I met B when he came up to my friend and me in a swanky bar and told us he was the owner. He looked like a guy you’d find on Tool Academy – fake tan, too buff, soul patch – but he was nice and seemed genuine, so when he asked me out to dinner, I stupidly accepted. When he picked me up, we made pleasant conversation in the car, with the exception of the topic of his age; he wouldn’t tell me how old he was, just saying he was in better physical shape than all my friends. Although at 21 I felt like the age range of my dating pool was pretty big, his refusal to tell me his age should have been an immediate red flag, but I pressed on, optimistic. We ate at a cute little Japanese restaurant, where the second red flag was that B proceeded to make fun of the server’s Asian accents loudly and unabashedly while staring at me (a Chinese girl), expecting me to laugh. I gave a few pity chuckles and changed the topic, and the rest of dinner went smoothly.

We had decided before the date that we would go to a bar and for some dumb reason I did not insist on going home. Making conversation, I started discussing the bars my friends and I liked in this gay-friendly area when he blurted out that he thought homosexuality was a product of environment and not of genetics. Stunned that someone would bring such a sensitive topic up on the first date, I engaged in a small debate with him, in which he made horrible arguments and when I presented evidence to the contrary, B would declare, “Well those are the rare genetic ones.” I generally try to respect other people’s opinions when they differ from mine, but when B simply asserted that his opinions must be valid because of what he had seen and then reverted to the opposite argument when his points were disproved, I began to think he was just stupid.

He kept buying more drinks – probably assuming I had a weak tolerance for alcohol (I don’t) – and with each new drink, would try exponentially harder to move in for a kiss. I somehow managed to dodge his advances for another hour before exclaiming that I had class early in the morning and needed to go to home immediately. The ride home consisted of him trying to rub my back with his free arm while attempting to discuss music with me using outdated slang. I thanked him for dinner and the drinks and rushed inside. He kept texting me for weeks after, always asking if I would be near his bar and if I’d want to go “make out” in his car. After asking nicely over text messages, I found out he was 45, making him my oldest and creepiest very worst date.

I was on a long cross-country trip with a relative one summer when this guy, M., who’d found me online somewhere and started writing to me. I had sort of a mentor-ly feeling toward him as he seemed somewhat inexperienced. He apparently felt more of an attraction to me and since he seemed nice, I agreed to go out with him when I got home. He seemed especially excited when I half-joked about never missing “The Golden Girls” on Lifetime. Perhaps he was hoping to demonstrate some gay street cred.

I had arranged for us to go to a moderately nice restaurant, so I was bemused upon climbing into his ratty, fry grease-smelling car to find that he was dressed in a stained t-shirt and shorts. He also hadn’t seemed to have showered for a week. He acted extremely happy to be out with me, judging from his breathless, awkward attempts at witty repartee. I tried to reply politely, but I was distracted when he reached around to the back seat and put his cavernous, hairy crack in full view. At dinner, he ordered chicken fingers off the kids’ menu and loudly dropped F-bombs into conversation as often as possible, despite the presence of actual kids at nearby tables. I ordered a couple daquiris to help see me through that and the movie afterward.

Despite having grated my teeth down to nubs by the end, I was unfortunately not stern enough when he made his next suggestion –  he’d took my comments from the other day as an invitation to go back to my place to watch “Golden Girls”. So there we were, him with his smelly arm around my shoulder in my place. I was just too nice a guy to tell him to get the hell out, but at least the antics of Sophia et al served to stifle conversation and whatever “moves” he may have planned to make.

Then, the cable went out. I had to endure the next 20 minutes with him snuggling up to me—literally rubbing his head against my shoulder like a cat—cooing that he’d never done this before and how great it was to finally “be with a guy.” The cable finally came back, the Girls finished their adventure, and I pleaded tiredness in order to shoo him away. I accept part of the blame for my awful night—I’ve learned my lesson and will be much more direct the next time I’m stuck with a horrible date!

When I was 20, I tried online dating for the first and last time. I had arranged to meet my date at his college, where he wanted to watch the film department’s screenings that night. He called before I left home to chat which made me feel relaxed and content that the evening would work out.

When I arrived, he wasn’t at the designated waiting area so I called and he said that he was on his way. I hate it when people are late, but I wanted to bring my best character forward so I patiently waited. Three hours (and the entire movie over) later he arrived with another girl! Yes, I should have left but I didn’t. I really don’t know why.

We went to the bar instead with me trying to convince myself that the girl was his sister (although she was a different race and had a foreign accent). During the evening he spent all his time texting on his phone. Some time later he left me at the table with her so that he could go talk to his friends outside. Only at that point I realised I had been way too polite and accommodating.

It turned out that the girl had met him online too. He had apparently arranged our dates at the same time. She was new to the area and country. After talking for a while, we decided to ditch him and when to meet up with my girlfriends at a club. I’m still friends with her five years on.

