his fishing boat as payment for staying as his place” chute, but alas it was only 8:30, so she suggested going for a quick 15 minute walk up the street, to which I agreed (after paying for the meal of course – I might have ordered slop and spoke whilst eating, but I’m still a gentleman)…but OF COURSE during that walk I had to run into Jasmine and Carrie, the smartest, funniest, hottest pair of twins from uni that I knew, who stopped us and asked me to introduce my “friend”.

Anyhoo, back in the car she said “so I’m never to contact you again, right?” to which my (once again, frightened mouth) immediate response was “don’t be like that, if you’re out we can have a drink or something”…which meant that I continued to receive (unreciprocated) text messages for the next 6 months. When I got back to my mate’s place (there was no boat, but they HAD gone fishing), I walked in, went to the fridge, grabbed a beer, sat on the lounge, downed the beer, then proceeded to tell the story, which they thought was absolutely hilarious.

If only memes were around back then, I could have answered it in the way I now answer all unsolicited texts:

Thanks for sharing your story Rob. As promised, a buttload heap of lube and condoms from the guys at Durex is all yours!!

Bad Dating Stories

I think when I put a shout out for bad date stories, I should have described it as bad ‘dating’ stories as I’ve had some great stories come in that didn’t necessarily involve a date as such.

This reminded me of a story from my early days of dating where I frequently (more like always…) stuffed something up in a hideously embarrassing way.

Back in the olden days when I used to walk 10 miles to school every day, in the snow, barefoot….wait, wrong story…..

Back in the olden days when online dating sites were still new, still taboo and full of nothing but weirdos, I met a guy online somehow. I think it possibly could have been through ICQ or some other chat program that I can’t recall the name of now….

This was when people didn’t use fake profile pics to hide their less than desirable appearance. Instead they used the excuse that they didn’t have a scanner to scan a photo (yes an actual photo) right now, but going by their a/s/l (age/sex/location) and the way that they had described themselves, you were confident that they were most definitely going to be totes hot and all. I’m not sure now why I was surprised that day I met a guy who I had pictured as resembling someone off the cast of Home & Away but he turned up looking like Marilyn Manson….

Anyhoo, I’d met this guy, chatted online to the wee hours one night, got his number and the next day I fired up my Nokia Snake gaming device and gave him a call at an appropriate time. Which of course was never on the hour or half hour as that would appear too ‘scheduled’. I’d wait until the clock clicked over to a totally casual random time like say, 8:07pm to call. I was also sitting in my car in a car park, engine running and some new release song playing quietly on my detachable face Kenwood stereo, you know, just to give off the right kind of ambience. Yep, nailing this…

Dialling. Ringing. Voicemail. Shit. Now I’ve gotta come up with a message that conveys that I’m fun, hot and that I call boys off the internet ALL THE TIME.

I rattle off something cool which impresses the shit out of myself, hit hang up and toss the phone onto the passenger seat. I then proceed to fist pump and say ‘yes, yes, yes…..best message ever’ out loud praising myself for my efforts.

Just as I’m about to pull out of the car space, I look left to check for traffic and notice out of the corner of my eye that the phone screen is lit up…..and the call duration is showing…..and the call duration is increasing!!!

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Worst. Message. Ever.

The One With the Dreamy Blue Eyes

Guy with cute face

I had a date tonight with a guy with gorgeous blue eyes. Perhaps not Alaskan Malamute Husky level blue, but damn they were nice.

I met him on Tinder late last week. We’d chatted quite a bit on the app and he met my standard list of criteria – yes I am very upfront about this now and it seems to be working a treat (more about that later). He was 33 (like me), 6’5″ (deliciously tall), smart, successful (apparently), funny, cheeky. It was all stacking up to be a good date.

We met after work at a bar and he had warned me that he was rocking a holiday beard as he hadn’t needed to shave for a few weeks so he’d look a little different to his pics. I was expecting a bushranger beard due to the warning, but it was a nicely trimmed manly beard that I really dig. He actually looked better than his pics. Seriously, when does that ever happen. When?!?

We get some drinks and chat flows instantly and becomes progressively sparky and flirty as the drinks disappear. He suggests another round and something to eat and goes and orders for us. Whilst he is gone I txt my friend Ms E who is doing my online dating safety check tonight where I send her EVERYTHING i know about my date, where we are meeting, when etc just in case he abducts me, and tell her that he is freakin’ GORGEOUS! You know, just so the police get the identikit sketch of him right if the need arises….

Dinner is full of sexy eye contact, cheeky giggles and really great conversation. WTF. This is going a little too well you say! Wait for it…

There is some hand touching and that and all signs are pointing to him being pretty keen, but he seems rather gentlemanly about it. We leave that bar and head to another down the street with a little kiss or two along the way, but being a Monday night both places were relatively quiet. We have another drink at the next place and he is clearly trying to step things up a bit to encourage more kissing, but I’m driving home later so I’m nowhere near tiddly enough to find it socially acceptable to be pashing in a bar at 8:30pm on a Monday night.

So I tell him so. He then suggests that we go to my car to kiss as it’s parked nearby. Yup. Seriously. He. Said. That. FML.

I try and shut that one down as politely as I can and he is a smart guy so I assume he would get my subtlety when I say ‘no that’s far too high school’.

He responds with saying that we can go back to his place. Aaaannnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnndddddd I’m out…..

He had paid for everything up to that point, so I get up and go to the bar to pay our bill for the last round. The cute European (of some description) barman says to me in an accent that I have NFI what it is ‘why are you so lovely and he is sitting over there and you are here paying?’

My thoughts exactly buddy! I return to the table. He gets up and in hindsight I now see that he likely thinks my haste to get the bill is my urgent uncontrollable desire to get his clothes off, but I walk outside with him following me and stop on the path and say ‘I’m off that way’ (i.e me, not we), kiss him on the cheek and say goodnight. He replies ‘oh ok, have a good night’ and I’m out of there.

Ms E then gets an update to modify the details of the police identikit sketch briefing to be sure to include a giant cock in the centre of ‘Mr Dreamy Blue Eyes’ forehead.