Dating Tales: The Starbucks Schizophrenic [NSFW]

coffe-guy

The beauty/horror of being single is that a man can pop into your life – or local Starbucks – at any point. I’m doing the stereotypical douchey writer bit and staring at the sky, sipping on a Frappacuino with an air of self-importance, like my traumatic tales of sex and shit-cunts are changing the world, when I catch this guy’s eye. He smiles; cheesy enough to slice that shit and serve it with crackers.

Next thing you know he’s beckoning me over. He had long swept back hair that only ever looks good on the Instafamous and A-list, and on a regular person makes you wanna take out a loan, go to hairdressing college and cut it all off. He was wearing a shirt, so quite possibly has a job. I’ve dated worse. So I go over.

He wants to read my blog, so I let him. He says it turns him on, with the arrogance of someone with a big dick and not much else going on. We leave together… Although when he tells me he’s sober for a year, I’m almost outta there like bitch has got a pumpkin curfew.

 

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Obviously I get into his car. Because it’s not like there’s any horror stories about getting into cars with strangers. And if it ends in you being cut into tiny pieces and hid under his floor boards, at least you know you didn’t die a pussy.
“It smells dusty.” Point blank. Maybe he’ll find my bluntness endearing, but if not, it should at the very least encourage him to buy a dangling tree-shaped piece of foam to hang from the rear view mirror, before he lures the next twink into the rape wagon.

When we arrive at his apartment, I’m curious as to whether I’ll be roofied and gagged, or if we’ll just go for a less sinister dicking in his hot tub. It’s neither. Though he clearly wanted sex. I could smell it on him. Almost as pungent as the smell of cat litter. Like babe, at least Febreeze out the smell of Sheeba before you invite boys back. Regardless, he’s not physically or psychologically alluring enough for me to shag him on a sofa with a discoloured bed sheet over it.

So he drops me home and we schedule drinks for 8.30pm. At 10.20pm and five bottles of 8% beer later he tells me he’s outside. Half-tempted to bun him off for Scream Queens and a spliff, but figure that won’t help me write a dating blog.

Oh, and during which the eternal wait, he sends me this:

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RED FLAG ANYBODY?

Once I’m in the car, this multitude of accents and impressions start pouring out like a poorly built sewage dam. One minute he’s Shaniqua from the Bronx, the next he’s Speedy Gonzalez from Mexico, then Mai Ling from China, I can’t keep up. It was like being on a date with Robin Williams on speed. Accept this drip was high on life.

On the street I hear a promoter say “Happy Hour!” And I’m like, “ooh hear looks good, I’ll have three double Margaritas.”

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As he goes to wet the lettuce – just about the only thing about him that wasn’t dry – this studly Brazilian guy comes over and introduces himself by licking my neck. Totes romantic. At which my date and his multiple personality disorder return to the table.

Hold on, so I haven’t been hit on in about six years and now you throw a buff sleazy lothario my way, and I have to turn him down because I’m entertaining the Genie from Aladdin? 

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I proceeded to drink much quicker than I could handle. But my tequila-soaked state still couldn’t bare his Britney-hair-whipping, Beyoncé-shimmying, Meryl-Streep-mimicking personas. Not that it would usually bother me, but this had reached a point I called “cringe castration”; so mind-numbingly painful, you want to cut your scrotum off with garden shears. Then eat them. And throw them back up in his lap.

I can put up with greasy hair and a serial killer smile, but I’m certainly not fucking anyone that does a diva impersonation badly.

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Funny how someone can do 376 characters, but not a single one of them is remotely interesting.

He informs me that he thinks my blog is bitter. I yawn. It’s called humour babe, if you were the slightest bit funny, you’d probably get it (the blog, and the booty). 

So as I continue to weigh up whether I could bring myself to sacrifice a piece of my self-respect for what would probably be, in fairness, a decent lay, the waiter brings over the bill; aka, the deal-breaker. Sober Sally’s drinks weren’t included because we had a nice server, so man puts his wallet away quicker than a Jew in a recession. Not that I’d have let him pay for my drinks, but if you want the goodies you gotta at least offer.

Driving home, I gave him an empty thank you. To which, he actually replied, “you’re welcome”.

What exactly was I welcome for? You turning up two hours late? Or you cock-blocking me from the hottest guy that’s looked at me twice since I spilt my drink on Duncan James in Room Service? Or forcing me to endure your catastrophic voiceover for an evening?

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I kissed him, because although I had no attraction to him whatsoever, I was still Daquiri-ed up to my eyeballs. His lips were too soft for comfort, and he kissed like he was in slow-motion. Urgh, if I wanted to kiss little girls, I’d ask Bill Crosby for tips. 

I tossed him a careless “see ya later”as I got out.
“Or I could come in…” he suggested, grabbing his throbbing hard-on. Least it’s less flaccid that your sense of humour. 
“You wanna come into my tiny bedroom for a hand-job while my flatmates are asleep through the paper thin walls next door?” I had to verbalise what it was exactly he was proposing, so as he could perhaps realise how ridiculous it was, after being said aloud.
“Is that a problem?”

*Steps out, closes door*

So, as I rejected the chance of having sex – in a pool, might I add – I couldn’t help but feel that this is what one would call… Growth.
*pats self on back while eating half a jar of peanut butter*.

Author: AnthonyGilet

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