Oh I’m Sorry, Am I Sitting Too Close?, by Randi Braun

The following is another priceless story from my Online-Dating vault. Enjoy.

Around 8 o’ clock on a Sunday evening, I was relaxing on my sofa with my laptop and a beer, perusing through JDate profiles of men from my region. As I scrolled through page after page of guys between the ages of 24 and 31, I came across a very cute profile that said something to the effect of: “JewForSale…lightly used, working great, looking for a good owner…”

I sent an instant message to the JewForSale (who I’ll just call “The Jew” from now on), and he responded immediately.

After chatting for 30 minutes or so, he asked if I wanted to meet him for drinks sometime that week. I initially thought he was moving very quickly, seeing as though we hadn’t even spoken on the phone, but since I was still new to the online dating process, I decided to sit back and let him take the lead. He seemed to be an intelligent guy with a sharp sense of humor, so I figured that even if we didn’t click romantically, we would have a nice time anyway. He took my number and promised to call the following day (Monday) to set something up for Tuesday evening.

So Monday morning came. Then Monday morning turned into Monday afternoon, which turned into Monday evening, which turned into Monday night, which turned into my thinking The Jew was an ass for not calling me. Once midnight rolled around, I put my phone on silent and went to bed.

I didn’t think of The Jew again until the late afternoon on Tuesday, when he sent me a text message: “Hey! Are we still on for tonight?” (Ummm, sorry dude. You had your chance…and you blew it). Needless to say, I didn’t text back.

Fifteen minutes later, my phone rang. It was him. I picked it up, thinking I would rub into his face the fact that he was missing out on meeting me because he had acted like a dick-head…

Me: Hello?

The Jew: Hey. I just wanted to make sure this was really you.

Me: What? (Who else would it be?)

The Jew: I wanted to make sure you were actually a girl and some crusty 95-old transsexual in the middle stages of a sex change (Oh….you’re kind of funny).

I actually laughed out loud, and since I’m a complete sucker for guys who can make me laugh, I let down my defenses and agreed to meet him for a drink. I’m such an easy mark.

Me: Did you have a place in mind?

When he asked where I lived, he suggested we go to LK Lounge*, which was fewer than two blocks from my apartment. I thought that was a very sweet gesture on his part. Since he lived nearly fifty blocks uptown and five avenues east, his commute would be about half an hour, and mine would be just three minutes. We agreed to meet at 9 o’ clock.

At 7:30, I started getting ready. I jumped in the shower, shaved my legs (you know…just in case), straightened my hair and put on my clothes: a black skirt cut a few inches above the knee, a short-sleeved white blouse, a grey pin-striped vest, and a pair of classy, black leather boots. I left my apartment at 8:59 and got to LK Lounge a couple minutes late.

When I opened the door, I was immediately taken by the atmosphere. The height of the ceilings made me think that the building might have been a warehouse once upon a time. And the booths, stools, and tables, which were all made of some combination black leather, metal or greenish glass, made the place feel like a huge bachelor pad. It was pretty swanky.

To my right was a wave-shaped glass bar with tall, ladder-like shelves that displayed at least 150 colored liquor bottles in rainbow order, starting with red on the left, and ending with violet on the right. Soft, white back-lighting transformed each bottle into a glowing, colored light bulb. It was one of the most beautiful bar displays I had ever seen.

Then I looked to my left and saw my date…..leaning inappropriately close to the hot hostess! I couldn’t believe it!

(Ew, gross! Who flirts with another chick while waiting for a date?!)

I was too far away to hear them talking, but when the hostess spotted me, I saw her mouth the words, “Oh, is that your date?” The Jew then turned around, smiled, and started toward me. He looked exactly like his photos, save for the curls of chest hair sticking out from his purposefully unbuttoned navy blue, designer polo, and his affected strut that screamed, “Well, hello you lucky ladies!! I see that you’ve been anticipating my arrival. Try not to kill each other as you fight for my affection…there’s plenty of me to go around!!”

As The Jew strutted closer, I got a strong whiff of what smelled like drugstore-brand cologne mixed with some aftershave that had long since passed its expiration date (…Oh no!).

