Three Encounters of the Oh-So-Wrong Kind

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Three Encounters of the Oh-So-Wrong Kind
Three dates, one guy, and the beginnings of an epic horror story.

by Julie Robinson 

  As he reaches over to shake my hand he oozes flirtatiousness: “Hi, my name is Wes.”

I can tell that my date, Dan, isn’t really paying attention to our exchange so I say, “Yes. I know. We’ve met before—just not in person.” It’s a warm night in Cherry Creek, Colorado and our lively group of ten strangers is ready to head out on a pub crawl. As we take off for our second pit-stop of the evening Wes still has no idea how he and I have met.

WES: Have you read one of my articles, or something? Did you know I was a writer?

ME: Uh-huh. I know you write but I’ve never bothered reading about how to date a stripper. I’m not exactly your demographic.

WES: This is killing me! Are you from California? Is that where you know me?

At this point Dan sidles up to me, slaps Wes on the back, turns on his enormous charm, and the two become fast friends. These insta-buddies proceed to do tequila shots at the next three bars on our circuit and my Secret Encounter with Wes gets pushed aside.

I like to drink excessively in multiple locations when I don’t have to drive. Call it a hobby of mine. A night of walking and drinking with a group of people I’m pretty sure I’ll never see again really gets me giddy. Add dancing to a live blues band into the mix and I’m downright ecstatic. It’s the kind of buzz that comes on slowly, lingers nicely and eventually leads to loud talking, not-all-that-appropriate touching, and an occasional awkward moment you wish you could rewind and cut out of the tape all together.

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