I was chatting with this guy online and found him intelligent and charming, so I accepted his offer for a date. He asked me to meet him at this really nice but kinda pricey French café. When I arrived in my car, I slowed down to look for parking and heard someone calling my name. A guy I didn’t recognize ran up to my car in the middle of traffic and introducced himself as my date. He looked nothing like his online photo, which must have been a decade old. He was bald with big glasses, a giant belly, and he had a huge, poofy, greying beard. It’s a young, Jewish Santa, I thought. He jumped into my car and told me to drive up the street to House of Pies, one of the worst diners in Los Angeles. I asked him if he was kidding. He was not.

We sat down and he ordered a spaghetti dinner. “You’ll have to tell me if I get sauce in my beard,” he said. I still couldn’t tell if he was kidding, but when his food arrived he proceeded to shovel it into his mouth like it was his last meal, splashing sauce everywhere. He kept grinning and telling me how awesome I was, but it seemed like he was making fun of me. Then he asked me for a ride home. I was curious, so when he asked me if I wanted to check out his comics collection I followed him inside. As soon as he closed the door, he pushed me up against his pool table and started making out with me. He was breathing heavily and his enormous beard kept getting in my mouth and sticking to my lips. It wasn’t long before he started wheezing uncontrollably. “Do you want some water?” I asked. “Wait, wait, hold on a second,” he said, out of breath. He whipped an asthma inhaler out of his pocket and took a few hits off it.

When his breathing returned to normal, he took his dick out of his pants and proudly placed it in my hand, as if he was giving me a present. It seemed tiny underneath his big, round, white belly. I didn’t have time to protest because he immediately came all over me. He then thanked me, plopped down on the couch and fell asleep. Bewildered, I washed my hands and then showed myself the door, wondering if this crazy date had all really just happened.

So I get to his house for our second date and he says he wants to take me out to sushi. At the restaurant, he indicates that he can not have any cucumbers in the sushi. The first plate comes and there are cucumbers everywhere. We send it back. Second plate gets there and there’s an inconsequential amount of greenery in it for color I guess. He picks apart each roll using a combination of chopsticks and index fingers until not one spec of green is left in it. He orders a beer and I order “The Perfect Gin Cocktail” off the menu. Later I raise my hand to ask for another cocktail, but my picky eater takes my hand and pulls it to the table saying, “Maybe you should switch to beer because I only have so much money budgeted for this evening.” My birthday was earlier in the week and he had mentioned that this was a birthday dinner so I was shocked, but excused myself to the bathroom to shake it off. I should have just walked out, but I was too accommodating back then.

We go back to his place and started making out. The Stellas I drank turn into a bad decision and there I am about to sleep with Mr. Budget. We start getting it on and in true American Pie style, about 90 seconds in he screams, “Oh my God you are too hot, I can’t do this!” and orgasms immediately.

So I’m lying there a little pissed (but flattered) thinking round two would be better. He gets up, explains that I am welcome to spend the night and leaves the room to pop an Ambien. He comes back, says good night to his cat, gets in bed, turns his back to me and passes out. There is zero cuddling, spooning, anything.

Too drunk to just leave I fall asleep and wake up to him shaking me at 8:00 in the morning on a Sunday saying he is hungry. We go get food. Don’t ask me why I stuck around. I am still trying to figure it out myself. I ordered a crepe. He orders an omelet, pancakes and a smoothie. Then he tells me he blew his budget on dinner last night and asks if I can pick up the tab.

I attended a formal event with a man who I had known casually for long time. I wore a very conservative evening gown with a black floor length skirt and black pumps. My hair was plain, makeup was minimal and the only earrings I had on were lovely pearl studs. But he was very judgmental and insinuated that I was dressed inappropriately. As soon as we sat down, my date brought me one glass of wine, and then would only “allow” me coffee after that even though I asked for more wine. He counsels people with substance abuse problems and prided himself on never having been drunk in his life, which only made me want to drink more. I managed to get another wine and gulp it when I got away from him.

He only danced once with me and griped about that because he said the song they were playing was bad luck for him since they had played it at both of his weddings and he ended up divorced. I told him we were safe because there was no chance of us getting married. Later, he leaned across the table and told me that my “girls were hanging out too much.” I excused myself, went into the ladies room to check and was not showing anything.  More wine was consumed in private. He proceeded to pout the rest of the night and sat there with a depressed look on his face. Finally, he asked if he could take me home because he had a long drive. I was only too happy to leave. The only smile I saw on his face all night was when the valet brought him his car and complimented him on his vintage Jaguar.

I met this guy online. While I knew we had no connection on the first date, I let my friends talk me into “giving him a chance” and went out with him again. He took me to a craft fair, followed by the early-bird special dinner at a sandwich shop (no beer?!) where he made me pay. Feeling sorry for the poor bloke, and realizing it was about 4 p.m., I agreed to go and watch a movie at his place. He lived in what can be best described as a Dungeons and Dragons setup of samurai swords and crystal balls, and a projector instead of a TV. While watching the Spongebob DVD he picked, I smelled something so rancid I wanted to cut my nose off. He told me he was sorry that he farted, then proceeded to yell, “Stupid, stupid, stupid! I knew I shouldn’t have had that soda for dinner!” while slapping his forehead. The worst part was that my legs were starting to itch from the blanket I had over my lap. As I made a dash for the door (and from his attempted kisses), I noticed little marks all over my legs. He gave me fleas and he didn’t even have any pets.

