A few years ago I got back from a birthday weekend in Vegas feeling pretty lucky, so I gave this guy I knew a call. We didn't know each other too well -- I'd only met him a few months before -- but we'd had one or two drunken make-out sessions while out with friends, and I wanted to see what would happen one-on-one. "I'll pick you up, and we'll go to my house," he said. Minutes after I arrived on my doorstep, there he was in front of my house in his cute little VW, cold beer in hand.
Cold beer in hand? Well, sure, it's illegal, I told myself, but look on the bright side -- he's a risk taker!
"Do you drive around with a beer often?"
"All the time," he said.
Things were going okay in the car until we hit the freeway. Going 80 in a 65...I just kept my eye out for cops and hoped for the best. But later, when we ran a red light, I felt like I had to say something.
"Didn't you see the red light?"
"Oh. Yeah, that light's always red."
Okay. Can't argue with that.
I relaxed a little at his house, thankful to be alive. He made me a Cape Cod -- so tantalizing, all that juicy red cranberry goodness -- and I promptly spilled it all over the beige carpet in his room. I just stared down at it, mentally picturing a matching bloodstain next to it after he murdered me for ruining his carpet.
But it didn't seem to kill his mood, and he made me another drink. Fueled by vodka and feelings of guilt over the carpet, I treated him to a steamy make-out sesh. We rounded first base and headed for second, and he leaned in to whisper sweet nothings in my ear...
"I've seen this bra before," he murmured, "but it's okay. I'm sure you have other ones."
Wait a sec, I thought to myself; you're getting all this action and you still decide to criticize my lingerie? I would have put a stop to things right there, but I still felt I owed him for the carpet, and besides, it would have been awkward to reject him and then ask for a ride home.
Things got better the less we talked, and soon we were cuddling on his bed. I had practically forgotten the bra incident until he ran his hand down my leg and pronounced, with a hint of a sneer, "You could have at least shaved your legs."
What can a girl say to salvage her dignity in such a mortifying situation? I pled my case falteringly; the whole "I-was-drunk-in-Vegas-all-weekend-and-only-got-home-minutes-before-you-got-there" routine, but it was halfhearted at best. There wasn't much to do after that conversation but go to sleep and hope I woke up with amnesia.
I didn't, of course, but next morning my ego, while definitely bruised, had somewhat recovered from the night before. I hate to admit it, but I saw this guy again, and again, and a few more times after that, until I finally figured out that he only wanted one thing from me. Sometimes I look back and wonder how my self-esteem got that low, but I guess the whole thing was a learning experience. I now know, in my dating wisdom, not to ride in a car with someone drinking a can of beer, or to let a guy get to second just because I spilled cranberry juice all over his carpet, or to continue dating someone after they have had the audacity to tell me that I should have shaved my legs.
I mean, that's just cruel.
Tell us the story of your breakup and/or date from hell and we will publish it and pay you ($100 for 500-2000 words).
E-mail story to
Or mail to:
San Diego Reader/Dumped
San Diego, CA 92186