100 Bad Dates: #77

Date #77 was a teacher. My teacher. And I am an infamous apple polisher. It’s like me sitting at a desk (or, in this case, an elongated table) and them standing is somehow the sexiest.

Date #77 was a teacher. My teacher. And I am an infamous apple polisher. It’s like me sitting at a desk (or, in this case, an elongated table) and them standing is somehow the sexiest. Maybe it’s the penis-level view. Maybe it’s visions of Sting singing “Don’t Stand So Close To Me.” Maybe it’s all the schoolgirl porn.

Anyway, this wasn’t real school, it was a three-month-long computer training class at a company I had recently joined. He had warned us on the first day that it would be rough, spending every week day for months in a small, windowless classroom with 19 other people. He assured us that someone’s smallest quirks would be magnified to such a degree that we would feel like beating them to a pulp. Couples would be made and broken, and two babies, thus far, had been conceived. We all laughed, knowing none of that would happen to us. But my laugh was uneasy. He made this training sound like a POW camp and, well, I wasn’t down for any kind of emotional torture. Or, you know, effort.

Date #77 was less attractive without the whiteboard marker in his hand. Tall, big, and nerdy, Drew Carey with just enough cockiness to make you wonder where it came from. Of course, I crushed on him approximately five minutes into class. The only reason it took THAT long was because I was busy sizing up the situation. I could tell right away that a) I would need to move away from my desk-mate who looked like a crier and b) I would need to move closer to the front, so Date #77 could see how good I was at paying attention. Plus, you know, I have nice eyes.

During the first break, I hung outside and one of my cooler looking classmates came over.

“Did you see that asshole I’m sitting next to?” he asked between drags on his cigarette. “Jesus, he’s wearing a Beach Boys T-shirt under his blazer and socks with sandals. Oh, the irony of not embracing the irony. Wanna sit together when we go back in?”


He was in the second row, so I just took Mr. Beach Boys’s seat. Mr. BB came back, looked confused, and said he thought I had accidentally taken his seat.

“Oh, I have some female problems and need to be close to the door. You know, just in case,” I said, all stage whisper-y.

No one ever argues with “female problems.” Not ever. And, before you go getting all feministy on me, know that I DID develop those problems and it’s probably all because I lied to this guy so, yes, I got my comeuppance.

Turned out the seat switch was the right move. Now Date #77 could see how funny and charming I was, without me having to pretend not to look at the crier (my former desk-mate) who, by the way, had never used a computer in her life and DID cry that day. And the next. And you get the idea.

Sometime in the fourth week of class, Date #77 stopped me on my way out the door.

“Hey, some of the other instructors and a couple of people from the office are going out tonight, wanna come?” he asked.

The funny, charming, eye-thing was totally working!

“Oh, and invite your desk-mate. He seems cool,” he added.

Poo. I talked my desk-mate/bestie into escorting me to the overdecorated family-style restaurant nearby whose name rhymes with Crapplebee’s, where everyone was meeting. I was happy to meet some future coworkers, outside of my combative little group of twenty who, by now, were ready to kill each other. I was double-happy when Date #77 leaned into me.

“Wanna get outta here?” he whispered.

My desk-mate/new bestie laughed when I begged him to approve.

“Sure, slut. It’s ok to bang our teacher,” he said, the model of propriety.

We went out to his car and got in. Some kissing occurred, but I was very aware that I was in a car, in the parking lot of a restaurant that features a 2 for $20 meal. It ain’t like I was banging a businessman outside Ruth’s Chris.

“Where should we go?” I finally asked, all hot for teacher.

“Well, obviously my house is out, since my wife and kids are there. Do you have a place?” he asked, like nothing.

My heart deflated, and so did my engorged lady-bits. I got out of the car.

“Hey, where are you going?”

I told Date #77 that my sluttiness had limits and one of those was marriage. He seemed annoyed and insisted that he MUST have mentioned his wife in class sometime. I guess he thought I knew he was married and was fine with it. I went back inside and my desk-mate/bestie and I left. He offered to transfer to another class with me, if I was uncomfortable. I told him that felt like an admission of guilt and I had nothing to feel guilty for; Date #77 was the one who should feel guilty. In the end, I guess I learned a lesson: It is more important to listen to your teacher than to picture him naked.

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The Checkout Girl

The Checkout Girl is Jennifer Lemons. She’s a storyteller, comedian, and musician. If you don’t see her sitting behind her laptop, check the streets of Richmond for a dark-haired girl with a big smile running very, very slowly.

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