Unless you’re into sports bars and mountain climbing, it can be hard to meet people in my small town. I’ve also always been a homebody who enjoys spending most of my weekends at home improvement stores, gardening, reading, and cooking – none of which is particularly conducive to meeting possible princes.

In1 my search for love, I answered a personal ad from a guy who had just bought a fixer-upper home and noted that he could use some tips on caring for a rose garden. This was a far cry from the ads of men who love “travel, fine dining, and walks on the beach.” His words had the right balance of light romance and fun. “Barney” was very flirty on the phone, and suggested that I swing by Saturday morning to give him a gardening lesson and afterwards, he’d buy me lunch.

The house was a cute bungalow in an middle-class neighborhood. I was a little surprised to see a very expensive two seater sports car in the driveway, as I was expecting something practical like a truck. Having gone this far, though, I knocked on the door. I was pleased to see Barney was dressed to get dirty, wearing painter’s pants and a work shirt. He was decent-looking, though nothing special, and a lot shorter than I expected.

After a quick tour of the house, he showed me the backyard. There were at least thirty ragged rose bushes lining the property, all of which had been neglected for years. There was a lot of work to be done, so I showed him how to find the dead wood and where to cut. He nodded, then said, “Do you mind getting started? I’m in the middle of a project I need to finish inside.” He was gone a really long time. I took care of a couple of shrubs in good faith, but finally realized he was a manipulative jerk and packed up my things to go.

He apologized and reminded me that he owed me lunch. By the time the food came, I was having a good time and starting to forgive his rudeness. He then took his dentures out of his mouth and set them on the table. He said that he had lost his front teeth in a car accident several years ago and hadn’t gotten around to having them fixed properly, so they hurt his mouth when he ate. He covered them with a spare napkin and asked me not to let him forget them when we left.

It has been nearly three years since that date, and I still haven’t forgotten watching him pick up those dirty teeth and put them back into his mouth.

The night of my fourth date with a guy I really liked came after a bad snowstorm. He pulled up in front of my dorm room to pick me up, and as I was walking out to his car, I slipped on the ice and fell down. It appeared I’d merely fallen on my butt and so he didn’t get out to help me up, but rather stayed in the car laughing. I was too embarrassed to admit that I’d actually hit my head really hard on the curb. I went through the rest of the date – which included dinner at a nice restaurant and seeing a play – feeling dizzy with a throbbing head. When the night was over, he dropped me back off at my dorm, and as I got out of the car, I slipped again, and cut my ankle on the ice. This time he did get out of the car and helped me get inside, and in spite of my clumsiness, we continued to date for over a year. He did have to drive me the emergency room a few days later, however, because of the concussion I received on that date.

I was eighteen, and living in Paris for four months. I had no friends, barely any money, and my mastery of the language was nil. One day, an American guy struck up a conversation with me while we were waiting in line to cash traveler’s checks at American Express. He was funny, articulate and 35-ish. So when he invited me to lunch, I readily agreed – what a joy to speak to someone in my native tongue.

Assuming we’d walk to a nearby restaurant, I was momentarily startled when he gestured toward his rented car parked outside the bank. He proposed we drive to his favorite restaurant across town. I got in and we drove.

When we arrived at the restaurant on the outskirts of Paris, he told me to wait while he checked to see if there was a table available. He reappeared moments later, explaining that they were full. But since he had to drive to Brussels later that day for a business meeting the next day, what say I accompany him on the drive? We’d have our lunch somewhere in the countryside along the way, and he’d then simply buy me an airline ticket back to Paris that evening.

I hesitated, but he cajoled, making light of the insignificant airline expense.

Off we drove. Over the course of an enjoyable lunch and accompanying three-hour drive, I learned that he lived in L.A., worked in the record industry, and was married to a former Playboy centerfold model. I don’t remember being particularly disappointed upon hearing he was married. Our casual meeting had evolved into a “date” so quickly that I hadn’t time to form any expectations other than lunch. Besides, we were almost in Brussels, and I’d be flying back to Paris shortly.

In Brussels, he drove us to his hotel, where he’d phone the airport and arrange for my trip back.

Thinking back on it, I have no way of knowing if he actually phoned the airline or was only pantomiming for my benefit. After hanging up the phone, he informed me that the next flight back to Paris was in the morning, I’d have to spend the night.

By then, it began to dawn on me that I’d been hoodwinked. When he insisted we watch a porno on the room’s TV after a room-service dinner, there was not a shred of doubt left.

Did he eventually “get some” of my idiot eighteen-year-old ass that night? Naw. But, I was obliged to refuse him with delicacy and diplomacy as he pawed me throughout night. After all, I had no means of getting back to Paris without the ticket he ultimately bought me the next morning.