Enter EditrixAbby’s “Worst Date Ever Contest!” – DEADLINE EXTENDED!

Hello, my dear bloggedy blog-following friends! When you read this I’ll be winging my way west to work on a friend’s art installation at Coachella. Yes, through the wizardry of future-blogging, I’m writing this while watching Saturday Night Live. I want to say thank you and welcome to my new readers! Apparently if you put the word “penis” in a title, people cannot resist the CLICK!

Recently, along with search engine optimizing, stat counting and other obsessive-compulsive stuff like that, I’ve been consulting with my friends Jamye and Lynne about other ways to make people go CLICK! I know. I sound like a crazy person. That’s what happens when I sit on my couch and interact with my keyboard for days at a time! Anyway! The results of my very limited research says that people love contests! They love prizes! And I know that everyone loves porn! So I’m going to conduct a week-long contest and give away a Triple-XXX-errific Gift Basket to the winner just in time for Easter! Wouldn’t you rather dig through that plastic Easter grass and find lube and condoms than jellybeans? Wouldn’t a vibrator be way more fun than a chocolate bunny? And what about a bunch of porn? I’ll include as many DVDs as I can pack into the basket, including one from Ms. Waxman‘s Personal Touch series! Doesn’t that sound tastier than a trio of Peeps? No? Okay, I get it; everyone loves the Peeps. Tell ya what, I’ll put a pack o’ Peeps in there, too! I’m sure you can figure out something sexy to do with those sticky little marshmallow chicks!

So, you ask: what’s the contest? Well, I’ve been spilling my guts on here about being single, my less-than-erotic encounters and my online dating disasters. I wanna hear about your experiences. Tell me about your worst date, EVER! That’s right, a big ol’ basket of self-love will be sent to the winner of THE WORST DATE EVER CONTEST! All you need to do is click “comment” on the bottom of this blog post and spill your guts! Tell me and all my readers about the saddest, sickest, scariest date you’ve ever experienced. Feel free to comment on — and vote for — the stories you find hilariously horrible! In the end, I’ll be the judge, but it won’t hurt if your horror story inspires other readers to give your thumbs-down date a thumbs up! Now, delve into your darkest dating memories and tell me all about it!

WORST DATE EVER CONTEST RULES & DETAILS:

* The Worst Date Ever Contest runs from April 11 til April May 11. DEADLINE EXTENDED! I only had one person enter by April 18 and that isn’t a contest… So please spill your guts!
* To enter, post a comment to this blog post. Private entries will not be considered. If my pain and anguish is public, yours should be too!
* I will read the entries and decide on a winner. The winner will be announced on or before April 21. The winner will receive a gift basket filled with the following:

* A Slimline G. Rechargeable, Waterproof Vibrator by California Exotics
* A Screaming O Bong O Ring
* A DVD from Jamye Waxman‘s Personal Touch series
* A selection of at least five porn DVDs from my “personal” collection
* A handful of 5ml sample packs of Sliquid lubricant
* A package of Peeps
* And MORE secret surprises!

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5 responses to “Enter EditrixAbby’s “Worst Date Ever Contest!” – DEADLINE EXTENDED!

  1. WORST. DATE. EVER.
    by A.B.H.

    C was over an hour late; she said she’d call me when she got off her West Village bartending job at 10pm, but it was now 11:10 with no word from her. Even worse, I checked OKCupid and saw that she was engaged in an instant message session at that very moment.
    The plan was that after C left work she’d take the L train to Bedford Avenue, I would drive there to meet her, then we’d go to the Bell House to see the Vibrators, mutual interest in that band having brought us together on OKC. I’d already purchased advance tickets for the show.
    Just when I’d given up and was on the verge of leaving to go to the show alone my phone rang. With no apology or explanation for for her lateness C cheerily said “Hi, I just got off work and I’m heading to the L…”

    I got there just as C emerged from the subway. She was an alluring Polish/Native American with blond hair and ethnically ambiguous features. On the basis of looks alone I would’ve been ecstatic to have her as a significant other. Prior to this we’d only communicated via email and that one phone call, and as we walked to my car she started babbling about minutiae from
    her bartending job, at propellor speed and at length, blahblahblahblahblah…. She didn’t converse so much as orate, and the only way I could get a word in edgewise was to occasionally interrupt, which I don’t like doing. Since C was an aspiring horror movie makeup artist who wanted to specialize in prosthetics, I asked “You must be a big fan of Lon Chaney?”
    “What’s that?” she replied. Not even “Who’s that?” but “What’s that?” As if the Man Of A Thousand Faces was a thing, like you could walk into a hardware store and ask for six feet of Lon Chaney. I took that as a bad sign.

