Okay, I’m sorry. That title was a total lie and I used it because it was just TOO EASY. This post is actually a recap of a date I had with a local SD who owned lots and lots of horses. Lots.
I stumbled upon his profile in a radius search and after seeing the few admittedly bad quality photos, I sent him one of those super
annoying adorable winks to get the ball rolling. His profile listed him as mid forties but said he was an avid tennis player and was very young at heart. Next thing I know we are messaging back and forth with him basically shoving his phone number into my eye sockets. Finally, I fell for it and shot of a quick text. Before I knew it he was begging for a phone call on Easter and since I had a long drive to my Easter party, why not?
Let me start by saying I got a very bad feeling as soon as my phone started ringing. I chalked it up to nerves and answered as sweetly and innocently as I could. The phone call was brief and consisted mostly of him telling me how he respects where I am at in life and thinks we will be a good fit, saying his previous girlfriends had bailed on him unexpectedly and he was looking for a new one to spoil. I felt awkward since I had barely said a word and yet he had assumed all of these miraculous things about my lifestyle? Hey buddy, I am on a sugar site just like you, lets reel it in a little bit here. He was eager to meet and we agreed on a time the following day after I got off of work. This is when I want to punch myself for breaking my CARDINAL RULE. Well, one of them.
DO NOT BRING SD’S TO YOUR TINY ASS TOWN NADIA, YOU IDIOT.
But alas, we agreed on a local brewery that was actually right next to my apartment. I pretended traffic was a mess, sending texts “from the road” when I was actually fastening my wedges. I arrived 5 minutes late to drive the lie home. I am THAT nervous about being caught locally, you really have no idea. Anyway, I arrived and to my surprise he has a table for us…at the bar. Not a normal table, no no no. A high top table. Strike 1, mother fucker.
As I get closer to the table I notice it is littered with….glasses? Beer glasses? This guy had ordered the sampler from the bar — NINETEEN beers. Strike 2. Fun fact: I don’t drink beer, which I expressed the day before. But hey, when in Rome…
I tried every single beer, didn’t like any of them, and he was still increasingly frustrating with the slight buzz I had going. We eventually decided on an appetizer which was an event in itself because he 1) Would not sit still, kept going from standing to sitting position and 2) he could not read the menus tiny writing, making me read every description to him. Our waitress was clearly avoiding us out of awkwardness after he informed her it was our “first date”, our age difference being glaringly obvious. So what does this man do? Wait patiently until she comes back like a normal person, right? Wrong! He proceeds to go up to the waitress stand which you know if you’ve ever worked a restaurant is a strictly no fly zone.
She was mortified.
I was mortified.
He was ignorant.
We settled on a spinach flat bread and he picked the 2 middle pieces for me, the 2 edges for him. I love edge pieces! So much so I contemplated very seriously the path my life would take if I invested in a bakers edge brownie pan. I was fuming, but enjoying my mixed drink. Before I could tell the waitress I would like another, he had already ordered it for me without my consent. Hey now. Yeah, I wanted another, but YOU didn’t know I wanted another. Ugh.
Money cannot buy class, which became increasingly evident when our spinach salads arrived as our entree. He copied my exact order by the way, what a cool guy. As he went on for 20 minutes discussing what he would do if he were president, I felt more and more like I was dining with someones father and less and less like I was on a date. This lead to a wave of guilt, what would happen if my Father who also lives next door to this very same brewery, decided to walk through the door?! How would I explain that to him?! Ohhhhh he would murder me. He would laugh his ass off but he would murder me. Hell, as I watched him knock more spinach off of his plate than what made it in to his mouth, Iwanted to murder me. Before I could politely leave, he says, for the entire bar to hear, that he can give me $1300 right now if I agree to enter an arrangement with him. I looked at him in complete shock and said “I…don’t know how to respond to that. Give me a few minutes.” and before the thought could even sink in to my brunette capped skull, he followed up with the worst line I have ever heard and I surely hope to never hear again :
“Well, we can go back to your house or get a hotel room, whatever you’re more comfortable with.”
NOPE. NOPE NOPE NOPE. NOPE-ITTY NOPE NOPE NOPE.
I waved the waitress over for the check, and got up to leave with him hot on my heels. He planted a kiss on me before saying he had a long drive and had to pee so this is where he would see me off. I threw up a little in my mouth.
You know that tiny stepped run you do when in heels and you’re trying to rush somewhere? Yeah. Imagine that. Now imagine that after doing a ton of speed. That was me.
I’m sure I was out of the parking lot before he had even unzipped his fly. Good thing too, his member was in dangerous territory with me around.