You know what’s therapeutic? Recalling terrible dating stories. I seem to have more than my fair share. Ahhh, freak bacon. I’ve got a black-hole-strength suck for ’em.
Yet again, this one was a long distance attempt at romance. I’m pretty sure after the most recent fiasco with David that I’m never going to date outside of my area code EVER AGAIN. I also met this particular gentleman through Date Wrecks as he was a big fan and regular commenter. I can’t really remember what spurred us to start emailing back and forth, but I do remember it all occurred on my birthday weekend last year.
We spent four solid days exchanging emails back and forth very heavily. He asked for my phone number. This was the first time I had really ever talked with a guy that I met via Date Wrecks, so I was nervous and twitchy and stupid. But we talked and it was incredible.
He was liberal, interesting, wicked smart and funny. And of course (what I’m realizing is my Achilles Heel), he was seriously interested in me. After a couple of weeks of talking, we made plans for him to come visit me.
Seriously, that weekend was one of the best of my life. It was so fun. So romantic. So silly. We traipsed all around Atlanta and I showed him all my favorite places. We drank like fish and ate like royalty. We also boinked like nobody’s business. I was so incredibly thrilled.
The last night that he was going to be in town, he bought me a big fat bottle of Jameson, my favorite whiskey. We picked up some gingerale and headed home. It was a pretty chilly December weekend and we’d suck down our drinks and go out on my back deck to snuggle and share cigarettes. He had never had whiskey before and really liked it. We drank… a lot.
I mean, we drank a lot, guys.
We stayed up drinking, smoking, talking, and making out until the nearly dawn. We finally crawled into bed and crashed. I woke up around 11 in the morning, FREEZING.
Now, I don’t turn the heat up very high in the winter. I mean, it’s Georgia. How cold is really gonna get? I also just like keeping the house crisp and cool. If you’re cold, you can always put on a pair of socks or a sweater or snuggle under a blanket. If you’re hot, you’re just sweating and that ain’t cute.
So I realize that my bedmate has totally stolen ALL the covers! As if this isn’t crisis enough, when I put my hand down on the blanket that is not only over him, but wrapped under him, I immediately jerk my hand back. That blanket is FREEZING — like, so cold it’s almost like someone poured water on it and then stuck it in the freezer.
Oh shit. No. No fucking way. So in a panic, I’m running my hands all under my body, on the bed to verify that I peed the bed. But no… Nope. It ain’t me. I can see the darkened edges of a puddle under the lump of shitty bedmate next to me and I jab him in the ribs.
“HEY! Oh my god. HEY!”
He mumbled something that I didn’t really understand.
“Dude. I totally think you peed my bed.”
He shot upright in the bed, rubbing his eyes and turning crimson. Of course, I was quite enamored with this joker and so I’m all, “It’s okay! It happens!” Seriously though, WHO PEES THE BED??
He lept up and started stripping my bed. I tried to help, but he was insistent that he do this alone. “You shouldn’t have to worry about such things.”
So true. So very true. While he furiously scrubbed my mattress with a bleach solution, I went and took a long hot shower.