[Note: I've always had a huge problem with artificial smells. For example, if an employee at a department store accidentally sprays me with perfume, and I'm not able to run home and shower the fragrance off myself, I will undoubtedly get a splitting headache that requires a double dose of Excedrin. And if a friend takes a poop in my toilet, I would rather smell the stink of his or her excrement than choke on some April-fresh, Lavender-breeze potpourri. My allergies don't like strong odors either.]

When The Jew got close enough to lean in for a “nice-to-meet-you” kiss on the cheek, he put his hand on my left shoulder and pressed his cheek to mine, making the “muah” sound. This seemed perfectly acceptable, so I did the same. However, when I pulled away, his hand lingered on my shoulder for about two seconds longer than appropriate (Oh NO! It just keeps getting worse!). At that moment, I knew I was on a date with “Touchy-Feely Man.”

For those of you who are not familiar with Touchy-Feely Man, here is a short biography:

Touchy-Feely Man is the type of male who thinks that “casually” putting his hands all over his date–a touch on the knee, a brush of the shoulder–will give him a better shot at fucking her when their night comes to an end. He thinks that racking up notches on his belt makes him more of a man, so he’ll try to grope anything that walks, talks, and has a vagina. Because of his general lack of self-awareness, he doesn’t notice when his date completely loses interest; and he pretends to brush it off when a girl becomes annoyed by his behavior, tells him she’s a lesbian, insists that her friends are waiting for her on the other side of the room, or just walks away; while really, he gets agitated and feels like a loser inside.

Touchy-Feely Man has trouble finding anything more than a one-night stand because his pseudo-arrogance very quickly becomes intolerable, even to the most calm, laid back, “let’s-all-smoke-dope-and-hug-a-tree” types. The moment he touched my shoulder, any expectations I may have had for the evening had crashed, burned, exploded, and exploded again.

Even though I wanted to turn and run, I took off my coat and handed it to the hostess. Then I trailed behind as The Jew led me to the bar and chose two stools for us to sit on. At this point, I knew I didn’t have to be the sweet, adorable, first-date girl. I did, however, have to be cordial (in the spirit of not breaking my basic rules of courtesy). So after he ordered a drink, I ordered a doubly-potent tequila sunrise, and we started some basic, humdrum, getting-to-know-you chit-chat.

Me: How do you like the website? I’m new to the whole online dating thing, so I don’t know much about it.

The Jew: Well, I can’t speak for the guys, but every girl on the site is CRAZY!! All they talk about is marriage and children and settling down. I really can’t stand any of these women….well, except YOU of course. HAHAHA!!!!

As he belted out a fake laugh, he shot me a “come-hither” expression so cheesy that it could have come straight out of an “I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter” commercial. He thought this was a great time to squeeze my right leg.

(Ew)

While I wasn’t the least bit surprised by his physical advances, feeling his hands on my body made me want to sock him in the eye. However, being charged with assault doesn’t really fit into my 50-year plan, so I just slid back on my stool to widen the proximity between my knees and his wandering hands.

My recollection of the conversation is blurry but I do remember being instantly bored. He was definitely stroking his insecure, yet outwardly overblown ego with something about his Ivy League education or his career in finance, but since hearing men boast about themselves is one of my biggest pet-peeves, I asked him to give me a very detailed description of his complicated-sounding job. I knew this would buy me a good five minutes for daydreaming (…I wonder where the bathroom is?)

I thought about excusing myself, innocently meandering in the direction of the restroom and somehow slipping out the back door, thus setting me free and allowing my date to resume his initial attempt at seducing the hostess. After considering it briefly, I realized that it just wasn’t plausible, for two reasons: a) the hostess had my coat, and b) I remembered the guilt I felt when leaving Bill (one of my previous dates) after only 30 minutes. That being said, I couldn’t very well ditch this guy after less time than it takes me to blow-dry my hair.

My attention was brought back to the conversation when the Jew touched me again. This time, it was the left knee. Then I actually stood up and slid my stool back a few inches. I thought that would make it clear that my body was not to be touched without my explicit permission. Or in his case, a written invitation that got lost in the mail.

