Steph Not Stephanie

I am still in my online dating site moratorium (for the obvious reasons), and thought I should blog about something else lest this turn into one big dating clusterfuck, but inspiration just wouldn’t strike. So, I will give the people what they want, with a slight twist: dating horror stories from real life.

Before exploring the dark corners of the interwebz, I would occasionally meet a guy in the dark corners of a bar. However, alcohol and poor lighting aren’t the best recipe for a successful match.  One story that stands out took place in university, where I had the reputation among my friends of not speaking to people if they called too much — anything more than three times a week and I was likely to cut them out of my life completely, something I still stand by (this was in the dark ages, pre-texting).

I met this charmer at a notorious hookup bar downtown, and while he seemed a bit overeager (we exchanged numbers and email addresses), I tried to keep an open mind. He called and emailed the very next day, despite the fact I had told him I was unavailable that weekend. A certain friend who shall remain nameless *cough Sachin cough* convinced me to give him a chance, even after he made plans with my answering machine while I was at work. I believe his words were something to the tune of, “Maybe he’s calling a lot because he really likes you.” Sure, or maybe he’s a nutbar.

We eventually made plans to go for a drink, although he really wanted me to go to a barbecue in Whitby. Sorry bro, not getting into a car with someone I don’t know. Stranger danger and all that. We got to the restaurant, and he immediately told me he had a confession: he doesn’t drink, and the “friend” he was with the night we met was a complete stranger, he just wanted my friend occupied so he and I could talk. Alright, the weird level is pretty high right off the bat. It got weirder when he spent way too much time trying to guess my heritage, although he seemed to think it was a really fun game (personally, no fucks are given by me as to where someone’s grandparents are from).

The real fun was only just getting started. He decided to entertain me with stories from his idyllic childhood. He painted a picture of his grade school experience somewhere in the GTA, and then relayed this gem: “In Grade 8, a girl in my school would give blow jobs for a dollar. I brought five dollars to school that day.” I’m pretty sure I snorted some of my bellini up my nose, and as I was recovering, he asked, “So do you?” Are you fucking kidding me (that should really be the name of my blog)? Are these really his moves, and does he actually think they are appropriate to use, in public, on anyone, ever? I told him if he was asking what I thought he was, he should try not doing that, and he quickly changed the subject. Surprisingly, I did not want another drink, and sorry, I definitely had plans and couldn’t go to Whitby to that barbecue (tragic).

He called a few times and I didn’t bother answering; I sent him an “I don’t think this is going to work out” email, which was poorly received. It never ceases to amaze me when guys are shocked that I don’t want to see them again. You lied, you talked about paying for blow jobs, you were batshit crazy…it is hard to fathom why I’m not pinning by the phone, waiting to be swept off my feet by these impressive gentlemen.  It’s a miracle I haven’t taken the cloth, but we all know how realistic that would be. Instead, I soldiered on, perhaps knowing in the back of my mind that one day this would make really great blog material.