100 Bad Dates: #47

Date #47 was Date #46, given a second chance. If you’ll remember, he was a Navy SEAL with the creepy intensity of a serial killer who stood me up in the middle of our first date. However, I silenced the voice in my head that whispered, “It puts the lotion on its skin or else it gets the hose again” long enough to give him another try.

September 21, 2009; 6:00 AM • by The Checkout Girl

Date #47 was Date #46, given a second chance. If you’ll remember, he was a Val Kilmer-esque Navy SEAL with the creepy intensity of a serial killer (or, at the very least, a serial rapist) who stood me up in the middle of our first date by leaving me sitting alone in a movie theater. However, his good looks nearly completely obscured his weird obsession with my face and shoes, and I silenced the voice in my head that whispered, “It puts the lotion on its skin or else it gets the hose again” long enough to give him another try.

At his suggestion, we planned to have dinner and take a stroll along the pier at a local beach. Heaven knows why I thought this would be safe, given my date’s undeniable similarities to one Jame “Buffalo Bill” Gumb. Kids, don’t try this at home.

At dinner, it became obvious that he hadn’t lost his obsession with my looks, going so far as to rave to the waitress, “Doesn’t she have the most PERFECT face you’ve ever seen?” Obviously uncomfortable, she nodded and said something vaguely complimentary. I know you have to be thinking how flattering and romantic this must have been, but it was so far on the opposite end of the spectrum that it almost exceeded creepy to hot again. In the same way you’d say, “Yes, I can agree that Ted Bundy was sort of charismatic and good-looking.”

We walked along the pier, talking about life-like things, but in a very vague way. There was no deep connection between us, really, and I wasn’t looking to reveal any intimate details to him as he skated around every personal question that I posed.

I am not too proud to admit, however, that I was willing to get naked with Date #46/47 for a period of time. After a short make-out session, during which he used a lot of tongue and kept his eyes wide open (How does my face look during mid-snog? Ask him), we went back to my place and got horizontal. It wasn’t bad. It wasn’t good, by any stretch of the imagination, and there wasn’t a whole lot to work with. But it wasn’t bad.

As we lay there in the afterglow of such things, an uncomfortable silence descended. He got up to use the restroom, and came back and stood at the foot of the bed.

“Can I look in your closet?” he asked.

“Oh, um, okay. Why?” I replied.

“I’m gonna choose your outfit for tomorrow. Whatever I choose, you have to wear. I will know if you don’t. I swear, I will,” he said.

Why such strong conviction? I rolled over on my side, and watched as he rifled through my meager (a few strong key pieces, which can be mixed and matched, thanks to Trinny and Susannah) wardrobe.

He chose an outfit and said menacingly, “Don’t forget, I’ll know.”

“Okay. Whatever,” I shrugged. It was getting late and I just wanted him to get out. He pulled out a pair of my shoes and slipped them on his own feet. They fit.

“How do these look?” he asked. I was tired and pretty far over his kookoonutty behavior.

“Better on me,” I yawned, fully expecting him to don a short silk robe and tuck his penis between his legs.

“Doubt it,” he said, sassily. He tried on another pair. “What about these?” he wondered.

“Look,” I said, “I have a lot of shoes, and I won’t think any of them look good on you. I will think they all look weird, because they will. I am really tired, so can we cut the fashion show short?”

He was taken aback.

“RUDE!” he exclaimed, and I laughed.

“Rude enough to make you leave?” I said, my voice heavy with disdain. He quietly pulled on his clothes and walked out.

He called a few more times and once even suggested we go shopping together. About a year later, out of the blue, Date #46/47 came into the store where I was working. We exchanged pleasantries, and he suggested we get together, as he reached up and touched my face. I told him that I was seeing someone and I should get back to work. I quit that job (which I hated anyway) that very day, not wanting to ever “accidentally” run into him again. I even called a friend to come walk me to my car that night, FINALLY sufficiently creeped out. I never saw or heard from him again. I guess the lambs were finally silenced.

The Checkout Girl, originally from San Diego, now proudly claims Richmond as her hometown. She would like a chance to go back in time and scream “YOU LIE!” at Mr. Newcomb when he tells her that she *will* use high school algebra when she grows up. She writes anonymously so as not to break her poor dad’s heart. She shares her work and life adventures at thecheckoutgirl.net, and pens the advice column Ask The Checkout Girl for Belle Magazine. After more than 100 bad dates, she’s found a pretty good guy.

September 21, 2009 6:00 AM 20