I lived with my parents for a couple years after high school. Mom’s best friend had a son a few years older than me that I’d crushed on since grade school. When I was a few months shy of 18, I invited him over for a swim in our pool. Back in the day, this was an appropriate date between an adult and a minor. Excited, I carefully selected what I’d wear, what refreshments I’d serve, etc., down to the last detail. Unfortunately, all my swimsuits were tiny – designed for maximum tan coverage – and since he was shy I wanted to look a bit more demure for this date. I opted for a one-piece. I didn’t have one at the time, but I did have a gorgeous leotard I’d purchased for dance class – a shimmery powder pink that looked fantastic against my tan.

The date started well. We chatted about colleges and hobbies while we swam. I was really beginning to enjoy myself, and he seemed to be as well. He watched, wide-eyed and smiling as I showed off my diving skills, but then suddenly became quiet, awkward, and distant. When I swam toward him, he’d back away, avoiding eye contact. Puzzled but not discouraged, I kept trying to get closer to break down that “shyness” barrier. Eventually I had to run into the house to pee, followed by a quick check in the mirror. To my horror, I was completely naked! Well, not naked really, but my pretty pink leotard had become completely transparent when it got wet. There was no lining, so every mole, hair, cleft, and contour was perfectly visible through the clinging fabric. Even my tan lines showed, because for some bizarre reason the fabric enhanced every nuance in skin tone. It was actually worse than being naked, somehow. I was mortified.

I put my robe on and tried to act nonchalant as I served refreshments, but the embarrassment destroyed my confidence. I started to act like a dork, and it spiraled down from there. He fake-chuckled at my idiotic jokes, but mostly he stared at his feet then eventually left.

This VWD was actually a friend’s date, but I became involved. My friend worked as a waitress at this fairly upscale bar and grill near our university. She and I would meet there sometimes after her shift for study sessions. One day she called to cancel a study time because she had a date and he was going to pick her up after work so we wouldn’t have time to study. I spaced and forgot she’d canceled and showed up at the bar a few minutes before her shift ended. She was just coming out from the staff room when we both spotted a man in what can only be described as a clown suit. He had bright, sky blue shoes, maroon pants, a purple paisley shirt with a blood red tie and a dark green jacket. Words cannot describe how badly this combo clashed. I wish I’d had a camera phone back then because I still to this day can’t describe that outfit well enough to do it justice. I grinned and waited to see if he had balloons in his pocket or something. I was about to ask my friend how the hell this guy got past the doorman when I saw the mortified look on her face. Yup, he was her date. She looked over at me and tensely whispered, “I swear this must be a joke. He never looks like this.”

Her date then walked up to us and gave me one of the nastiest looks I’ve ever received. I couldn’t help it, I giggled. The clown went ballistic. He asked me, loudly, if he should rearrange my face here or take this outside. Not to be sexist, but I’m a woman and I was a good four inches shorter than this guy. I was sure by now this was some sort of joke. I went from giggling to laughing. I mean bent over, tears in my eyes, howling laughter. I finally caught my breath and looked up to see him turning very red. Uh Oh. Not a joke then. I immediately felt like an ass for laughing at him and I swear I was about to apologize when he suddenly pointed at me and started laughing like some sort of maniac. He sounded like Dr. Giggles or maybe Pennywise the clown. Everyone in the bar turned to look at him and two of the kitchen staff came out to see who was making that sound. He continued to laugh while pointing at me with one hand and slapping his knee with the other. Tit for tat I guess? I lost it. I laughed so hard I was in serious danger of having an accident. A few people started laughing and clapping. They must have thought we were some sort of improv act. I can’t imagine what else they were supposed to think with him sounding like an escapee from an asylum and me falling out of my chair laughing hysterically.

He stopped laughing and demanded to know my name. I was beginning to question his sanity so I refused to tell him. He then demanded that my friend tell him my name, address and social security number so he could report me. I never found out to whom. She told him to please leave. He made a scene and had to be hauled out by the bouncers. He was still demanding to know my name and address on the way out. I apologized to my friend for ruining her night. She told me not to bother apologizing since she was fairly sure I’d just saved her from a date with a deranged individual. He actually came into the bar the next day to demand the manager tell him my name and address. The day shift manager had no idea what he was talking about and when he became belligerent he was thrown out again and banned from the bar. This happened over 10 years ago. She told me just the other day that he still shows up every few months to ask her who I am and where I live. Can you say psycho?

MVWD happened several years ago. I was hanging out with my best friend and she suggested we go to some guy’s house that I’d never met but that she was good friends with. I agreed, and when we got there I met the most gorgeous guy. We had a few drinks and flirted and I was feeling pretty good about the whole thing when he asked for my number– and then called the very next day to ask me out. The date was Friday. I thought I looked super cute. He’d told me I’d have to pick him up since his car was in the shop. Whatever, no big deal. I get to his house and he isn’t dressed, but he clearly hadn’t forgotten or anything, he just hadn’t bothered to put on anything but ratty boxer shorts yet. I should’ve left then, but he’d seemed so cool before, and he was terribly handsome, so I just waited while he got dressed. When he came back out, he looked amazing.

