Fuck dating is a recurring column written by many anonymous and fabulous 20 somethings. Send in your very own Fuck Dating story to firstname.lastname@example.org
I wasn’t exactly excited for my first date with A and it went so poorly that I assumed we would never see each again. I had shown up hungover and then apologized, explaining that I had drank an entire bottle of wine at lunch (of course!) I yawned all throughout dinner and then ducked out early because of an upset stomach.
“Diarrhea?” he asked.
Tonight would not be ending in a goodnight kiss and I didn’t really care.
Weeks had passed before he contacted me again. Surprisingly, he wanted to hang out.
The series of events that somehow led me to start dating A disturb me in retrospect. Take note: If someone still wants to date you after you showed up to the first date shamelessly hungover, there’s probably something wrong with them (and quite possibly with you.)
The next time we saw each other, we met at A’s house for sushi. He lived in a questionable part of Santiago that I had been warned to never visit alone at night. At this point, however, I clearly had an issue with processing warnings.
Instead of sushi, I was greeted by one of A’s cousins who happened to be high as fuck and refused to leave. The three of us sat uncomfortably on A’s bed, on top of tattered sheets that I don’t believe A ever washed in our almost 3 months together.
We smoked a joint and I went home hungry.
Our entire short-lived relationship went about the same way; I would meet him across town, put up with menial conversation, lay on grimey sheets and leave for home disappointed. It’s the kind of relationship that only the incredibly bored or incredibly lonely would put up with. I was both.
At night, he would cuddle me in and with that half-deranged twinkle in his eye, howl at me like a monkey for no particular reason. Other times, he would speak to me in German, a language I don’t speak. Mostly though, I can’t really remember what we would do together. We spent hours doing absolutely nothing. We would waste away at his house – an activity that he enjoyed much more than I did – and drink.
The last time I saw A was at his going away party for a trip to Europe. We had been broken up for several months and I thought I would cut him a break with a platonic goodbye. For some reason, I felt guilty for how harsh I had been when we were together. I had always found easy to pinpoint flaws in him that he never saw in me. He somehow seemed to dislike everything except for our time together.
At the party, we didn’t really speak until the end of the night when I decided to go home and he offered to walk me to the door.
He pressed his body against mine and went in for a sloppy, drunken kiss.
“When I saw you, I fell for you all over again,” he said.
“I didn’t come here to sleep with you.” I wasn’t particularly amused.
The conversation went back and forth like this until he finally said, “It’s ok. I’m here with my fiance anyway.”
A had always been a bit of a liar. I doubt he really did have the nerve to kiss another woman in the same room as someone he planned to marry but then again, he was prone to stranger things.
I remembered the night we broke up. After hours of arguing, he had tried to force out a tear as I walked him to the door. Genuine emotion for each other had never been our strong suit.
A gut feeling can go a long way. When your stomach gives you diarrhea on a first date, and your head gives you the throbbing pain of a hangover, your body is probably telling you take your sorry ass home before it’s too late.