Yeah, I know. I've already told you about some bad dates. But this one happened a really long time ago.
About six years ago, I had a friend. I know, right? I had a friend! Okay, no. But this friend had a little boy who...was my world (and you guys know how I feel about kids). Cutest little thing you ever did see. He was three when I met her and five when she chose to cart him off to Louisiana to marry a crazy, controlling freak of an asshole.
None of this has anything to do with the story, except to say that I had this friend who wanted to join Match.com. So of course she wanted me to join Match.com. So I did. And this is the story of my very first online date.
His name was something I didn't bother to remember. James or John or Jeff or something. We chatted for about a week before we finally bit it and met up for a drink. Now, at the time, I didn't really drink at all. So when I say "a drink," I do in fact mean, one drink. We met at Gloria's in Dallas (really far away from where I lived). I had a margarita, he had a beer, we ate chips and salsa and talked and everything seemed okay.
He asked if I wanted to do something after the drink, so I said okay. But then he discovered he had left his wallet at his apartment.
"No problem," I said. "I can get this."
Thinking all the while, "Oh great...he's one of those..."
I paid for our drinks and then he said, "Yeah, but I can't be without my wallet for the rest of the night. I need to go get it."
Let me back up a second to say this, he was already at the table when I got there, and the waiter brought him his beer shortly after I arrived. He had already ordered it. When I ordered my drink, they asked for my ID. But this isn't unusual because as a general rule, I look about 15. I hadn't really thought about whether or not they would ask him for his ID, though.
I said, "Well, okay, so do you just want to tell me where we're going and then meet me there after you get your wallet?"
"My place is really close. Why don't you just follow me there and and I'll get it and then you can follow me to the next place."
This seemed harmless enough in my naive little mind, so off we went. I followed him to his place, fully expecting to sit in my car until he came out with his wallet.
"Why don't you come up and see my place, since we're here?"
"Uh, that's all right. I'll just hang out here," I said.
"What? You think I'm going to lock you in or something. Just come up for a second. You can stand in the doorway, if that makes you feel more comfortable."
Yeah, I'm an idiot. I went upstairs.
He showed me around and then said, "Oh, and this is my room."
I walked in and stood there, willing him not to toss me down on the bed and rape me, while he fumbled around in a drawer, presumably looking for his wallet.
Then he turned around with this weird look on his face and said, "I thought maybe we could play with this?"
I look up and he's standing there, with this really strange creepy yet hopeful look on his face, holding a pocket pussy. A POCKET PUSSY.
Now, I don't know if you've ever seen a pocket pussy before, but it looks like (NSFW! REALLY REALLY NSFW!) this.
"Wanna touch it? It feels really real." (I have serious doubts at this point that he'd ever touched a real one.)
I was so freaked out that I kicked him in the shins, turned around and ran out the door. I discovered that he had indeed locked me in, but I knew how to work a lock, so I unlocked the door, ran down the stairs and got in my car. I spent the next 30 minutes shaking like a leaf in my car, on the verge of tears, lost in Dallas. In another hour, I was home and in the shower.
I'm sure there was some flirting while we were having drinks. But flirting to the point of trying to put your sex toy on me? No. Just no.
He messaged me the next day. Not to apologize. To see if I wanted to hang out again.