A moment later, seemingly out of nowhere, the DJ quadrupled the decibel-count of the music and cranked up the bass, thus leaving The Jew and me with no choice but to scream into each another’s ears. After about thirty seconds of that, the Jew yelled something….

The Jew: BLAH BLAHH BLAH BLAHH!!…………..

Me: WHAT!? I CAN’T HEAR YOU!

The Jew: LET’S GO SOMEPLACE QUIETER!

(Oh crap)

I knew it was a perfect opportunity for escape. I could easily have told The Jew that the half-minute of loud music had given me a migraine, or that I had forgotten to walk my (non-existent) puppy that evening and didn’t want him to poop all over my very (in)expensive furniture. Or I could have been truthful and told him that I “just wasn’t feeling a connection.” But since I’d rather run the marathon after drinking a gallon of whole milk than reject a man to his face, I let my (fucking) conscience be my guide, put on my scarf and sweater, grabbed my purse, and headed toward the coat check.

The hostess got The Jew’s coat first and he walked out the door and waited for me on the sidewalk. As she helped me on with my coat…

Hostess: That guy told me you guys are on a blind date. Do you like him so far?

Me: Ick…NO!!

Hostess: Oh good, so I can tell this…he WINKED at me right before he said hello to you! Can you believe that??

Me: Are you serious?! Eww!!…(But why am I not surprised?)

The hostess and I had a little laugh, and after buttoning my coat, I headed for the door.

Once outside, I suggested we go to Olive’s*: the lobby bar of the W hotel on 17^th and Park Av South.

As The Jew and I made the cross-town walk toward the bar, the freezing wind stung my face, numbed my lips, and made my body so cold that I felt like I was having a reverse-orgasm. Since I had only expected my total commute time for that evening for be six minutes, I hadn’t exactly dressed warmly. I would have suggested taking a cab, but then I would have felt obligated to pay for half the fare, and I didn’t want to shell out any cash for a date that would inevitably be less than fantastic.

The Jew and I distracted ourselves from the cold by discussing our online courting strategies.

Me: I get the feeling that most people log into the site and just sit around looking at profiles, waiting for somebody else to make the first move.

The Jew: That’s what I do.

Me: Really? (I meant that, as in…“I get the feeling that most people sit and stare at their computer monitors like pathetic idiots, nervously waiting for somebody else who clearly has more confidence to make the first move.”). Why do you do that?

The Jew: Well, all the ladies are REALLY interested in me, so I never actually HAVE to make the first move. I just sit back and let the e-mails and IM’s roll in (Oh please. I’m probably the first date you’ve had in months). They’ll all contact me, telling me how clever my profile is (Oh shit. I did that. Damn it!). And sometimes I get so many messages that I don’t even have time to read them all.

He continued.

The Jew: The only women I’ll actually go out of my way to contact are the ones on the Most Popular List (…The what list?).

Me: What’s the Popular List?

The Jew: It’s called the MOST Popular List (Oh, pardon me)…and it’s basically a list of the ten most sought after women on the website in a particular region. The site tabulates the number of emails and profile views you receive. So for example, if your number is higher than another girl’s, the site considers you more popular (…Oh, you like popular girls? Good thing I left my pom poms in my other purse).

Me: That’s interesting. And are the most popular girls typically the hottest ones on the site?

The Jew: Yeah, usually (…So, you’ve decided that “regular” women don’t deserve you. Wait, that means I don’t deserve you either. Maybe I should just go home! Yay!!).

Me: So you’ll only bother to contact the prettiest girls?

The Jew: Well, I guess so.

Me: Wow.

The Jew: And you’d think that the most popular girls would be so bombarded with e-mails that they wouldn’t have time to read them all, but everyone who looks at my profile REALLY wants to meet me...(…Why don’t you get your air-horn out, hold it right up to my ear, and blow it. That would be really fun). I ALWAYS have a steady stream of dates (My god…are you even HEARING yourself?).

Me: Lucky you.

The Jew: And since you’re not on the Most Popular List, I only talked to you because you contacted me first (…What a lovely thing to say! At least I keep all of my bad thoughts to myself).

Me: Ok, thanks… (I mean, fuck you).

The Jew: Sorry, that’s just how I operate……………….

