I’ve been on bad dates before. I once had a guy who ordered 6 tequila shots and left before the bill came, and another one who spent the entire night telling me that being a “writer” isn’t a real job. Both were complete ass holes, and I never saw either one of them again, but nothing, and I mean NOTHING, can compare to what happened to me last week.
On Friday night, I was out at Village Tavern (the bar where I happen to have met two of my last three boyfriends) and got to talking to a seemingly really great guy. He was cute and funny, went to a good school and worked a great job, and we had friends in common. We exchanged phone numbers and parted ways, but not before making tentative plans to have drinks the following week.
When he texted me the next day, I was pumped. He asked if I wanted to help him “puppy sit” for his best friend’s dog, who was spending the night at his apartment. I declined, though not before a LOT of consideration: on the one hand, it sounded like the plot of Law and Order: SVU (titled “Girl Gets Lured to Stranger’s Apartment With the Promise of an Adorable Dog, Then Gets Chopped Into Pieces”), but on the other, it was a REALLY cute puppy, so I said I would still love to see him some other time. He seemed AWESOME, and had access to a dog — basically my dream come true.That Sunday night — two days into what I was sure was going to be a beautiful relationship — he texted and asked if I wanted to get drinks and watch the Giants’ game. I’m not exactly a football fan (aside from really, really liking the way Tom Brady looks in those pants) and was having a really cozy Sunday night with my roommate and Season 1 of Nashville, but was really excited for our first date so pulled myself together and headed uptown.When I got in the cab and let him know I was on my way, I received the following texts:
Understandably, I was really, really confused. I thought he wanted to send me more pictures of the puppy, like he’d been doing all weekend. I was already in the cab, flying up 2nd Avenue, as the conversation continued:
What the HELL?? At this point, I was standing outside of the bar, losing my mind. I had sent screen shots of this madness to all my friends, none of whom could figure out WHAT was going on. I was positive that it was some sort of joke, and decided that I needed to go inside and clear things up so we could get on with what was sure to be a fantastic first date.
I walked into the bar (which was not, as I expected, a sports bar packed with people — my date was the only person in the room, and the sole TV wasn’t even showing football) and he immediately jumped up to hug me.
“You came! I can’t believe you came. Let’s get beers and mac and cheese and hang.”
I was so relieved. He somehow read my mind about what my favorite food was. Things were going to be fine.
“Haha yeah! I told you I was on my way! But you almost lost me with those weird x-rated photo jokes that I think went over my head. You’re lucky I was in the cab already!”
“Oh, no. Those weren’t jokes. I have this really great picture that I thought I lost from two years ago,” he took his phone out of his pocket and started scrolling, “So I texted my ex-girflriend and told her I needed her to send it to me so I could use it to convince a girl to go on a date with me and thank god she still had it! I’ll just show you and let you decide what you think…”
And before I knew what was happening — BAM! I was looking at a picture of his penis.
We hadn’t even been sitting there long enough for me to order a beer. It was the LITERAL definition of the phrase “buy a girl a drink, first.”
“OH HELL NO,” I yelled in his face and ran out of the bar. I was hysterically laughing, but also sort of crying because the whole thing was pretty traumatizing, in a dead sprint down 2nd Avenue because I was afraid he was following me. It was awful.
He kept calling and texting me, apologizing for the “misunderstanding.” He also left me a one-and-a-half minute voicemail, in which he apologized for “being a dick.” I LOVE a bad pun, so that almost made the whole thing worth it.
Needless to say, I didn’t text back.
I unfortunately don’t know this pervert’s last name, so I can’t slander his reputation on social media nor can I Venmo charge him for the two taxis I had to pay for to get to and from a date where I got zero beers and an unwanted flashing.
And PS? This is why I don’t watch football.