bad first dates, part I.
Let’s talk first dates. Specifically, bad first dates. Because who wants to hear about the good ones? JK. I do. Plz. Someone find me a good man. It’s rough out here.
Anyway. I’ve been on 47 first dates in my life. And yes, I’ve kept track of them, and yes, I know that sounds like a lot, but hear me out — I’ve been in the dating scene since ~2010, and that balances out to roughly 4.7 dates per year, so cut me a little slack, okay?!!
And trust me, if I could take back half of them, I probably would. And I’m sure you’re saying, “Nooo, don’t say that. That’s how you learn what you like and don’t like and how you grow.” And to that I say… one time I went on a date with a man who was a bodybuilder who during the date revealed to me that he truly and legitimately believed he was Batman and that, after inspecting my teeth, not once, but twice told me that my never having a cavity was attributed to an excess in plaque build up. 🥴 How romantic. I’ll share more on that date, another day.
Now, it’s worth noting that even though some of those 47 first dates were also last dates, I’ve had some really great first dates with some stellar guys over the years. I’ve had first dates at coffee shops, first dates at the zoo, first dates at restaurants, first dates at hockey games, first dates that ended with first kisses and first dates that ended with me hopping in a getaway car (true story). I’ve had first dates that I hoped would turn into second dates and first dates that’ve left me feeling confused, defeated and like I’ll be single forever. I’ve had first dates that lasted 27 minutes and first dates that lasted 5 hours. I’ve been ghosted, and I’ve also been so uncomfortable that I blocked a date while I was sitting at the table with him. But I digress, it’s all part of the narrative, I suppose.
The problem is that first dates (even good first dates) are just one of those necessary evils to find love. They’re like airport security and doing your taxes. You have to endure them, you have to prepare for them, you have to experience them in order to advance on to the good stuff. So while I continue on my quest for Mr. Right, let me entertain you with a new series where I write about some of the more noteworthy Mr. Wrongs. For those of you that’ve been begging me to document these bad dates over the years — this series is for you.
The one with the fingers.
Picture this. The year is 2017. Men wearing rompers was the newest trend to sweep the nation. Salt Bae was an internet sensation. Prince Harry got engaged to Meghan Markle. Taylor Swift made a comeback, but might have also been carried out of her apartment in a suitcase. I zip-lined for the first time.
I met this guy, Oliver*, via a dating app. He was 32, owned a really cool bicycle shop, was 6’4” and loved to cook. He had a golden retriever, drove a truck, loved his mom and had piercing baby blue eyes. We were jiving really well and decided to grab a coffee at Crema Coffee House in Denver on a Wednesday afternoon. I remember having the typical first date jitters, pulling up and seeing him leaning against the side door of the coffee shop. I walked up to him, said hey, we hugged and went inside. He automatically ordered 2 chai’s (even though I would’ve had a coffee, but whatever), and we headed to the outdoor back patio to grab a table. The conversation started to flow. We talked about random odds and ends, and were really hitting it off. At some point, he grabbed my hand across the table, and I remember thinking “Oooh, this is a good sign. I think he likes me!”
Anyway - we kept chatting as people came and went, and eventually we were the only ones sitting outside. As he was playing with my hand, he looked up and asked me to tell him something unique about myself. Given that he was holding one of my hands, I told him that I’d broken my pointer and middle fingers on both hands 2-3 times each, and that I don’t really have much feeling in them anymore. Suddenly, he was enamored with my fingers. He was asking me all sorts of questions about how I broke them (volleyball and a tractor accident) and began squeezing them and pinching them to see if I’d wince. He was intently studying them now, bending my hand at the wrist, measuring the size of his hand compared to mine, etc. As he brought my hand back up to his face, he looked at me and said “Oh yeah? Wow! That is really unique. I like your hands.”
Now, listen — I thought he was maybe going to kiss my hand which would be the end to the hand saga and we could carry on with a new topic. But, no. Suddenly, in one unforeseen and effortless motion that bypassed my motor skills and my inhibitions, he took the pointer and middle fingers of my right hand and PUT THEM IN HIS MOUTH. (???)
And it didn’t stop there — he then began sucking on them. And not in a hot way. It was as if my fingers were 2-for-1 buffalo wings, and he was licking every last ounce of sauce off of them during Happy Hour at guy’s night.
I’m shocked. I’m horrified. I’m glad no one else is out on this patio to witness this monstrosity. I gaze back at him in what I imagine to be equal parts confusion and disbelief, which he immediately picks up on and lets go of my hand. As I start wiping my wet fingers on my jeans, he goes — “Oh, I’m sorry, was that too much?” To which I replied, “Uhm, yeah, just a little.” Thankfully, God came in clutch mere seconds later with some out-of-nowhere weather and it began to rain.
Me: “Oh man, it’s really coming down now! I better get going, anyway.”
Oliver: “Okay, I’ll walk you out.”
Me: “I’m going to use the bathroom first, but no need to wait up. Thanks for the chai!”
Oliver: “Oh no, I’ll wait for you.”
Me to me: Great.
I walk into the bathroom. I’m freaking out a little. As I’m scrubbing my fingers, my mind is racing—
What the muffins just happened?
Did I just feel his molars?
Why would he do that?
How does he know where my fingers have been?
How do I know where his mouth has been?
Why would he suck on the fingers I just told him I had no feeling in?
Anyway, I dried my hands, fixed my hair, and with a deep breath, opened the door. And there he was standing there, waiting for me. As soon as he saw me, he licked his lips. Oh no.
We walk outside, it’s still drizzly. I say thanks again for the chai. We awkwardly side-hug. I start making a beeline for the crosswalk when I feel a hand grab mine and pull me back the other way. Oh no. I whip around. It’s him. He is smiling. He says, “Hey! One more thing.” I’m like… “Yes?”… He takes off his sunglasses and says, “I couldn’t leave without doing this.” Oh no. Then, he grabs my face and tries to kiss me in the middle of the busy crosswalk. I’m mortified. People are walking around us. I frantically push his chest away as a car honks, which makes me realize that this isn’t a dream and that we’re still standing in the middle of the street. I tell him I have to go, turn around and start speed-walking to my car. As I open my door, I see him standing on the sidewalk across the street. He waves and yells, “Text me when you get home!”.
As if, buddy.
When I eventually got home, I had a text from him that said “I guess this isn’t going to work out then? Sorry about the finger thing.”
I GUESS SO, OLIVER, I guess so. And yeah, I, too, am sorry about the finger thing.
Fin. ✌🏼
*name disguised for poor lads protection
Have you been on any horrible first dates?! Sound off below!