Neither The Jew nor I said another word until we reached Olives. When we got to the entrance, we were asked to show ID. We both took out our driver’s licenses and handed them to the bouncer, who proceeded to examine them under a flashlight. After deciding that we weren’t teenagers who borrowed our respective older siblings’ identifications, the bouncer handed them back to us, smiled and said…

Bouncer: Have fun you two.

I smiled back at him, but I really wanted to ask if he’d mind roughing up my date a little, then gently tossing him into the gutter, and telling him to be less of a douche with the next unlucky woman he takes out. Then inviting him inside to have some drinks. My treat. I wouldn’t have paid for a cab but I definitely would have paid to see that.

My daydream bubble exploded in my face as I walked through the revolving door and into Olives. The main bar was on the right wall and the seating area, which was a big square, was bisected by a long banquette. The floor space was taken up by tipsy patrons looking to blow off steam, and small, rectangular, candlelit tables. The lights were low and the vibe felt intimate and romantic. Not the best place to find oneself with Mr. Feely.

Since every table appeared to be taken, The Jew told me to find a seat while he went to the bar to get some drinks. I almost said, “Wait, forget about the drink. I’ll just leave now!” but I was too scared. What the hell is wrong with me?

I scanned the area and saw one open table on the other side of the room. It was a two-seater banquette, which would have been great. My ass would have appreciated being planted on a cushioned booth seat.

As I sauntered over to my perfect table, I noticed a little white sign that was defacing the tabletop. As I got closer, I was able to read it: (Reserved. Hmmmm). I made my way to the table anyway, claimed my inside booth seat, looked around, and casually brushed that pesky sign off the table and onto my lap. Easy as pie.

My seat faced the main bar, which meant that I was able to watch the Jew repeatedly try (and fail) to get the pretty bartender’s attention. Maybe aromatic mixtures of Pomade and cologne aren’t really her thing either.

After finally getting the attention of the other bartender (a man), he ordered our drinks and came back to the table empty-handed. He informed me that a waitress would be along shortly with our much needed alcohol, and then sat in the only available seat: a lightly-padded metal chair on the other side of the 3′x4′ tabletop. Since this put a large piece of furniture between his hands and my body, I was able to relax and not worry about any foreign extremities wandering up my skirt.

When the waitress came by with my huge mojito and The Jew’s clear, fizzy, man-drink, I couldn’t help but notice that she was absolutely stunning. She was at least 5’10”, had long, brunette hair that matched her eyes, and had an incredible body, which was made obvious by the skimpy tube-dress she was wearing.

Whenever I see someone or something that is extraordinary in some way, I never hesitate to give a compliment. And since this girl could have made Miss America look like something I picked out of my nose…

Me: I have to tell you…you are so striking. You should really be a model.

Waitress: Oh my god!! I’m so flattered! That means so much to me! I’m actually trying to break into the modeling industry and you totally just boosted my confidence level. Thank you so much!

Me: Oh, you’re welcome.

She flashed me huge smile and walked away. I’m of the opinion that people in this world don’t give or receive enough compliments. Why hold back from telling a stranger something that will inevitably make him or her happy? It’s silly. Plus, the compliment-giver usually feels good after spreading some joy. Everybody wins!

The Jew: Why did you do that?

Me: Do what? Compliment the waitress? Why not? (Have the popular kids decided that it’s not cool to be nice anymore?)

The Jew: Telling a waitress that she’s pretty? That’s weird (…No it’s not. And ps- if you’re trying to neg me, you’re doing it all wrong. I read “The Game” too).

I was starting to get spiteful.

Me: Actually, it’s not weird. It’s nice. She looked really happy. (I think when I get home tonight, I’m going to take out a pair of scissors, some scotch tape, and a pile of old papers that I was planning to throw away. Then I’ll cut out a nice little crown for you, write “King of the Douches” on it in glitter glue, take a picture, and e-mail it to you, just for fun. I’d give it to you in person, but since I don’t plan on ever seeing you again, that might be difficult).

After a prolonged silence, we got into some more small-talk. I just inserted the proper mm-hmm’s and uh-huh’s while I sat back, got more drunk, and looked around the bar.