“So where are we going?” I asked.

“Oh, I thought we’d just hang out here awhile. Get to know each other.”

Fine. Not exactly romantic, but not awful. His house was nice and we had a decent conversation and a few drinks. It was going pretty well, I thought. And then his phone rang. His friend was having a party and my date  just decided that we’d go. Eh, whatever. I was up for a party. Once we got there, however, things got weird. He proceeded to drink entirely too much, like, to the point where he could barely stand. He refused to talk to anyone else at the party, even his other friends, because he was so fixated on slurring his feelings toward me. And staring at my boobs. And then eventually pulling down his pants and just whipping his penis out.

“Pretty nice, huh?” he said.

“I think it’s time to go.” I said.

He was having so much fun with me that he didn’t want to go home. And, okay, he was drunk and I was being stupid, and I thought maybe I could take him somewhere to sober up a bit and we could still have a good time. So he gave me directions to this “awesome place” he likes to hang out on weekends. It was this underground illegal casino, filled with drug addicts and some of the scariest people I have ever seen. He handed me a few dollars and told me to have fun, and immediately disappeared behind a curtain. I waited half an hour for him to come back and announced that I was taking him home. The entire drive back he went on and on about how he thought I was cooler than that, and he was pissed about how lame I ended up being.

I dropped him back off at his house. Actually, no, I dropped him off a block away from his house. I couldn’t go any closer because now his wife was home.

I had been seeing this guy for a month and one lovely spring morning, we were at my apartment, getting ready to go visit some other friends and have a picnic. We had a little time to relax, so we were sitting on my bed together, just talking. Suddenly I felt the urge to fart, so I tried to do so quietly… except, it wasn’t a fart.

My smile instantly became strained and I said to my date, “Hey, do you know what a shart is?” He looked at me numbly and shrugged. “It’s one of the four horsemen of the Apocalypse,” I said and exhorted him to avert his eyes and plug his nose. The consistency of my shart was such that it soaked through not just my underpants, but my skirt as well; I ran, dumped my dumpy clothes in the washing machine and dove into the shower. I came out feeling extremely sheepish and quickly dressed in a new outfit.

I was mortified thinking I had ruined the date and possibly the relationship. My date came up behind me and wrapped his arms around my waist and nuzzled my red cheek. “Don’t worry,” he said. “Even if you poop your pants, I still want to kiss you.” More than a year later, we’re still kissing each other, regardless of what comes out of our other orifices.

Just last weekend, I met a guy on a dating website. We hit it off and very quickly decided to meet for lunch that afternoon. I met R at the restaurant and he was just as good looking in person as he was in his pictures and was rather nice. I liked him and was excited to see if the feeling was mutual. When we left, he kissed me and asked when he could see me again. With his busy work schedule, it’d be another week before we could go out again, so that evening he canceled the dinner plans with friends he had and came over to my apartment. I figured I had met him in public and didn’t get the slightest creeper vibe from him so it should be okay, right?

Apparently, him coming to my apartment meant that something was going to go down. Maybe I’m just naive or a total prude, but I was not aware that he would have such expectations. When he got to my apartment, he didn’t waste much time getting down to business by making out with me. I tried to slow it down and make conversation when possible. At one point, he decided he wanted to see my bedroom. I stopped him from walking down the hallway to my room explaining that it was messy and I hadn’t had time to clean it up. He playfully wrestled with me in the hallway, so naturally, I wrestled back. Somehow his elbow ended up hitting the wall and around that time, the shit also hit the fan. He got really upset about his elbow, claiming it hurt really bad (when I looked at it later it was a little red and a tiny piece of skin was scraped off) and told me he was “kind of pissed off” about it. He then asked why it was such a big deal that he not see how I “really” live.

He calms down, kisses me some more and keeps putting his hand up my shirt, despite my efforts to push him away again and again. Then before I know it, he’s in the hallway again, headed toward my bedroom. He lets himself into my bedroom and when I walk back there to ask him what he was doing, he scooped me up, put me on my bed, climbed on top of me and proceeded to make out with me some more. I tried getting him off of me, but he was about twice my size! I don’t know if he had self-control issues or if he was into asphyxiation, but he put his hand on my throat.  t wasn’t hard enough to choke me, but just hard enough to make me want to reach for my gun and prevent the impending rape I was so sure was about to take place. Finally, he realized I wasn’t just playing around and I really did want him to get off of me, he got up. He apparently had another one of his manic mood swings and this time was pissed because I didn’t want to fool around, “even a little.” He then told me he felt like he was in high school again because I was only willing to make out with him. He may have felt like he was in high school, but he acted like he was a toddler who didn’t get his way.

