Report Card

It had been a while. Time to get back in the saddle.

I found someone who seemed okay through an online dating service.

On the first date, we chose to have a Thai dinner in Newtown. We talked and had lots in common.

She had a good job working for a magazine. Good taste in movies, music and pop culture. She was a little overweight but put that down to eating the leftover cakes from the recipes they tried out at work. She was well dressed and articulate. By the way she was talking about men, she had obviously had a lot of guys judging her.

So, on the second date we went to see a movie and ate dinner. She was pretty impressed I spoke some Japanese to the staff at the restaurant. For some reason, I got a serious headache and offered her a lift home after dinner.

She invited me in for some Nurofen, which helped.

For someone with a great job, bells started ringing. She lived in a dump. Like a shitty student share-house.

I thought: “This is weird, man.”

Anyway, we start smooching and some serious tit-licking ensues, but no more than that.

I thought for our third date, she could stay over at mine. It was a Saturday night. Finally, some action! Strangely, when it came to it, she wasn’t that into it.

After the last session, she was gagging for it. Weird.

Then, while looking around my bachelor pad she went to deep. She fucked up.

“When can I move in?” she said, half-joking but not really.

I laughed but thought: “Um, not any time soon.”

Always the gentleman, I did the right thing and drove her home the next day. I couldn’t help thinking that my night of action wasn’t really that action-packed at all. In fact, neither was she.

During the week, we exchanged emails. She’d already struck-out once but was about to deliver a double strike.

I couldn’t fucking believe it. I got a report card that went something like:

I like this, not crazy about that, maybe you could change this, tone that down, go easy here, etc.

I took offence. Who the fuck was she to start judging after one shag?

On our fourth meeting (certainly not a date), I decided to tell her that it just wasn’t going to work.

What should have taken 20 minutes tops turned into a four-hour session.

Get this, she refused to accept my “resignation” and did not hear a valid reason why we should not be together.

She got drunker and drunker (on my coin), and started to get punch drunk, slurring and flailing in all directions.

“Go and date those other chicks, you’ll come back to me,” she yelled.

“Why can’t we just be fuck-buddies? Huh? Fuck-bud-dies!”

Then she got vicious.

“You’re just like the rest of them… but a bit nicer,” she said, with total loss of vocal control.

Yikes, I thought. This shit’s getting scary now.

I finally drive her home. While driving, I had to stop at a crossing to let a girl across.

She smiles at me for letting her pass and the psychopath says, “She wants you, just ’cause you’ve had me, you think you can have anyone.”

I started laughing.

After I dropped her home, I felt like I needed therapy.

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