The Jew: Blahh blahh blahhh blah….

Me: Uh huh (Wow, those guys by the bar are really cute. And they don’t have girls with them. Awwww, and that tall one looks so smart…and SEXY!)

The Jew: Blah blah JOB. Blah blah APARTMENT. Blah blah blah…

Me: Mmm-hmm (Oooo! Now he’s looking at me…And he just smiled! SHIT!…I hate you Touchy-Feely Man!)

The Jew: Blah blah DATING. Blah blah SEX….

Me: Mm hm– Wait, what? (Sex? When did we start talking about sex? I think I’ll pay attention now. It’s fun to talk about sex. Ew, maybe not with you though)

The Jew: I was just saying that some people think it’s inappropriate to talk about sex on a first date.

Me: Oh (interesting topic, considering that…wait…aren’t WE on a first date???). I think it really depends on whether or not the evening is going well. If you think your date could possibly be relationship material, then talking about sex could send the wrong message. But if it doesn’t seem like anything will materialize anyway, the topic of conversation really doesn’t matter.

The Jew: Yeah, that makes sense (I know. That’s why I said it).

Then I told him something about my second date from the website.

Me: For instance, the second guy I met was clearly just looking for a one-night stand. Some of the first words out of his mouth were about his sexual history and–

The Jew: Oh, he told you about his sexual history?

Me: Yeah. He told me that he’d been with at least 25 women, but that he couldn’t give me an exact number because at some point, he had just stopped counting.

The Jew: Uh oh…I hope you don’t think 25 is a high number (Um, why? Did I say that with a tone of disgust?) .

Me: Why does it matter? (….Ohhhhh, I see. You want to tell me your number, don’t you?)

The Jew: Well….it’s just…if you think 25 is high, that’s kinda bad for me… (Hahaha, what a clever boy…finding the perfect way to slip your number into the conversation. Ok, I’ll play your game).

Me: …Oh really? Hmmm…Why is that bad if I think 25 is high? (I mean…why did the chicken cross the road?).

The Jew: Because, well…Ummmmmmm (Don’t try to act embarrassed. How many women have you been with?…50?)….Uhhhhhhhh, the thing is… (So you’ve had sex exactly 50 times. Wow, you must AWFUL in bed!). You see…… (Let’s go…I’m ready for it). Uhhhhhhh…… (Oh, just SPIT IT OUT BEFORE YOUR MOUTH EXPLODES!). Welllllll…… (COME ON!!!!!)… My number is somewhere in the mid-40′s…..(Ok….that’s wasn’t so hard, was it?).

He looked down at his drink, pretending to be ashamed of his high number. Then he gave me a shrug that translated into, “Ooops, you caught me! You really shouldn’t have pried into my life like that. I didn’t MEAN to tell you about all the women I’ve seduced over the years, but now my sexual history is on the table and you know what a big pimpin,’ lady-killer I am. This is all your fault! SHAME ON YOU!!!”

I had to take the conversation a little further. I knew it wasn’t very nice, but he just made it too easy!

Me: Well, maybe you’ve slept with 45 women or so…but I have a question: have you ever been in a long-term relationship?

He immediately went from cocky rock-star in the spotlight, to Bambi’s mom in LED high-beams.

(…Ooopsies. You weren’t expecting that one, were you? Well, that’s what you get for being such a douche)

The Jew: Oh….uhh, well……..actually, no I haven’t been in a relationship (That’s what I thought).

Me: Well there you go. I was in a relationship for years which is why, instead of having slept with so many men that I’ve lost track, I’m still in single digits.

The Jew: Well, I guess…(And one other thing before I conclude this enchanting discussion…)

Me: I’m also choosy when it comes to sex (!!!!)

(Oh YES!! IN YOUR FACE Touchy-Feely Man!!! I think that makes the score Randi:500 You:0. I win! YAY!!).

It was perfect. He pretty much tricked himself into verbally confirming that he really was that guy who would fuck anything that had a vagina– and maybe even a crusty ninety-five-year-old transsexual who’s been through ALL the stages of a sex change–just so he can tell his friends, (and apparently his first dates) that he’s able to get laid.

