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Saturday, Jul 11, 2009
Dentures, skid marks, knit ties and other things to avoid if you want to hook up.
Oct 8, 2003 | A year after I had been crushingly dumped by my college girlfriend, I was starting to feel the desire to date again. As a reasonably attractive single lesbian in a big city, I didn't have too much trouble getting dates, just a lot of trouble finding anyone I was interested in seeing a second time.
I went to a Valentine's Day dance for youngish queers with some friends. After a while I noticed that wherever I went, a young woman in a black velvet shirt would pop up nearby. I started testing whether she was actually following me around -- if I went to the bar, would she? What would she do if I danced? She was a constant silent presence. While she wasn't really the type that would catch my eye if she weren't such a consistent part of the scenery, I was flattered.
She didn't seem to be able to actually start a conversation with me, so I finally chatted her up. Even though this was 10 years ago, I remember her saying, "I like your tats" -- which really should have been the deal breaker. But I was still flattered by her attention and very interested in getting out and socializing more. So I gave her my phone number.
She called, and we made a date to see "The Crying Game," which had just been released. Afterward, I asked what she thought of the film and she gushed about how wonderful it was. I said I thought it was a little problematic and brought up some obvious feminist-type issues. She immediately agreed with me, managing to contribute nothing that might pass for her own thoughts. Deal breaker.
I quickly tired of trying to eke out some conversation and initiated some minor making out -- which she was happy to comply with even though she wouldn't have dared to make the first move herself -- but it was all academic at that point. I planned to call her a few days later and suggest we just be pals. Maybe invite her to a group outing or something. But she called me three times the next day before I even got up and I knew then I'd never call her back. She called every day for several months and left messages on my machine. As I listened to her alternately plead and threaten, I was just happy she didn't know where I lived.
-- Anonymous
In the early 1970s I was engaged to a man who had just graduated from a military college, which was fairly brave of me considering the anti-military climate in the U.S. at that time. He was sent to Fort Sill, Okla., for his first tour of duty, and a few months later I went to visit him for two weeks. This trip took place over my mother's dead body; she felt I was shaming my family in our East Coast community by staying with a man to whom I was not yet married. ("No one will know unless you tell him," I said in smart-alecky response.) At first, the reunion was wonderful. He pampered me and took me dancing at the officer's club. But then it happened. One evening he left his shoes under the coffee table in the living room. The next day when he returned home from work, he was barely in the door when he said to me -- pointing in the direction of the shoes -- "What are those?"
"Your shoes," I said.
And then he delivered unto me the fatal deal breaker: "I expect my things to be picked up and put away by the time I get home," he said.
Soon after, I broke the engagement. And for years thereafter I reminded my mother that had I not gone to Oklahoma to visit my beloved second lieutenant, I would have ended up married to him. And divorced from him.
-- Kathryn Wise
I was busy getting ready for my second date with Kip (not his real name) when he arrived at my door -- 45 minutes early. Standing in my underwear, pulling hot rollers from my hair, I jumped into my jeans and top and let him in. He sped by me, calling over his shoulder, "Where's your bathroom?" He was obviously in dire need. Once he emerged, calmer and slightly embarrassed, I decided not to be weird about it all. Stuff happens. That is, until I entered my bathroom and saw skid marks in the toilet bowl. Had he only flushed a couple times, there would have been no evidence of a deal breaker for me. Since I was unable to come up with a legitimate reason not to, we went on what was our last date.
-- Anonymous
I met this guy at my neighborhood health food store. I'd noticed him right away: not the usual, patchouli-wearing, ratty T-shirt type that generally worked the register. He was tall, elegant, with a mustache that made him look like an old-time movie star. Once, when he rang up my produce, he commented on my suede jacket, and we spoke often after that.
Before long, we were arranging to go to an art show. It was nice; he dressed kind of formally, in a tweed cap and pressed pants. I found him eccentric but charming. He gave me a chaste kiss that night, but a few nights later, I was sitting on his lap in the kitchen of his apartment, his tongue exploring my mouth.
I liked him, I really did, until I discovered -- by accidental snooping -- that the mysterious older woman whom he shared his apartment with was his mother. Not such a big deal for a 30-ish guy, if he admits it. But he didn't. It seemed like he was ashamed, which in turn made me think his situation was kind of pathetic. It was also truly terrifying when this mother/roommate almost walked in on us one night.
The other deal breakers? One, when he referred to a friend of his who lives in Cuba. Only he pronounced it "Coo-bah." It sounded so very pompous, coming from a white guy and all. Then, once during sex, he looked up at me and said, "I want you to sit on my face." Maybe it was the seriousness with which he said this that made my flesh crawl. The thing is, if my present-day husband said it, we'd both end up laughing. But this fellow had a script in his head for everything, and I was tired of acting in his play. So I walked off the set.
-- Anonymous
