Worst. Dates. Ever.Because I Can't Write a Novel My Dating Life 

Worst. Dates. Ever.

Because I Can’t Write a Novel – Day 15: Worst. Dates. Ever.

Worst. Dates. Ever.

My list of worst dates was always going to be much longer than my list of best dates, and I think that’s probably the same for everyone out there. Bad dates are horrific too – they have the potential to make you doubt everything about yourself, and certainly doubt your own levels of attractiveness. Haven’t you ever turned up to a first date with someone who looked nothing like they did in their pictures, and that wasn’t a good thing at all?

I could tell you about plenty of shit dates. My first date when I came home from the other side of the world has got to go down as one of the worst first dates ever in the history of dating. We got drunk, fucked, and he couldn’t get it up. I didn’t want to be there, we fought about having sex because I didn’t really want to, he didn’t cook me dinner as promised, I had the hangover from hell, and he wouldn’t leave me alone the next day.

Long story short, I ghosted him before ghosting was cool, he called me all the names under the sun, and I later ran away from him in a shopping centre a few weeks later because I didn’t know what else to do.

Worst. Dates. Ever.

And in case you want the even longer version of that story, you can find it here: What NOT To Do On A First Date

Sadly that’s not the only dating tale of woe I can tell you. What about the first date I had on the other side of the world when Big Love and I first broke up? I didn’t really believe we had broken up for good because we’d broken up and gotten back together so many times before, but this time he’d started dating other women despite us still living under the same roof. I figured if you couldn’t beat them you might as well join them, so I signed up to PoF for the first time, and window-shopped for some tasty Canadian delight.

My first ever PoF date was bald, not my type, very short, and totally single for a reason. I was overdressed, nervous as fuck, kept saying the wrong thing, and shouldn’t have worn heels. He took me to a look-out on the edge of a cliff, got me stoned, the cops came, and then his massive German Shepherd tried to attack them and made one hell of a frightening noise. It was a horrendous night, and one I won’t ever forget in a hurry, but now I can look back and laugh. At the time I definitely couldn’t. Trust me to go out on a first date and almost come home in a cop car. Big Love would have loved that. I composed myself on the driveway for a few moments, and tried to remove the stoned stupid-smile from my face, before I rummaged around in my bag for my keys and let myself in the door. I totally ignored him on the couch and headed straight to my room – the spare room obviously.

There was my first date with The Director too – I got hammered drunk, porn-star fucked him, and couldn’t remember a thing about it. In fact, I was hammered drunk for most of our dates. No wonder he didn’t want to date me. And again, you can read all about that horror story from start to finish here.

Number 22 from my ‘list’ was a pretty horrendous night. He was a year younger and unbeknown to me at the time, a virgin. We got drunk and I took him home. By the time he went back to his parents the next day, he wasn’t a virgin any more, and I had a hickey that covered my entire throat. It looked as if I had been strangled.

Over the next 24 hours, Number 22 called me 56 times. He left me endless voicemail messages telling me that he loved me. I was 18 and totally freaked out. I hadn’t realised he was only 17 … we were both drunk in a pub when we met for fucks sake. Let’s just say I never spoke to him again. I’ll always be the girl who took his virginity and never called him. To be fair, if I had called him I imagine I would have ended up locked in his basement. He was *that* kind of creepy but luckily for him, I had some serious beer-goggles on that night. He even had a fucking unibrow. Not a little one – a bit motherfucking huge caterpillar one.


Number 36 – the Hot High School Kid was another winner from my list of really shit dates. In fact, I can’t believe I haven’t told you this story before. The short (ish) version is this – I was 16 or 17, he was the year above me in sixth form, looked adorably cute, and I wanted him more than a fistful of Reese’s Pieces. Everyone who knows me knows how much I love those little buggers. He was blonde haired, blue-eyed and breathtakingly beautiful.

We went on a date, I can’t remember what or where the date itself was, perhaps a house party somewhere, but we ended up back at his and his parents were away. He lived in a nice house. My family wasn’t exactly on the poverty line growing up, but we didn’t have lots of cash to splash. He had a Ferrari and an Audi TT in the garage, and a house that was bigger than my entire row of terraced houses put together. Him, his whole lifestyle, and definitely his house intimidated me. So I got rip-roaringly drunk.

We made our way through a bottle of Red Aftershock and it wasn’t long before we were making out on his couch. I’m pretty sure I remember him leading me by the hand to his parents bedroom, and I’m also pretty sure I remember being sat astride him trying to take his shirt off. That’s when things went a little fuzzy.

Worst. Dates. Ever.

I know we had sex because I have flashbacks from all over his house – bent over into the front seats of the Ferrari in the garage, spreadeagled across his massive kitchen floor, making our way down the stairs, one step at a time … I have no concept of time, but the next thing I clearly remember is heaving into his mouth. By this point, we’d made our way back up to his parents bedroom again. I scrambled from beneath him and tried to make it to the en suite bathroom in time to empty up the alcoholic contents of my stomach. I just about made it, but I remember there being a lot of red all over the toilet seat, and some on the floor too. Oops.

I freaked out about throwing up so much red stuff, forgetting completely that we’d consumed an entire bottle of Red Aftershock, and I’m pretty sure I thought I was going to die. Instead of being a gentleman and calling me a cab home, he told me he hoped I felt better soon and placed me on his front door step with my bag, slamming the door as he turned and walked away.

I walked for almost three hours to try and find my way home, starting my adventure at 2:30 in the morning. It was before the days of real mobile phones, and I had no credit on my little pay as you go one to call anyone for help. Plus I was hammered drunk and throwing up sporadically all the way. I doubt a cab driver would have picked me up. I probably didn’t even have enough money for a cab. Number 36 was a meant to be giving me a ride home in the morning. He lived in a place I’d never been to before, and it wasn’t long before I found myself walking down what I think was an A-road – like a motorway but not. A dual carriageway? I’m not a driver, I don’t know the appropriate names.

I did finally find home, and I never spoke to that beautiful blonde boy again. As stunning as he was, he didn’t have a gentlemanly bone in his body, and although I shouldn’t have drunk so much to the point where I basically threw up in his mouth during sex, he should never have left me to my own devices like that. Anything could have happened on that drunken walk home, and he never once checked to see if I made it home okay. Thankfully he’s since emigrated and I’ll never have the embarrassment of having to see his face again.

Ah bad dates. They’re the best, aren’t they? You’d think I’d learn a lesson or two, but I still went on to make the same mistakes again. I got drunk with Number 36 and made a tit out of myself, and I did exactly the same thing with The Director, 11 years later. Although this time I didn’t almost puke in his mouth. But I do remember going ice skating with a boy I met at 13 or 14 years of age and sneezing into his mouth when we kissed. I guess I have made some progress – at least I can control my puking and sneezing functions now.

Please tell me you have shit dates that rival these tales of woe? I can’t be the only girl in the world who makes a fucking ass out of herself … Surely?

  • Expected word count: 25,005
  • Word count today: 1,607
  • Word count to date: 20,715 (Well … I’m massively behind!)

Find the rest of the ‘Because I Can’t Write a Novel’ story here.

Related posts

Leave a Comment

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.

%d bloggers like this: