This horrendous date comes from an anonymous contributor:
“We had our first date in a lovely country pub. The conversation was flowing well until:
Him: “I read something interesting in the newspaper this week”
Him: “Apparently, the thing that determines how long you’re going to live isn’t what your parents died of, it’s how old they were when they died”.
Continue reading The Fine Art of Small Talk
Before the date, he warned me that he got very nervous on first dates and often talked a lot. Fine. So I sat and listened to him talk about himself for the best part of three hours.
Eventually, he paused for breath, looked at me and said:
Date: “I suppose I’d better ask you something about yourself, hadn’t I?”
Me: “That’d be nice”
Date: “So, tell me about your ex-husband.”
Date: “Your ex-husband. How did you meet each other, how long were you together and when did it all go wrong?”
Continue reading Don’t talk about your ex. Or my ex.
He sent me a Valentine’s card, even though he knew full well I had a boyfriend. He also posted a video of himself on his Facebook page, singing a song “for the woman I love, and may have lost”.
I spent the day wondering how to respond. I was pretty angry by his assumption that I’d leave my boyfriend for him; loyalty’s very important to me. I was also fuming at his suggestion that I could somehow be “won”, like a goldfish at the fair.
A few hours passed. I was just composing a restrained “Sorry, but you know I’m not available” text, when I checked Facebook again.
This time, he’d updated his status to “Fuck this, I’m sick of waiting for a response, I’m going back to bed”.
We went out for hot chocolate. He grabbed the bill as it arrived:
Him: “Do you want to see me again?”
Me: “Sure, I’ve had a nice time”.
Him: “Are you sure you want to see me again?”
Me: “Yes, I just said I did”.
Him: “I don’t want to put you on the spot here, but you’re definitely sure that you want to see me again?”
Me: (getting less sure by the second) “errr, sure, yeah”.
Him: “Well, in that case, I would be delighted to pay for your hot chocolate”.
Him: “Well, I wasn’t going to offer to pay for it if you’re not going to see me again.”
Me: “It’s a £2 mug of hot chocolate. I’m fully prepared to pay for it myself.”
Him: “I’ll buy it for you if you’re going to see me again”.
Me: “I’d really rather just get it myself, thanks.”
Him: “No, no, no, I insist. My treat.”
Me: “No, really.”
In the end, he bought the bloody hot chocolates. But he never called me again.
Within 20 minutes of meeting him, he murmured in my ear, “So, how about you come round to my house later and give me a blow job?”.
Now, let’s be clear, we weren’t actually on a date or anything (even so, it would have been rather forward…). No.
He was my new hairdresser.
Yes, he was cutting my hair, in the middle of a salon, when he decided to give me the come-on. And I still have no idea, to this day, what compelled him to take that conversational turn. And, no, I didn’t accept his kind offer.
He spent the start of our date complaining about his ex: “She never loved me, she just saw me as a sperm donor!”.
He also spent the middle part of our date complaining about her “I love my daughter, even though my ex just sees me as the man who donated the sperm to make her!”.
By the end of the date: “My ex is a heartless cow! I’m just a sperm donor to her!”, I was wearing a rictus grin & contemplating stabbing myself to death with a spoon.
I kept a tally of how many times he used the phrase “sperm donor”. Nine times. That’s nine times too many.
We were in a restaurant. I put the menu on the table in front of me, and leaned forward to read it. As I did so, I rested my hands on my elbows.
Him: “You’ve crossed your arms. You must be feeling uncomfortable”.
Me: “I’m fine. I’m just reading the menu.”.
Him: “But you wouldn’t cross your arms unless you were feeling uncomfortable. I’ve studied body language. Everything you do means something.”
Me: “Yes, it means that it’s comfy for me to have my arms like this, while I’m reading the menu”.
Him: “But you wouldn’t have done it unless you were feeling uncomfortable”.
Me: “I’m fine, really”.
Him: “Are you feeling uncomfortable?”
Me: “Now I am”.
He continued to comment on my body language and facial expressions (despite me repeatedly asking him not to) until I ended the date, forty minutes after it started.
“The thing is, I’ve got a girlfriend. But you live quite close to my parents. Maybe, whenever I’m visiting them, we could, you know, casually hook up?”
“You’re very intelligent, aren’t you? I don’t like to date intelligent women. I find it intimidating.”
“You’re a woman, so how do you know so much about music? Then again, you’re not really a girly girl, are you? You’re more into the things that the blokes are. I bet you’re still into hair and handbags though.”
I have a variety of interests, including music. I don’t really see music as being something specifically male or female, but then again, I don’t think interests should really be classed by gender. I’m not hugely into hair or handbags, for the record, but so what if I was?
We found each other on the internet; we both loved music and started chatting. After a few emails, he suggested a drink.
I was on time. I’m always on time. He was late.
He finally arrived, sweaty and unapologetic, and said he had to tell me something:
“You know, I’ve never been on a date with someone with kids before. I always knock back the single mothers straight away, I’m not into them, I’ve no interest in kids, I don’t even like them. But your picture was really nice so I thought I’d make an exception for you.”
Ah! The Date-Killer Klaxon; I’m on a date with King Herod.
Yes, I’m a single mum. I come as a package with two kids; I’m not looking for a new dad for them (they have their own perfectly good father already), but whoever I’m with has got to get on with them. It’s never going to work with someone who openly admits that he doesn’t like children.
I’m still not sure why he thought that line was a compliment in any shape or form.