The Worst Dates Ever

Valentine's passed last month and, as usual, it got me kinda introspective. Considering last year my boyfriend dumped me 2 weeks before Valentine's, introspective was me getting off light. But I started thinking about horrible dates. We've all experienced them. You would think eventually the dating pool would shrink enough that you could at least get them over and done with but there always seems to be a new contestant vying for the title of worst date ever. Honestly, I've had my fair share, but at this point in my life I've gotten incredibly good at weeding out the crazies before the date even begins. And with age comes a certain brusqueness. Where years ago I might have continued with the date out of simple decorum, I've now come to the conclusion that time is too fucking valuable to waste on someone who will simply rob you of it without any payback. I'll end that shit before the appetizers come if I have to. I don't play. But here are a few of my candidates for worst date ever.

1) Lisa Runewicz. Picture it. New Jersey, 1986. Junior year of high school. You have me, looking kind of like a chubbier, "in the flesh" version of Anthony Michael Hall in The Breakfast Club. Except with hair spray. Lots and lots of hair spray. I knew my place in society. I wasn't cool. I would never be cool. But I was funny. Well read. And an all-around nice guy. I would never ever have thought of asking out anyone too far above my station. This was the era of Rush' Subdivisions, and for anyone who thought that song was exaggerated let me tsk tsk u right now. The Breakfast Club was not a work of fantasy. I wept like a baby when I saw that movie because it really spoke to my soul and what I was going through. I was 15 when it came out, and I knew all too well about societal castes and being unpopular. When Brian, the character played by Hall in the film, told of his failed suicide attempt, I understood the feeling. I'd already been pondering suicide for several years by that time. But I digress. It had taken me several years to gather up the courage to even ask a girl out. I knew I was gay by this point, but I was in a denial phase. I thought if I dated females like society told me I should then I could make it go away. So I chose Lisa, a semi-homely girl who played field hockey and, oddly enough, was obsessed with looking as much like Molly Ringwald as she could. She wore her hair shortish like Molly (though it was dark and straight, unlike Molly's ginger curls and waves), dressed in the same sort of short skirt/sleeveless blouse/leggings combo that Molly rocked all through her John Hughes phase, and, the piece de resistance, wore the same stylish fedora that Molly wore in Sixteen Candles. True, she played a sport so was at least 1 rung above me with my school newspaper cred, but she had never been anything close to popular. I figured at the very least we'd have a nice dinner and I could actually say I had been on a date. But to my surprise, she had caveats. She would go out with me, she said, but I wouldn't be allowed to tell anyone. It had to be a secret. We talked a few minutes longer, but I was already holding onto a pretty big secret, I didn't need anymore. I told her never mind. Happily, she seemed kind of shocked that I turned her down. Now, all these years later, I'm pretty shocked myself. I could have simply kept my mouth shut and probably got to at least second base if thats what I was really interested in. But it wasn't. And I'm proud, in retrospect, that I didn't ditch my integrity to gain some experience. You could argue that I got what I deserved by choosing what I thought would be an easily attainable girl who turned out to actually not want to date a chubby geek in a Def Leppard shirt. But fuck that. She was copying Molly Ringwald lock, stock, and fedora. How much goddamn status did she think she had to lose? I'm glad I never saw her again. So, in essence, one of the worst dates I've ever had never even got off the ground.

2) My very first boyfriend was named Christian. He was loud, fem, and unabashedly direct. He was also 6 foot 4 and a towering presence. The worst date with him took place at the very end of our relationship. But I'd be remiss at starting there without explaining about him and 1 of the very best dates I ever had. I actually met him at a party that a friend of a friend dragged me to. I was ditched within the first 5 minutes and left to my own devices which was terrifying both then and now, but this was my very FIRST queer gathering so it was doubly frightening. Christian found me by myself at the party, talked to me for hours and made me laugh, and we made plans to go on a date several nights later. We went to see Independence Day, of all things. Great movie and since it was our first date we actually watched the movie and didn't mack all over each other during the quieter moments. Afterward, we went back to my place to drink some beers and chill. Keep in mind, we were both young and horny, so without much ado after walking through the door we were naked and writhing on my living room floor. It was pretty glorious, if I can toot my own horn a bit. But afterward, as I put my head down against his chest and listened to him breathing, his body began to shudder slowly. And then harder. Until he broke out into quiet sobs. I raised my head in alarm. It was pretty disturbing to have somebody break down into hysterics five minutes after you just fucked them what you thought was silly. But as I stroked the side of his face and asked him what was wrong, he wiped his tears away and I could see that they were not tears of pain, but of joy. You see, I neglected to mention that Christian also had a very large red birthmark running right across half of his face. It was, of course, very noticeable, but it hadn't given me a second's pause when I first thought about dating him. He was handsome and funny no matter what. But I hadn't realized just how much that birthmark had been holding Christian himself back. When I asked him why he was crying, he said "I didn't think anyone would want to do anything but fuck me. I didn't think anyone would find me attractive. You're so special." And boy, did I feel special after that. The moment passed but we stayed there for a while with out naked bodies intertwined watching tv and shooting the breeze until the wee hours. And that ended up being one of my most special dates. But fast forward six months, what seems like an eternity when you're young and gay. By that point we were both getting on each other's nerves. We knew it was over but neither of us had the balls to officially break it off. But the last straw came that summer. My Aunt owned a massive house where she would frequently host us during visits to Long Beach Island. It was right on the bay, so we could swim there or in the ocean, and they had just bought a jet ski. I'm not sure if I actually invited Christian along hoping the semi-romantic setting would calm things down between us a little or if he barged his way into the invite for far more selfish reasons. But by the 5th hour of our first night there I was aware that this was going to be one of the worst dates in my life. We actively hated each other and were mostly not even talking. But worse, it was MY family's house and Christian was roaming around riding the jet ski, eating up all of the food, and generally acting like it was his house to invade. Essentially, he was using me for the weekend away. That night I got my revenge, and though the date was bad, I did get one positive out of it. I suppose guilt or simple horniness made Christian ask me for sex that night. And after several months of actively seeking it, I hate fucked the shit out of him. With every thrust I imagined I was shoving a bushido blade into him. And it did feel good and give me some sense of payback, even though he ended it several days afterward. Unofficially, of course. The gutless weasel simply stopped calling me because it was easier than actually saying the words "Its over." But that weekend was hell, which is why it made this list.

3) Curiously, my next long term boyfriend and my last worst date (on this list, anyway) follows a similar formula to the previous one and also involves a lovely but surprising first date and ended in a pretty devastating one. His name was Chris as well. Weirdly, I dated three boyfriends named Chris right in a row. It was pretty mind blowing. But this Chris was a polar opposite to the last. Shy, closeted, and a virgin, he was sweet and caring but required a lot of patience since every touch or romantic word made him freak out. Our first date was to go see Titanic. Yes, you have discovered a pattern here. I love movies so that will always be a preference when going on dates. And if I can find someone who is as obsessed with them as I am its usually a good sign. In any event, we went to see Titanic. I had seen it already and loved it. He hadn't. By the time the ship is perpendicular and about to go down and that chick lets go of the railing and falls and bounces off of the propeller, he was a sobbing mess. And by the end, he was still sobbing. And when we got to the car. All he could manage for twenty minutes in between wracked sobs was "Those poor people." But I hugged him for a long time. And we made out. And then went to the shore where we lie under the moonlight and told stories about our past and laughed. It was actually pretty beautiful. So my first date with him began as a source of comfort. Actually, our whole relationship was me acting as a source of comfort for him so he could find himself, be comfortable, and be proud. I never got to see the fruits of my labor however. I never even got him to take his underwear off if I recall, even though we dated for about six months. I had the patience of a saint, as I think about it now. Six months later, we were doing fine or so I thought and he was becoming more comfortable being gay with every date. It was New Year's Eve. We were having a massive party at my apartment and I was excited because it was the first time he would be meeting my extended family and all of my friends. He was incredibly nervous. So much so that after just two hours and countless drinks, drunk and extremely nervous, he ran out of the apartment and got into his car and drove away heading the 25 miles to where he lived. I was running after him in tears, screaming for him to stop because he could barely walk without teetering let alone drive a car. And as he sped away I just stood there in the cold sobbing, my friends hugging me as I worried whether or not he would survive the trip home let alone be ok with calling me his "boyfriend". I went to bed with my eyes still wet. And didn't hear from him for several days. At which point I received a Dear John letter from him in my mailbox. I was absolutely crushed. To make matters worse, several months later, still reeling from the break up, I was walking through Penn Station in New York City when I saw him walking hand in hand with an attractive man he was obviously dating.

I don't begrudge life throwing me the curveballs of these awful dates. I sometimes begrudge the people involved for helping to cause them. But if I'm being generous, they helped to shape me into the person that I am today so I can only be so upset. That seems to be the healthiest way to look at it.