I’ve always had boyfriends, so I never really did the meet-a-guy, go-out-with-him kinda thing. But I made an exception after my daughter’s father and I finally put a toe tag on our relationship. I was eager to recover, and as the saying goes, the best way to get over one dude is to get under a new one (so to speak). So when a guy I met at a market asked me out, he seemed like a good place to start.
Keep in mind that this dude wasn’t anything close to my type. I guess I was looking for the antithesis of my ex, who is stocky, brown-skinned, and cocky. This fella was tall, lanky, and light-complexioned, but he was also thoughtful and mild-mannered. Maybe that’s what I needed, I thought. Someone good and laid back.
We talked about books and music and social issues around Baltimore, where we were at the time. He was so cool. So please explain why, when we met up for our first date proper, he had gold fangs in his mouth? I said gold. Fangs.
You can prepare yourself for a lot of things in life, but you just never expect a 6’ 3” black man with Dracula’s dental work to be smiling across from you. My mama gave me all kinds of advice about boys but that one just never came up. I’m sure my face was canvassed in shock — really, can you blame me? — but I think I recovered nicely. He pointed to them and broke out in a grin.
“You probably wondering what these are, huh?”
I nodded my head slowly and carefully.
“I wear them sometimes to be different. It’s like a form of self-expression.”
I managed a phony smile. I knew one thing: he most definitely wasn’t getting a kiss goodnight.
Despite my instinct to turn tail and hoof it back to my car, I reasoned that he was still a nice, albeit slightly socially misdirected, guy. So we ambled to the Cheesecake Factory, I trying to ignore the glistening freakiness in his mouth, he letting his eyes fall none-too-inconspicuously on my cleavage, which he no doubt wanted to puncture like two deflating balloons. If he wasn’t going to get a kiss, he certainly wasn’t going to get close to the girls.
Once seated inside, we ordered and ate and everything went fairly smoothly, sans a few weird looks from the staff and folks at tables nearby. The conversation was thought-provoking, just like it was when I’d met him. But when our waitress didn’t get back to refresh our drinks fast enough for his liking, he stood up, cupped his hands, and hollered — like he was at a streetball game in a big ol’ park — “Ay yo! The f*ck? You coming back over here or what?”
I was so Jennie in Forest Gump because I repeated her prayer: Lord, make me a bird so I can fly, far, far away…
After the waitress scuttled to drop off our check, which he wanted to split like a cheap bastard — I mean he asked me out, for crying out loud, not to mention the rule of thumb is anyone who shows up wearing any hardware in their mouth besides braces should be the one to pay — this funky nut picked up the little cardboard teepee promoting the dessert specials and used it to loosen the debris between his teeth.
Then. He. Spit. It. On. The. Floor.
The lady at the next table looked at me real disgusted like, similar to the expression a person would have if I had walked a Doberman into the restaurant. I tried to send her the secret woman SOS eye signal, but our connection was on the fritz and she didn’t pick up on my need for backup.
By this time, I wanted to push all politeness to the side and let him know that his trifling ways belong caged up in a zoo, not roaming free on the streets of open society, but I also wanted to cause as little of a scene as possible and make it back to my hoopty in one piece. So I paid, he paid, and we left.
That’s when he tried to make his move. I felt it in the air before his hand even landed on my booty and gripped it, like it belonged to him and he was picking it up to take home. “Mmm,” he cooed. “I been wanting to do that all night.”
You know how you can tell a date went really badly? When the woman spots a cop and enlists him to take her to her car so she can make an escape.
What happened on your worst date ever?
Image via aralbalkan/Flickr