It started as nearly every dating disaster does: It was a blind date. Well, a partially sighted date, anyway. I had met this guy on a little group outing that my friend had arranged so she could set us up. (No, she and I are no longer friends.) The guy seemed nice enough; he was good-looking and very polite to me all evening, but I must admit I hadn't spoken to him enough at the get-together to know much about him, other than that he lived with his brother, liked kung-fu movies (who doesn't?), and loved to cook. My friend told me he was head over heels for me, so I agreed to do the date solo. Well, he picked me up in a beater car with a dented passenger-side door that only opened from the inside. OK, that's not so bad. I'm not shallow; if that's the ride you've got, OK. So I got in the car and started to ask him questions about his job--and that's when Eddie got started. "I have a boring job. A monkey could do my job. I'm not very smart at all, so I guess it works out." Every time I used a word of more than two syllables, he asked me to tell him what it meant because, as he put it, "I'm not so smart, you know." If that doesn't set off the "Ew" alarm, it gets worse. He wanted to cook for me, which I thought was very sweet. So he took me to his place. Apparently he likes to cook, but cleaning is a bit beyond his range. I saw an effort to clean up: There were sweat pants and T-shirts and such bundled in corners and stuffed underneath things, and empty beer bottles and full ashtrays all over the apartment. I hesitated, but I was starting to pity this guy, so I thought I'd stay through dinner. While he was fixing dinner, his older brother came home with a young girl who was dressed in a halter and the tiniest Daisy Dukes ever. (It was early March.) They grunted at us and proceeded to the bedroom where they had very loud sex. Meanwhile, my date made steak--on a filthy broiler. Picking blackened French fries from the pan, he said, "Man, I can't even remember the last time we had French fries in the house!" When we sat down to eat, he informed me that all he had to drink was milk--but since he had no glasses, I should feel free to drink out of the carton. Just then I then excused myself to use the bathroom (considering escape if there was a window). As I walked down the hall, I heard him mumble something that sounded like "Luke." When I entered the bathroom, I realized that what he had actually said was "puke": The toilet was overflowing with vomit--apparently, from the previous evening's party. I had no choice. I peed in the sink and made him take me home. But it wasn't over yet. When we got to my place, this apparently not-very-bright guy (he had warned me, hadn't he?) obviously didn't get how completely peeved I was by the whole experience. Leaning over, he whispered in my ear: "You get me so hot. I had a great time tonight." And then he proceeded to lick my face--mostly because my lips were closed so tightly that I would have suffocated if I hadn't had a nose to breathe through. I just got out of the car and waved goodbye. Thankfully, I never saw him again.
— Leslie, 32