When he realized he wasn’t going to get anywhere with me, he finally decided to leave. Before he could leave though, he had to make out with me one last time. Naturally, I wanted absolutely nothing to do with him, but I was a little scared at how he would react if I just kicked him to the curb like I wanted to, so I was completely submissive and kissed him back, or at least allowed him to kiss me. While standing by my front door kissing, he put his hand down my pants with absolutely no warning, and no effort on my part could get it out. I guess I had the last laugh though because I was on my period, so he got cock-blocked by a tampon. I have heard from him three times since then, all text messages apologizing for his behavior and attempting to justify it by saying that he’s a very physical person. From now on, I will only see guys in public for at least the first few dates and after that I might start showing off my gun just so they know I don’t like a Rapey McDoucheface.

He was a brooding guy I’d often seen at a local coffee shop. I was a lonely small-town girl just moved to the big city; I was instantly smitten. When I finally got the courage to ask him out, he admitted enthusiastically that he’d been trying to figure out a way to approach me. He picked me up in his antique, aquamarine Dodge. We went to a hole-in-the wall Vietnamese restaurant, had a great meal, and decided to take advantage of the nice spring weather with a walk by the river. Half a mile down the path by river, he decides we have to turn around and go back “right now.” We’d been having such a good time, and he won’t give me a reason for the sudden change of heart. At one point he starts running towards his car. Still unsure of what is going on, I follow.

About 100 yards from the car he stops dead in his tracks, and looks back over his shoulder at me. It is clear from his expression that something has just gone horribly, horribly wrong. The dude had crapped his pants. He didn’t say a word about it, but it was clear from his sudden saunter that something was amiss in the shorts, and that the pants party was closed. When we got to the car, he sat on his coat instead of on the seat. As if the “squish” sound didn’t give it away, the stench filled the car like a fog. Still unable to man up to his body’s adverse reaction to the fermented fish dish he’d scarfed down less than an hour ago, we drove in silence to my place. He dropped me off without even saying goodbye.

Days later, I was the talk of the coffee shop as Mr. Brooding had told a much different tale of our evening, this time portraying himself as the mighty hunter who “bagged and tagged” me down by the river. The only one that needed a bag was him, for his diaper.

MVWD was a first date on Valentines Day. “Mr. Jones” took me to this fabulously and very expensive restaurant. However, he neglected one not so small detail…to make reservations! Who doesn’t make reservations for Valentines Day? So we decided to wait for a table and sat in the bar for several hours at which time I consumed too much red wine on an empty stomach. Finally, we where seated for dinner, I ordered filet mignon, he ordered steak and lobster. The food arrived just in time for me to go running to the bathroom where I spent the next hour hugging not my date, but the commode on the floor, in my sexy little red, dress that I bought just for Valentines day.

When I finally could stand up I walked out to find Mr. Jones getting ready to come into the ladies room to check on me. So, we ran out to the car trying to get me home before I hurled again, but no such luck (you guessed it, red does not go well with gray floor mats). In the rush to get me home, not only did he drive like a maniac but ran a red light and then, in a moment of clarity remembered that we ran out without paying the bill.
Now not only was I sicker than a dog, but a possible criminal as well. So what else could go wrong? Well, hello officer. You got it, red flashing lights, pulling us over. I didn’t know if it was running the red light or running out on the bill. So while Mr. Jones waited for his citation, I leaned out the car door and puked again in front of the officer.

Finally he got me home and tucked me in. I think it was after 4PM that I got up the next day and threw out my little red dress. Mr. Jones went back to the restaurant to apologize and pay our bill. We continued to date, but never went out on Valentine’s Day. We got married and will celebrate our 28th anniversary this June. But I still am not a fan of Valentine’s Day or the color red.

When I was in college, I had the opportunity to spend an incredible three weeks in Europe for a total cost of only $500. I traveled with our college choir and three other choirs as part of the St. Moritz Youth Music Festival in Switzerland. We were to spend one week at the festival and then two weeks of traveling separately. One of the other choirs was from an all-girls college in upstate New York and being the young raconteur that I was, and speaking enough of the local language (two years of high school German) to go where I wanted, I had my pick of young beautiful co-eds to pal around the city during that first week in St. Moritz. One in particular succumbed to my charms and finally we agreed to meet in the middle of our last night in the sumptuous library of the massive hotel. We had to meet there because we both had roommates and wanted privacy because we both knew why we were meeting.

