A few years ago I agreed to a blind date. Numbers were exchanged, phone calls were made and she and I planned to have dinner that Friday evening. This is a timeline of said date.
6:45 PM – I arrive at her house to pick her up. I know this seems odd for blind date protocol but she had requested that, rather than both of us meet at the restaurant, I pick her up because her car is not street legal. (What?) She walks out of her house dressed in a revealing top, short skirt and heels. Looks kinda hot and I’m a leg man so, all good.
The one thing that seemed odd was that she was wearing enough eye makeup to make the likes of RuPaul and Lady Gaga cringe. As she approached the car, I could smell the distinct aroma of vodka. When she hugged me hello I could tell that she had been pre-gaming this date BIG TIME. I opened the door for her, helped her into the car and away we went to share a magical evening together.
6:55 PM – We arrive at the sushi bar. I had suggested another restaurant for our date – a new locally owned restaurant that had received terrific reviews and was the talk of the town, but she declined the idea based on the fact that she had never heard of the place and that, for a first date, I should take her some place “nice”. The conversation in the car was standard getting-to-know-you stuff. She complimented me on my attire, she requested that music be changed from the alt-rock station to the hip-hop station because she didn’t “listen to that faggot shit” and she questioned whether or not I was a serial killer. Y’know, standard stuff.
7:00 PM – We are seated and given menus. She opens her menu and orders a bottle of Tokyo Rose (a combination of sake and plum wine). As the waiter is walking away, my date opens her menu and says, “Know what’s weird? I really like Jap food but I just can’t stand Japs!” I look up from my menu and search her face for any trace of sarcasm or irony. I also notice out of the corner of my eye that the waiter, upon hearing this, froze in place for a brief moment, shook his head as if he imagined the whole thing and then went about his business. She then continued on. “I also really don’t like…’and proceeded to list every single ethnic and racial slur that I had ever heard and a good number that I had not.’ The waiter returned with our drinks shortly thereafter.
7:06 PM – After placing our food orders (I ordered a tuna roll, she ordered a salad because the thought of eating raw fish make her sick) she asked me an odd question. “Are you hairy?” I cannot recall if anyone had ever asked me that before and was unsure as to how I should answer.
“I’m a grown man, so I do have body hair. I’m not Chewbacca but I don’t look like a 10-year-old boy either.”
Apparently this was an issue for her. “Well if we’re gonna fuck tonight then we need to wax that shit off because I don’t play that way!”
I had already decided before the date began that there was to be no fucking, so I was not too worried about being violently shorn that evening. Quick to change the subject, I decided to ask a question that might distract her vodka-and-saki soaked mind.
“So do you have any tattoos?”
Her eyes lit up and she nodded excitedly.
7:12 PM – My delicate flower of a date throws her leg on to the table, and shows me a tattoo that wraps around her ankle. It’s some generic-looking tribal pattern with a few kanji characters worked in to the design. She explains that the japanese script are actually the names of her future children, Dylan and Skyler. As she rotates her ankle to show off the design, she knocks the half-empty bottle of sake on to the floor.
7:16 PM – An amused waiter assists me with my attempt to soak up the spilled liquor from the carpet while my date reveals her second tattoo.
“My other tattoo is a tramp stamp”, she says, loud enough for everyone to hear, “but I don’t show that to everybody.”
Somehow, my brain thinks that it’s a good idea to ask why not. Her response? “Because it’s a big ol’ heart. I got it so that when you’re fucking me in the ass, you know that I love you!”
The waiter and I lock eyes as I attempt to develop the power of telepathy. I imagine our mental conversation went something like this:
Me: “Dude, you GOTTA help me out here. This chick’s a hot mess. Please just get us our food and bring me the check.”
Him: “Ha ha ha no way man! This is fucking hilarious! I’m gonna go tell everyone in the kitchen to laugh at your sorry ass!”
He promptly vanished in to the kitchen.
That all happened in just the first 15 minutes!
Tune in tomorrow for the next 45 minutes of terror on, “One Hour Nightmare!”
Thank you for reading my blog. Please read, like, comment, and most of all follow Phicklephilly. I publish every day at 8am & 12pm EST.
Instagram: @phicklephilly Facebook: phicklephilly Twitter: @phicklephilly