I’ve never screwed it up on a first date. Really, never. My hair always falls perfectly, I’m up-to-date on current events, and I never have too much to drink. The last one is a lie. Regardless, I’ve never had a first date that didn’t result in an invitation for a second. Avoiding embarrassing moments is a class I’ve aced.
That being said, I was a kid who literally cried over spilled milk. I’ve become so adept at avoiding embarrassing or uncomfortable situations because I’m so deathly afraid of them. I am the absolute worst person to have around in a crisis because I have no idea how to respond to a situation I’ve never encountered before. Usually I respond by crying, which, apparently, is never appropriate for a first date.
At 25 years old, with a health insurance plan that was approaching expiration, and without any qualified prospects, I spent a week talking non-stop to someone I had met through an online dating website. We texted throughout the day, and spent about two hours on the phone every night. We talked about our families, past (equally insane) relationships, and everything in between. By Saturday night, the night of our first date, I was ready to test if our physical chemistry matched our digital chemistry. Needless to say, we both got just a liiiitttleee closer than originally intended.
After an incredible dinner at a prime real estate table, with the best waiter, at the most in-demand restaurant in town (so say he,) my date and I headed back to his apartment for what I assume he thought would the cherry on top of an ideal evening.
We can fast forward to the part where we’re on his bed. I’m fully clothed, but he has, for some reason, decided it’s ideal to remove his shirt and jeans, leaving him in pristine white brief underwear. I’d like to elaborate on this further but I just don’t have the energy to explain why, on God’s green Earth, anyone under the age of 65 would wear those. In any case, with a combined ten (very strong) drinks between us, one can imagine the raw, sensual, vodka-soaked fervor with which the two of us tandem-somersaulted around that bed. After several acrobatic maneuvers I was completely unprepared for, I came to rest, like a woolly mammoth, on top. I was so excited that the room had stopped spinning, I lunged in for a deal-sealing kiss.
Unfortunately, so did he.
I remember the impact. A crunch, and then warm, and wet, and impossible to stop. I have never had a bloody nose before. And yet, there it was. All over his hairless chest, his crisp white sheets, and of course, in my freshly bleached blonde hair.
I was so sure this was what a broken nose felt like. I screamed, “It’s bleeding! My nose is bleeding! You made my nose bleed! You broke it! It’s BLEEEEEEDDIIIINNNGGG!!!!!!!” I simultaneously jumped up and, like a lunatic, bounced around from corner to corner of the room like a prize fighter. I’m having a fucking anxiety attack, and this guy is looking for a box of Lucky Charms. “My nose is bleeeeedddiiiiinnngggg!!!!!” What else can one do when bleeding all over a new guy’s EVERYTHING?! I at least wanted to mark my territory if I wasn’t getting laid tonight. If not with urine, then with blood, surely. Nothing says “don’t date me” like a potential crime scene in your bedroom. Checkmate, asshole.
Please don’t think I squirted DNA everywhere, flipped my hair, and all was well. I’m not that graceful. I screamed and spewed for a good 2 minutes before this dick moved off his ass and took me to the bathroom. Obviously, my “trail of tears” pretty much quelled the fires for the night. I went home soon after, and it’s anyone’s guess how he explained the House Of Horrors to anybody after that.