“Name Changed To Protect A Hapless Douche” (A Bad Date Story)

Que lo que SoLatina! I was reading some of the bad date stories on here so I wanted to share mine. A couple months ago I met this guy online named *Rigo*. At first, things seemed normal. We met up, went to a bar, had a drink or two and chatted. All the standard stuff. The only slightly off thing was that he seemed sort of insecure – when we first met up, he even acted offended that I seemed “less than impressed” with him. I wasn’t disappointed, I just really needed to blow my nose. LOL. But whatever. However, as the night went on, he started pulling tricks from The Game. He started throwing in backhanded compliments, making fun of the fact that I’m going for my masters degree, that I’m tall, that I like house music instead of hip hop…pretty much anything you could use to describe me, he could insult. However, he did it in this weird, jokey way, and sometimes apologized afterwards. So I wasn’t exactly sure what was up.

Things took a turn for the the what-the-fu*k when he started asking to touch my butt and for me to touch his di*k through his pants. I was a little tipsy and new to dating again, so I went along with this, for a little bit. He kept telling me to “Live a little!” and “Be a little fun, for once!” Then he upped the ante by asking me to take a cellphone shot of my butt in the bathroom. Yes, really: a shot of my naked butt, in the bathroom, to be texted to him. What. the. fu*king. fu*k. After about half an hour of being shamed for being boring, I tried to do so, but no luck. I am physically incapable of taking a proper ass shot. I was happy about this, to be honest.

As this night was obviously not leading to any great romance, when he suggested we head back to his place, I was like “Why the fu*k not?” For putting up with all this sh*t, I might as well have an orgasm, no? (Judge all you want – I had just gotten out of a hellish relationship that had been short on the orgasms toward the end. I wanted a fu*king orgasm from a source that didn’t have batteries, damn it.) As the clothes came off, I saw that Rigo had a tattoo of an old man’s face on his chest. WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT? Apparently, his grandfather. After some mediocre doggie style (because I was not going to be face to face with a laughing old man while being fu*ked by a younger one), I made my escape. Woo! I had had my first adventure in Single New Yorker-dom! And it was done. Or so I thought. Rigo texted me daily, then weekly, then monthly, begging me to “at least be friends” and to “come to his basketball games”. PSA for the dudes: If a girl NEVER responds to your texts, give up. She’s not coming to your fu*king basketball game or anything else, ever. *Name changed to protect a hapless douche*