Recipe for Romance
I met Frank on OKC. I had just moved to the area and was pretty lonely, and his profile picture was handsome, and he was very well-spoken. I figured I’d give it a go and messaged him. He responded quickly and before long we were talking almost all the time through Facebook and text. He asked me out and I said yes, so we made a date for that Friday.
I got all prettied up and waited. And waited. And waited. After an hour and a half had passed and I was getting ready to call it a night, he buzzed my door and apologized, citing traffic. He hadn’t called to say he would be late (one of my biggest pet peeves) but I shrugged and figured I’d go along with it. I went down to meet him and while his face certainly was still very handsome, it was a good twenty years older than it looked on his profile. He had a paunch, and was wearing a tight black turtleneck and black jeans that didn’t exactly do him any favours. I hesitated but still went with the flow (remember, lonely).
We got in his late 90s sedan and drove to the restaurant, where we actually had a fairly nice evening. He told me all about his business restoring old houses, and bragged about how much money he was making – while making sure, in the same breath, that I knew I had to pay for whatever I ordered. Paying wasn’t a problem for me, but he was pretty rude about it, telling me before I ordered, while I was ordering, and as soon as the appetizers came. The waitstaff kept giving him weird looks, but I paid no attention to it. We paid our bill and I excused myself to go to the restroom.
As I was heading to the exit, our waitress stopped me. She told me that Frank was actually the night cook there but had stopped showing up to work the previous week, and that I should be careful since he had quite a reputation with trying to sleep with the female staff, regardless of whether or not they were married or even of age. This confirmed my belief that Frank was a raging douchecanoe, and when I met him at the exit I feigned fatigue and told him I wanted to call it a night.
We drove back to my place and he parked the car. “Don’t you want to invite me in?” he asked. I informed him again of my exhaustion and stated that I don’t invite men into my apartment on the first date. He got upset and pointed to the rather obvious erection that was appearing in his tight jeans. I wasn’t impressed and started to get out of the car when I heard an unzipping noise. He had his pants around his ankles and was sporting a pair of lacy boy shorts. He smiled and asked if I liked what I saw. I started laughing, got out of the car, and went into my building. He proceeded to buzz my door for the next hour and sent me whiny text messages about me not “helping him out.”
Needless to say, there was no second date.