Alright you fockers. I promised you juicy deets and you’ve been waiting patiently, so here we go. [For now] the majority of you are people who actually know me personally, so you already know how ridiculous my life can be at times, ESPECIALLY when it comes to my dating life. [Note: For any of my family members reading this, you may want to stop here. No? Okay. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.]
I’ve been single for just over a year. For the better part of that year, I’ve been on and off Plenty Of Fish, which in itself will provide some hilarious tales for your entertainment. Freaks don’t only exist on corny dating sites though – trust me. They are in bars. They are on buses. They are people you’ve known for years. They are even people you work with. I pride myself on being a good ‘dater’ – I’m in and out, [usually] unscathed and laughing my way back to the bar. I don’t [usually] take it too seriously and as long as they’re not Mega Assholes, I [usually] have a good time. Like I’ve mentioned before, I’m a people collector, so whatevs.
Now this freak – and I mean, freak – came into play a few years ago so some of the details are foggy, but not the ones that matter (unfortunately).
It was a Friday night and a few of my girls and I were leaving Foundation Room, some of us not very sober (it’s been said that I fell down outside the club this night, and since I don’t remember, it could very well be true). We’re walking in the direction of the car and as we walk south, a group of guys are walking north on the same side of the street. Checking each other out was natural as we were seconds away from crossing paths, but it is the next part that I will always be unsure about; I was either liking something I saw or I was just really drunk, because I dropped my purse just as the group of guys were a few feet away. And out of my purse rolled a tampon – almost landing on one of the guy’s shoes.
Granted, I was a woman in my mid-twenties, so this shouldn’t have been as mortifying as it would have been had I been 15. But still. It’s not a good look. Sure, a grown man should be used to the fact that once a month a woman who isn’t having his baby menstruates, but I still don’t think he needs it to be thrown in his face, or onto his shoe. I was slightly embarrassed, but just shrugged and laughed as there was no way around the fact that approximately 8 adults had all seen this tampon fall out of my purse. He smiled, bent over to pick it up, and like a weird gentleman said, from what my drunken memory tells me, either “It’s ok, I’m a nurse” or “It’s ok, we’re all adults.” I honestly cannot remember which it was. I’m pretty sure he was a nurse, so either could be true. Regardless, the way we met would prove to be the most perverse example of foreshadowing ever in life.
Fast forward. It’s now a few phone calls, lots of texts and a couple of dates later. Maybe a few, who can remember? I was partying a lot those years. In all honesty I don’t even remember this guy’s name. All I remember is he was a light-skinned dude from Scarborough (I think?) who was obsessed with the show True Blood. I’m pretty sure that’s all we ever talked about, which makes this story even creepier. We’re chilling and maybe making out – again, it’s all very vague – and for some reason, dude starts talking about going down on me. We haven’t even gotten past second base at this point – it’s not even an option, not for me, anyway. I’m sure most women right now are already thinking that this guy was a keeper. However in my experience, men who are overly avid about going down on you, especially before they even know your birthday, are usually trying to make up for the fact that they have a very small penis. But, I digress.
So this guy is going on and on about it, to the point that I’m actually embarrassed for him and the small penis he probably has, which is becoming more and more of a reality as he babbles on. Finally I tell him, look, I’m on my period, let’s just drop it (I actually was). But he doesn’t even flinch. He just keeps going. He doesn’t care. Now I’m getting freaked out. It was all fun and games when I just thought he had a small penis, but now, now I’m worried that there is a sexual deviant sitting two feet away from me. I’m assuming he thinks I’m just making it up to change the subject, so I say a little more aggressively, “Listen pal, it ain’t happening this week (or any other week, you freak!), so let’s just move on.”
Now his next statement is not for the weak. It has left me forever scarred. It made me question myself (am I a prude? Do people do these sorts of vile things?), it made me question the effect HBO has on otherwise civilized human beings (did he like True Blood, or did he want to be a character on True Blood?) and it made me question my overall judgment in who I allow to watch Simpsons reruns with me in my home.
After I mention for the 300th time that I won’t be on tonight’s menu as the walls of my still vacant uterus are currently shedding, he says:
“It’s okay, I can just move the [tampon] string over.”
Obviously, this was the last time I ever saw Bill Compton.