    Soon as we got to the Bell House C made a beeline to the bar for a Sapphire & tonic. She got me one as well, but I stopped there because I was driving. During the two hours we were there she had a refill of that, a glass of seltzer -for flavor, I guess- and an Absolut Brooklyn. A double, no less.
    After opening act Walter Lure’s set, in the relative quiet before The Vibrators came on, C asked what my experiences had been like on OKC. Previously she’d told me about encounters with cretinous men who IM her six at a time and suggest a strip club for a first date, or send photos of genitalia, and some ogre who gave her the “vagina stab,” as she put it, basically trying to grope her through her tights within minutes of meeting.
    I told C the truth, that I’d been out with 6 women, stood up by two others, and that I’d never seen any of them again, by their choice, not mine. C considered this for a few seconds, then said “Maybe it’s your height, or lack thereof. I mean, it’s unfortunate because it’s not your fault and that’s how you were born and there’s nothing you can do about it, but a lot of women are like that, I mean, I have lots of girlfriends who won’t even consider a guy who’s less than six feet…”
    When I told Corina that my true height of 5-5 was listed on my profile, and anyone who agreed to meet me knew what they were getting, she said “You know, not everybody reads the whole profile and maybe how short you are comes as a surprise to some of these women.” (For the record, even though C was wearing platforms I was still taller than her.)
    Not content with proffering only that bit of unsolicited advice, C continued. “Also, like, your age. I mean, I know it’s on your profile but like I said not everybody reads that and I really didn’t consider how much older you are than me until we started talking on the way over here and you mentioned all those cool bands you were seeing when I was like, 1 year old and in diapers. Just something to think about.” (C is 29 and I’m 43, which was within her specified age range on OKC.)
    Finally, Corina added that I had only one facial shot on my profile -not true- and that maybe some women were “surprised” when they actually met me.

    “Wow, I’m a real disaster, aren’t I?” I said to C. “I mean, I’m short, ugly, and ready for the old folks’ home. Why are you even here?” (Um, for a free concert ticket?) It took her a few seconds to process the sarcasm, then she realized she’d put her foot in it and tried to stammer an apology/explanation that that wasn’t what SHE thought of me, but only what other women MIGHT think about me.
    Oh, I see…

    During the Vibrators’ set C made three trips to the ladies room that took way longer than they should have, so long that during each absence I figured she wasn’t coming back, which would’ve been a relief at that point. Those excursions weren’t spaced very far apart either; I know C was really tanking up, but come on. And, she returned from each restroom outing with her eyes glued to her Iphone screen.