After being sufficiently evil, I excused myself to the restroom. When I slid to the end of the booth and stood up, it was clear that I was very drunk. That tends to happen to me a lot. I always silently declare that I’m going to “hold my liquor like a man!” but that usually results in my getting too drunk for my liking, and not being able to feel my appendages. I should try to stop doing that.

I walked to the restroom in as straight a line as possible, as to not appear like a lush, pulled the door open and looked in the mirror. Under the fluorescent lights, I looked absolutely disgusting.

(Yikes)

My face was flushed and a little bit shiny. I was hot, as I always get when I drink, so I turned on the sink and splashed my face with water. Although it was only lukewarm, it felt cool and refreshing against my fevered skin.

Not thinking about the nasty amoebas and e. coli pathogens that were probably multiplying on that public restroom faucet…

(I’m thirsty)

…I cupped my hands and drank some of the tap water.

Then I dried my face with a rough, brown paper towel, and in the process, accidentally wiped off most of my makeup. This left my face red and blotchy, which was great. Surely The Jew hated me by this point, and looking like a scary mess would just repel him further. I looked at myself in the mirror again, smiled, and breathed a huge sigh of relief. The date was over.

I threw out the paper towel, pushed the restroom door open and walked back to the table to find that The Jew was sitting in the booth, adjacent to where I had been sitting. Without even thinking, I took my original seat, which put me back on the booth and to the left of him. It didn’t really matter where I sat, though. He’d already be looking for the hot waitress so he could pay the bill and get the hell out of there, right??…..WRONG!!!! To my HORRIFYING surprise, he was still trying to find a way into my pantyhose! He had relentlessly held onto some shred of hope that after a night of closed-off body-language, cold shoulders and blatant cruelty, he still had a shot at getting laid! Within seconds of sitting next to him, he resumed his invasive philandering behavior from earlier in the evening, even though I thought I had done everything in my power to send him the message of: “I think you suck harder than my Bissel Super-Vac,” short of spitting in his face or punching him in the eye. We were like Pepe Le Pew and that poor, black cat whose fur coat was graffitied with a white stripe. I was just trying to run from a clueless skunk that couldn’t see a hint if it took a big, smelly shit on its head.

As The Jew talked to the right side of my face, I mentally detached myself from the situation and shifted my focus back to the people in the bar. The group of hot men I’d been eyeing earlier had been replaced by some new guys who were staring at me, my situation, and my date, who at that time may as well have been sitting in my lap. I was leaning so far to the left side, my upper body was probably at a 70 degree angle to the booth. And so was Touchy-Feely Man’s. The farther away I leaned, the closer he got. The guys were clearly entertained by my predicament. I couldn’t blame them, though. It was a hilarious situation…for everyone but me.

My eyes locked with one of the guys’ and I gave him a distressed look of “SOS!! RESCUE ME!! Please peel this douche of a human being off of me!”

He just shrugged, though. What could he do? He did look sympathetic, which gave me a bit of comfort. At least somebody felt my pain.

When the guys resumed their conversation and I was left without any kind of visual distraction, I discovered that The Jew had managed to get his left arm around my upper torso without my even noticing. Since I was still teetering on the border of drunk, and very drunk, this didn’t bother me as much as it should have. But then I felt something on my leg, and when I looked down, I saw that he had put his hand on my thigh…….My UPPER thigh! Like…..NEAR MY VAGINA!!!!!

(AGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!)

At that point, I had NO choice but to confront the situation. I turned my head to the right so I could look The Jew in the eye, but his face had gotten so close to the side of my head that I had to lean an additional 12 inches to the left, just to be able to see his entire face. At that point, I was probably at a 30 degree angle to the booth. My body almost toppled over.

I looked at him.

Me: Umm…can I tell you something?

He gazed into my eyes with a phony air of kindness and sensitivity.

The Jew: Of course….you can tell me anything (Oh brother).

Judging by the dopey grin on his face, he clearly thought I was going to say something wonderful, like: “Excuse me, but would you mind terribly if I dragged you to the ladies room, ripped your clothes off, and had my way with you? I just love the fact that your hand is inches from my happy place…and the smell of your cologne is making me wet with throbbing anticipation.”

