Bestiality is Not a Hobby, or--My Worst Date Ever

After reading today's Cary Tennis column in Salon "If the first date isn't great, why go out with him again?" I found myself reminiscing (not so fondly) about my worst first date ever.

I am, apparently, a dousing rod for freaks. In an ocean of dockers and blue shirts, I will immediately pivot and gravitate to the one guy who's wearing a pair of Batgirl Underoos underneath his workaday uniform of blue and tan. This superhuman ability to find the off-kilter was what I believe ultimately led me to what wins, not only the gold medal, but the silver and bronze as well, for my worst date ever. In order to protect the innocent I won't name names.

His name is Boris. And this is our story.

In retrospect there were signs. But I took them as signs of surrender to my to my irresistible charms. Unfortunately I neglected to remember that in addition to being irresistible, my charms are also, largely non-existent.

Nonetheless I am an optimist and over looking his rather persistent phone messages, I agreed to meet Boris for a drink at the Attic, a small, dimly lit bar in the Mission that I had suggested because I liked that they offered both booths and booze. An ideal combination for lazy drunks who dislike having to keep upright on a bar stool.

I ordered a shot of Fernet and a Bass. Boris had a Cosmopolitan. Fine, I thought, so he likes girlie drinks, there are worse things. Little did I know that I would soon find out exactly what those worse things were.

After sitting down with our drinks, we lumbered through the usual set of first date questions. Where do you live? (with my parents) What do you do? (not much, I'm unemployed right now). This line of questioning wasn't yielding much in the way of conversation kindling, so I thought I'd lob him an easier one. "So, do you have any hobbies?"

“Yes,” he said and grasped the pink triangle of a drink closer and leaned his head forward eagerly. Finally, I thought, something we can talk about. He then continued--"I like porn." Logic, at this point would seem to dictate that I leave. Logic has never been my strong point, especially if there is a full beer in front of me that I just paid for.

I thought to myself, well maybe he really likes pornography as a collector and has come up with some fascinating insights about pornography with all the spare time that his unemployment provides. After all, I collect vintage Playboys. And by collect, I mean filched two from my former roommate. (Thanks, Jason, by the way.) Playboys from the 1960s and 1970s were well known for their excellent articles by top-notch authors, that is not often matched, even today. For example, one 1968 Playboy magazine features a symposium on creativity with contributions from Truman Capote, Allen Ginsberg, Henry Miller and John Updike.

But, I digress. And I really, really wish Boris had digressed too.

“No,” he continued on like some ill-fated but determined verbal train wreck, “I just like to watch it." I looked around for the hidden camera. I waited for the punch line. I waited for Boris to say something ironically hip. I began to feel that I would be waiting a very long time.

"I especially like bestiality and incest porn.”

Boris said this while smiling and looking me directly in the eyes as if he had merely confessed some charming but harmless quirk, like that he liked to garden in his boxers and not that he likes to watch women have sex with donkeys.

Now it is the rare bad date that so stands out so clearly that you swear you can hear the shovel scraping the bottom of the barrel. Unfortunately, this sound turned out to just be the date's violent death rattle. There was more.

Perhaps mistaking my shocked silence as disinterest in the entire male species, Boris took a long look at my boots and asked, "Nice Doc Martens--So what are you--a lesbian?"

No, no I’m not, Boris. But, thanks to you the option suddenly seems much more attractive.

So, yes, thanks to Boris, I think there are definitely occasions when one should run and run quickly. And perhaps backwards as well, a lesson also learned from Boris who had this comment as I was walking away, "You have a nice ass. I like your ass!"


http://www.salon.com/mwt/col/tenn/2007/12/03/dating/