Online Dating from A to Z: OMG!

Welcome to the Blogging from A to Z April Challenge. This month I’ll be working my way through the alphabet, one day at a time, on the subject of Online Dating. If you’ve never visited my blog before, I’m happy you’re here! Be sure to check out my previous A to Z Challenge posts and the books that were inspired by them for more alphabetical fun.

O is for OMG!

Sometimes our reality doesn’t match up with the fantasy we’ve created in our heads.

With online dating, it’s easy to get a first impression of someone that is simply incorrect. For better or for worse, it’s incredibly easy to misunderstand and misread people online, where almost everything is being communicated through words and pictures.

Even if you chat on the phone before meeting in person, you may still find some things that don’t quite line up with your image of your Internet Date when reality ultimately appears before you.

Here’s a blow-by-blow account of one of my worst online dating experiences, to help serve as a warning for those who might be tempted to ignore any raging red flags. This story will get dirty, so if you’re under 18 or easily offended, you should stop reading after Red Flag #3.

The World’s Worst Date

Peter Peckerwood thought he was the best thing to happen to women since Charles Bukowski. Of course, if you’ve ever read any Bukowski, right now you’re asking yourself “Who’d ever want to be such an asshole?” And, indeed, even if you are the world’s biggest Bukowski fan, the last person you would ever want to get involved with would be a guy who thought he was Bukowski. Or even Bukowski’s literary alter ego, Chinaski, for that matter.

Peter was an actor, which should’ve been my first red flag. Picture the character Withnail from the film Withnail and I, and you’ll have a good idea of the type of person I was dealing with: self-absorbed, manipulative, supposedly a classically trained actor, a person who was chronically unemployed and damn near unemployable.

Peter had concocted a get-rich scheme of sorts: he had put together a comedy troupe with several other under-employed actors who were also friends of his. The goal was to write up enough ridiculous sketches to create a show, perform at one of the cheapest venues in town, and get all of their friends and family to pack the house. I suppose it was a better idea than playing to someone’s parents’ basement, stuffed with the same family and friends supporting your little acting habit, but it amounted to much the same thing.

Meanwhile, this was a side project to a far more ugly endeavor of producing a one-man play about a Montreal school shooter who slaughtered 14 women for “stealing” his spot at an engineering school. The killer committed suicide after his shooting spree ran out of bullets, and Peter informed me that he “identified” with this psycho, since they both hailed from the same West Island suburb and both had abusive parents.

These were all items revealed to me on our first date, where he also:

  1. Told me I would never be able to hack waitressing, because it was all just another form of acting where you had to let the terrible things people said simply roll off your back in the hopes of obtaining a good tip;
  2. Offered me a job wrangling props for his comedy troupe; and
  3. Informed me that he was “dangerous” and that if I knew what was good for me, I would avoid him at all costs.

That should’ve been my second red flag. When someone tells you who they really are, believe them the first time.

Unfortunately I was curious about him, even though I knew I shouldn’t be. When he asked if I wanted to go to a party with him later that week, I said yes.

At the party, we were both out of our respective elements. The music was incredibly loud, making it nearly impossible to converse, so we did what any young people might do in such a situation: we got rip-roaring drunk.

Fueled by the foolhardy ego of booze, we took to the dance floor and began to shimmy. We became hot, sweaty, blinded by tequila and lust. Eventually, we took the party back to his place. But not without stopping at a liquor store on the way, where he bought a case of beer. (Red flag #3.)

Back at his place, we made out like drunken monkeys. He talked non-stop, alternating between utter nonsense and berating me about faking my moans of passion. (For the record: My moans were real, though my passion waned as he continued to mutter and berate me about them.) When I finally told him to shut up, he requested a blowjob.

I started to go down on him, and that’s when he began to hiccup uncontrollably and pushed me away. Minutes passed as he attempted to still the hiccups, but nothing worked. I lay back on the bed in frustration, and the next thing I heard was the sound of his snoring.

It being well past midnight, I sighed and rolled over to get some shut-eye myself.

In the morning I awoke to an ominous sound. It reminded me vaguely of running water, but it seemed too close at hand to be coming from the bathroom. After a moment I heard him mutter, “Fuck!”

Cracking one eye open, I saw him jump up and place a second mattress onto the floor. In the dark, when we had first entered his bedroom the night before, I hadn’t noticed it leaning up against the wall.

“Get up,” he said, “I pissed the bed.”

“What?!” I shrieked, shrinking from his side of the mattress.

“Just get up,” he said, and I scrambled off the urine-soaked bed, avoiding the dampened area. He calmly leaned the soiled mattress against the wall and lay back down on the second mattress, which was now occupying most of the available floor space.

I gathered my things and hurried into the bathroom to dress. I couldn’t believe this guy had wet the bed, thrown down a second mattress like it was no big deal, and expected both of us to go right back to sleep as if nothing had happened!

He never apologized for his behavior, and when I asked whether the bed-wetting was a regular occurrence, he insisted that all he needed was “a good woman” to “keep him in line.”

What a nightmare.

So, to recap:

If your date ever:

[author_list style=”tick”]

  • Tells you he’s dangerous,
  • Identifies with a serial killer, or
  • Negs you from the get-go by comparing himself to a famous misogynist…


PLEASE hit the “block” button on your app and/or excuse yourself to the restroom to slip out the back door and run like the wind. This guy is never going to change, and he’s clearly an asshole, so don’t even bother trying to understand him. Even if you sympathize with whatever bullshit he’s telling you about his deep, dark past, it’s not worth it. He needs therapy, not a date. Get the hell out and don’t look back!

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