Be very careful when going on a first date with "the perfect guy" you met when you were wasted.
A couple of weeks after meeting at a nightclub, Dave* (name has been changed) asked me out for dinner. Now, I had been drunk when I last saw him. He had been tall (I was on the floor), gorgeous (it was dark) and kind (my expectations may have been low). WTF: He Was A Hot, Ripped Chef With A Barney, The Dinosaur, Tattoo
We agreed to meet at seven-thirty. I sat at the table, alone, and waited. And waited. At eight-thirty this man walks in, waves frantically and I kid you not, dances across the floor towards me. Who is this guy? He's 5'4" (which makes him two inches shorter than me when I'm wearing killer heels), has spiky bleach-blond hair and is so skinny that I thought he might be blown away. Then, he spoke.
"I'm so glad you're okay!" he squeaked (yes, squeaked). His voice was so high-pitched that I barely heard him, although I'm pretty sure every dog within miles could. He waved his hands as he talked, but I thought to myself: "Just be gracious, he was kind. Get through the night and leave!"
We ordered pizza. Correction, I ordered pizza. He ordered a salad, with a glass of sparkling mineral water no less. Far from the typical first date where woman speaks and man listens, we flipped the script. I couldn't have spoken even if I wanted to – he just talked and talked and didn't shut up! As it turned out, Dave was nearly 30 (although he looked about 12) and still lived at home with his parents, brother and dog. He worked for a sales company, and was a virgin. Yes, he told me this on the first date. I nearly choked on a my ten-inch slice of Hawaiian.
After nearly two very long hours, the waiter asked us about dessert. I was about to opt for the chocolate cheesecake with ice cream and double cream, when Dave patted his non-existent stomach and said, "Oh no, I'm on a diet." Reluctantly, I passed as well and suggested we get the bill. Dating Disaster: A Guy, A Girl, Her Gas
The bill arrived and I waited for him to get his wallet out. I looked at him, he looked at me. Eventually he picked the bill up, and handed it to me.
Gob-smacked, I wasn't quite sure what to say or do. I pulled out my credit card, handed it to the waiter. Then, Dave asked if I was going to leave a tip. Shocked, I took my card back and thrust it into my purse bag, before standing up to leave. Outside, I found a pair of hands land on my hips.
"So," Dave squealed, "do you want to hit the clubs?"
"I have work tomorrow." The lie did its job and allowed me time to climb into a taxi to be taken home.
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