    Despite all this, I still intended to give C a lift home to her Hell’s Kitchen apartment; If we were somewhere in Manhattan I would’ve walked out on her, but regardless of how callous she’d been I wasn’t going to abandon her at 3am in a desolate stretch of Gowanus where cabs were scarce and the nearest subway stop was blocks away. And where the letches were out as well.
    After the show ended C stopped at the bar on the way out to settle her tab. As she signed her credit card statement a drunken, shaven-headed hipster parked himself on the stool next to C and put the moves on her: He was in a garage band, they just finished recording a new CD, why didn’t she come see him rehearse or play some time, you look really cool, blahblahblah. C had the temerity to actually respond positively to this bozo and engage him in conversation while I circled around behind the two of them, fuming. I almost left, and she probably wouldn’t even have noticed, but my conscience wouldn’t let me. On top of all the other potential nocturnal dangers, C was noticeably sloshed.
    Finally, after about 5 or so minutes of watching C display far more interest in this drunk than she had in me the entire night, I tapped her on the shoulder and snapped “I can leave if you want.”
    She looked shocked at that, and finally got up, but not before touching the drunk on the shoulder and telling him what a pleasure it was meeting him.
    As I power-walked out of there C trotted to keep up and sputtered an apology about how she was too nice to just blow guys off and doesn’t know how to get rid of them.
    “Why didn’t you just treat him the way you treated me?” I cracked. “That would’ve gotten rid of him in three seconds.”
    That finally quieted C for a few minutes, until we were at a red light in a deserted stretch of Downtown Brooklyn. “You know,” she said, “I’ve been thinking about this age difference between us and …” Here C’s voice cracked and she started to sob, before wailing “I DON”T WANNA DIE ALONE!” This was following by loud, chest-heaving, bawling that went on for so long it reminded me of my favorite line from Carnival Of Souls: “The last thing I need is to get mixed up with some dame who’s off her rocker.” I got afraid, not for my own safety, but just at the realization I was in a car in the dead of night with a nutbag. I desperately wanted to pull to the curb and tell C she needed to get out, but once again worries about her safety stopped me.
    In between hyperventilating and sobs that occasionally crescendoed into window-rattling screams, C managed to tell me how her Grandma had married a guy 14 years her senior -the same age difference as there was between us- who then croaked when Grandma was only 65, leaving her to live the last 20-plus years of her life alone. “…AND I DON”T WANNA WIND UP LIKE HER!” C shrieked, with tears streaming down her face. “ALONE AND MISERABLE!” This was followed by a good 10 minutes of out-of-control bawling so loud I was afraid some passerby might call 911.
    When C calmed down and “came to” we were on the BQE. She asked where we were, and I said on the way back to her apartment. She said I didn’t need to take her home, that dropping her off at the L where I met her would be fine. I said it was way too late for her to be riding the subway alone. She said it was no problem, she did this frequently, and even at this hour the L would be crowded. I differed, she insisted, and after this went back and forth three times I gave up. I figured that since C had no intention of ever seeing me again she didn’t want me to know where she lived and also wanted to avoid the awkwardness of a goodbye in front of her own place. So, I reluctantly dropped her off at the Bedford Ave. subway entrance.

    Soon as I got home I checked C’s profile on OKC and, sure enough, she had been logged into the site during those ladies room excursions at the Bell House.
    Next morning I got an email from C saying that right after I pulled away the night before she’d been shoved to the ground and had her purse stolen. She wasn’t hurt, but spent 4 hours at the police station. I don’t know if this really happened or it was a sympathy ploy, but I still felt awful. The night had started out badly and went precipitously downhill from there. I sent C a reply asking if she was okay, and reiterating that that’s why I wanted to drive her all the way home, even if she did have no intention of ever seeing me again. She answered that it was okay, I had nothing to feel guilty about, that after telling me I wasn’t boyfriend material she didn’t want to inconvenience me. I never heard from her again.

  2. Pingback: Home Again…Again | Welcome to My Words!

  3. It was the mid 80’s, I had a job working for Rockamerica, the company that made the music video compilations that all the trendy nightclubs played those days (ie: The Ritz). I was also throwing some Manhattan Loft Parties downtown. At one of my parties, the fabulous programmer woman from work, Jan, brought a friend, it was Tom Verlaine. I didn’t know who he was (he is a famous downtown rocker who was influencial with his music and dated and performed with Patti Smith), I was more of a Hip Hop person at the time. He and Jan mostly sat at the bar while the rest of us danced. Later, Jan approached me and told me Tom thought I was cool and wanted to have a date with me! Somebody phoned somebody and we made plans. We were to meet at the Chelsea Hotel for brunch (or was it dinner)? Whatever meal it was, I was SUPER hungover! Holy Crap! Tom was very gracious and bought me food, I had the spins, I couldn’t eat. He made conversation, I was so distracted by my suffering, he just sounded like the waawaah teacher in those Charlie Brown cartoons. I’m not much of a drinker, so me with a massive hangover is a pretty rare occurence, and here I was wasting a date with a famous rocker in the famous Chelsea Hotel, fail! I tried to salvage the experience but eventually threw in the towel, apologized, and left. I never did speak to him again. Tom, I still feel bad about that day, I owe you dinner.

  4. I have two stories–may I submit both?

    Probably the better of the two:
    Some backstory–I have a policy on Okcupid where I avoid watering down my profile as much as possible. My profile is pretty fuckin’ sassy, if I do say so myself, and I’ve managed to weed out the jackasses by publicly shaming them in the Okc journals (only when they’ve really stepped over the line, but trust me, that’s enough!). It’s worked really well by minimizing the superficial, uninteresting, or downright insulting emails, and encouraging other people with strong personalities and high intellects to contact me.