We were making out on this beautiful antique chaise with what appeared to be a hand worked needlepoint cover. Soon we were both losing our clothes. She was leaning back on the chaise and I was using my hand to get her in the mood (hey, I was young…), but when I looked down to where my hand was I discovered a nice big blotch of blood on this antique chaise. And it was getting bigger. All I could mutter was “Blood!” It turned out that my lovely date has started her period and was flowing quite heavily. It also seemed that the antique chaise was doing a great job of soaking it up. We quickly replaced our clothing and for the next hour or so we worked on the chaise.  Amazingly as it may sound, we left it in almost as good of condition as we had found it. However, we never consummated our relationship and after the choir trip I lost track of her. But the image of that chaise is still burned in my brain.

I was introduced to my date by a mutual friend.  After a few months of talking, we decided to go on a hike in a nearby state park as our first date.  I guess I’ll enumerate all the things that went wrong, which on their own wouldn’t be so bad, but combined made for a disaster (in my mind).

1) We got stuck in horrible traffic (2 hours’ worth) getting to the trailhead, which was already an hour’s drive from where we lived.

2) We had to drive on some curvy roads to get to our destination.  I got horribly car sick and we had to stop every few miles for me to vomit up my breakfast…

3) Even though I was a seasoned hiker and knew better, I wanted to look “hot” so I wore super tight black pants and a tight black blouse.  In the desert. In the summer. So instead of looking sexy, I was sporting some nasty B.O., very visible sweat stains under my boobs, and foundation and mascara melting off my face.

4) I discovered a stash of really really nasty porn in the back seat of his car.  Um, wouldn’t you at least try to hide that kind of thing on your first date?

5) I saw a “Native American heritage” trail listed on our map and was convinced it was a hike I’d taken before and had seen some cool petroglyphs and stuff on.  I hyped it up the entire day.  Then we went on the broiling 5-mile hike and it turned out there were only a few scritch scratch marks high up on a canyon wall.  Guess I remembered wrong!

6) On the way back over the curvy mountain pass 14 hours later, my date got distracted talking to me and we nearly careened off the edge of a cliff.  And then I puked again, this time *in* the car.

This was one of my worst dates but it was also the best. In the insanely long traffic jam, we got to talking and discovered we had a lot in common. On my puking spree, my date wasn’t  fazed at all and kindly held my hair for me. Although my pants were so tight I couldn’t lift my leg to climb over a boulder, he was very chivalrous and lifted or pulled me over every obstacle on the trail (let me remind you that I was pretty rank at that point, too). It turned out his hoopty had broken down the day before and the car was borrowed from a friend who is a pornaholic. And as for the nearly getting hurled off a cliff and walking five miles through the desert for nothing….well, it makes for a good story.

In the end, we went on many more dates and now we are engaged.  My really bad memory and Mary Katherine Gallagher brand of sexy and his general bumbling have become common (and comical) themes in our relationship. We were lucky that our chemistry was enough to overcome a series of unfortunate events. And it ended up making for a sweet story that I got to share with you!

Through a former employer, I had access to VIP tickets for a New Year’s Eve concert by one of my favorite groups – a quirky Canadian band whose name promises something that’s never delivered on stage – much to the dismay of the uninitiated. The tickets included unlimited food and an open bar. My date’s musical interests ran the gamut from Brooks and Dunn to GWAR, but he had no love whatsoever for eccentric alterna-pop from the Great White North. He did, however, have love for me, free food and free-flowing booze; and since we had no other options for ringing in the New Year, he agreed to accompany me to the show. Since the venue was over an hour from our house (and also because it was New Year’s Eve, the holiday when no one should be driving after…oh…6pm or so), we opted to get a hotel room. My date decided the only way he was going to endure the evening’s musical entertainment was to drink copious amounts of alcohol prior to the show. Within about an hour’s time, he proceeded to down an entire fifth of Ketel One vodka.

As soon as we got to the show, my date immediately hit the bar, just to ensure that his rapidly increasing buzz wouldn’t wane. He managed to choke down some meatballs and other such hors d’oeuvres in between further lubricating himself with more spirits. We were talking (well…more like slurring) and I jokingly (completely and utterly without a trace of malice in my heart) remarked to my date that his super-nice family members (who I knew quite well) were all a-holes. This didn’t sit well with him and he proceeded to throw his drink in my face and call me a bitch – just as my favorite band took to the stage. Obviously, I couldn’t enjoy the show. He disappeared for awhile and when I found him somehow (I think I could feel the chill coming off of him across the venue), we attempted to head back to the hotel.  The city was deserted – not a cab to be found – so we started walking, completely unaware of the location of our hotel. In the process of stumbling through the streets, I learned the hard lesson that high heels and poorly paved roads didn’t mix and I took a tumble not once, but twice. Someone was looking out for us, because we eventually made it back to the hotel. The next morning, I woke up hungover and bruised. My date was contrite and, after a greasy, nasty breakfast at a local all-you-can-eat buffet, we kissed and made up – and got married three months later!