His eyes were sparkling with delight.

Me: Uhhhhhh…..

The Jew: Yes?….

(Oh my god….you are not going to like this)

Me: I have to say……

(Shit shit shit shit shit!!)

Me: …..You’re coming on a little strong.

In half a second, his emotional dick went from being rock hard to being something along the lines of a wet noodle. A CONFUSED wet noodle. His face was expressing just about every negative emotion, but the one that trumped the rest was his obvious anger. He was PISSED AS HELL!!

Then he slid as far away from me as he could, put his hands in the defensive position, and said…

The Jew: Well SO-RRY!! You could have been COURTEOUS and given me some kind of SIGN!

(Oh, come on. Are you a MORON!!!? Have we been on the same date????)

The Jew stared into space, presumably to gather his thoughts. Then, without even looking at me…

The Jew: Well…I guess we should just GO then (…Umm…yup, I think that seems like an appropriate next step).

Me: I guess so.

We both looked around for the waitress, but despite my compliment, she was nowhere to be found. So the Jew and I were left sitting on the booth with as much space between us as possible while I mentally updated my “Top 5 Awkward Moments of All Time” list.

Every additional minute we waited for that FUCKING whore waitress—(oops. I really wanted to get out of there) seemed to last longer than the 37 minutes I had already spent with this ass-clown.

I looked over at him. He was texting furiously, likely informing his friends that his date turned out to be an ugly, boring fat-ass, and that he slipped out the front door while she was using the restroom. That would make him sound cool, right?

As soon as I saw the waitress, I threw my arm up and practically jumped out of my seat to make sure I got her attention. She looked confused, but she came right over and put the check on the table face-down.

The Jew turned it over, looked at it, took some cash from his pocket, and slammed it down on the table with such force that a few people turned and looked at him. The guy was practically making a scene.

Then he stood up, without acknowledging my presence, and started walking toward the exit. As I followed behind him, I tried to think of what I would say when we got outside. That is, if we exchanged any words at all. I wouldn’t have been surprised if he had pushed the door open, not held it for me, and just walked away without even turning around. I wasn’t so lucky though. Instead, he pushed the door open, didn’t hold it for me, and then turned around and stared me in the face.

The Jew: ………………………………

He didn’t speak. He just looked furious.

Me: (Ummmmm)…….Ok, well, you’re obviously very pissed off, so I’m going to walk home now.

The Jew: I’m not pissed at YOU. I’m just pissed that I WASTED my time (Oh…my apologies. Actually…NEVERMIND! Who could blame me for wanting to put off your little tantrum for as long as possible?).

Me: Ok….what do you want me to say?

The Jew: Don’t worry about it. Have a good life and don’t forget to lose my number!!!!!

(UGGH!! You are SUCH AN ASS!!!!!!)

Then he turned around and walked away.

I really wanted to run after him, tackle him to the ground, and shout all of my horrible thoughts right into his face. But only in my wildest dreams would I have the courage to do something like that. Instead, I stood alone on the sidewalk and watched The Jew walk out of my life forever.

Flustered and angry, I started marching downtown, replaying The Jew’s farewell in my head and wishing I weren’t so bad at thinking on my feet.

After three blocks, I realized that I was going in the wrong direction. To my pleasant surprise, though, when I stopped to turn around, I found myself within 10 paces of the entrance to a diner. Since I was craving my post-alcohol snack: a broccoli and cheddar cheese omelet with a side of butter-and-jam slathered whole wheat toast, I silently celebrated at the thought of feeding my hungry tummy. I pulled the front door open, walked inside, and took a seat at the counter.

As soon as I sat down, a waiter came by and inadvertently reminded me of my beastly appearance.

Waiter: Wow, you look drained. Been out drinking all night?

I laughed a little.

Me: No. I just came from a bad date (…and I feel violated).

I asked for my omelet and toast, and the waiter walked over to the kitchen to give my order to the cook. Then he came back to me, put his hands on the counter and leaned in a bit.

Waiter: So…tell me about this bad date of yours (Oh my god, where do I even begin?)

Me: Well, it all started when I joined this website……

*Some locations have been changed.

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