    I’d been messaged by this gentleman (I’m using the term loosely, here) who seemed to really empathize with the way I railed on the incompetence of the vast majority of Okc users. He wrote me an intelligent message, expressing his frustration with the site, and he had peppered in some well-phrased flattery that, if nothing else, piqued my interest. His profile was funny, and he seemed relatively sane. (LITTLE DID I KNOW.) I was immediately attracted to him, but I was intrigued, and I love meeting new people as a general rule, so it seemed worthwhile to follow through on meeting up in person.

    We agreed to meet at a local cafe on the following Saturday, hoping to continue the conversation about online dating and its many accompanied woes (and hey, maybe we’d get along too!). I had thought it was a little strange that his message suggesting we meet up had said, “I’m available tonight, or any day this week during the day,” mostly because he seemed *awfully* available, but it wasn’t important enough to worry about.

    The following Thursday, I received another message from him, saying that he was disabling his profile because he “just couldn’t deal with dating right now,” but that he was still interested in meeting up. He acknowledged that these may conflict with one another, but that he just wanted to tell me what was going on. Ok.

    Fast forward twelve hours later, to the next morning: Another message, stating that he’d changed his mind about his profile and just “couldn’t stay away”. Ok!!! I wasn’t sure why I was getting the play by play or why he thought I gave a shit (I do not have a deep investment in his use of the website), but I was rolling with it. We were still on for Saturday.

    Friday night, yet another message stating, “Well, my plans fell through tonight, so if you want to meet tonight instead, let me know.”

    This all may seem harmless, but jesus christ, get it together, man! We already had plans set in stone, and his indecision about his profile combined with his overeagerness was giving me some major apprehension. The man is in his thirties; shouldn’t he know how to do this already?!?

    We met up on Saturday, as planned. It was nice and sunny out, so I arrived at the cafe in a springy floral skirt, a big floppy hat, and sunglasses. I grabbed myself an iced tea and sat myself at an outside table, waiting for the date. He rode up on his bicycle, and immediately things got awkward. I brightly said, “Hi!” and he sort of nodded at me, then mumbled, “Hey.” He sat down without getting anything to drink (isn’t that why we’re at the cafe?! Isn’t this normal cafe procedure????), and then we started chatting. We talked about online dating, and he bemoaned that the women on Okc were just as bad as the men. In retrospect, it seemed like he treated dating as a sport; he couldn’t see it as a means for getting to know people and then ultimately seeing if you could find someone that you actually liked within that.

    I’d made a few jokes–my way of flirting usually involves some form of capriciously poking fun at the person who I’m out with (and I think I’m pretty funny and sweet about it, thankyouverymuch). He obviously did not like that, each time flinching whenever I’d make a joke, attempting to lighten the awkwardness. He also grimaced every time I’d disagree with him. I guess he wanted me to be perpetually validating? Bummer for him. Lastly, he very brusquely said, “Uh, can you, like, take off your sunglasses? I feel like there’s a wall here.” Gee, sorry.

    After about fifteen minutes of talking, he says, “Well, I’m shooting from the hip here, but I think we’re mismatched.” I was a little shocked at his delivery (he made it seem like it was the next natural step in the conversation), but asked him what had made him think so.

    Inarticulately, he managed to explain that when he rode his bike up, he said he could tell, in my face (that he apparently could see through the sunglasses before I took them off, despite asking me to take them off because he couldn’t see my face) that I immediately had a giant NO on my face. I was a bit shocked; the man was so insecure that he immediately had thought I’d written him off. He had made the assumption that I had turned him down before we had even talked. I told him that no, I wasn’t saying NO in my face (….), but that I think meeting people off the internet always causes some initial awkwardness, and that I did have some apprehensions based on his indecisiveness/intense eagerness. I pointed out that I was still here, talking to him, so obviously I wasn’t completely uninterested. I proceeded to get a lecture on how hard it is for a straight man to date, and how I just don’t understand because I am one of the evil womenz. Then, he told me he was going to leave. I think he was a little disappointed when I laughed, loudly, and told him to take care.

  5. *wasn’t immediately attracted to him.

    damn the lack of editing!

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