My Worst First Date
I didn't want to go. I had been dreading it since I found out she said yes.
But Tom forced me into it. I mean, he wouldn't say he forced me, "it's fate, man!"
But come on, he forced me.
You see, it's easy for Tom, first dates, the guy's like 6'2", 185 pounds with one of those perfect sets of jet black hair that always seems to sit perfectly atop his oval shaped head. You look up handsome in the dictionary and it's a bloody picture of Tom for christ sakes!
Not me, I'm defined somewhere between "awkward" and "abnormal". Girls have frightened me ever since that time in Ms. Daisy's grade one class when some of the kids were playing spin the bottle and I was forced to kiss Cassy McFee, the most beautiful girl in the grade. Except, I didn't kiss her, I froze up, peed my pants and ran to the bathroom crying, while the rest of the kids erupted into laughter at such high decibels that a neighbor called the fire department because they thought there was an earthquake.
I've been scared of girls (and bathrooms) ever since.
And now here I was, 10 years later, forced by my best friend to go on a blind date with some girl I met on the internet. The fucking INTERNET.
"what if she's a serial killer," I asked Tom.
"Oh shut up" he said, "only guys are serial killers".
"Well, what if she's a guy!?!"
Tom rolled his eyes, certainly deliberating whether I was worth this friendship.
"Would it make it easier for you if I came with you, as… backup?" He was only half-joking. Nothing would make him happier than a recreation of the Cassy McFee episode.
"No," I retorted, "I'd rather embarrass myself on my own."
"Suit yourself, short stack," poked Tom, never one to shy away from calling out my average stature and other insecurities.
Yet, he was still my best friend and I knew he wanted something good to happen to me after my parent's divorced. After all, he was the one who set up my dating profile, crafted the witty responses and ultimately secured my preeminent date.
And now here I was, standing by a bus stop on the edge of town, in an area I had never been, waiting for a girl I had never met.
"What if she's a guy," I thought as a burly construction-type labored past. I shuddered at the thought, then composed myself, trying to remember what Tom taught me.
"You just gotta own the frame, dude!"
"Huh? What the fuck does that mean?"
"The frame. Jesus, man, do you not do anything for self help?"
I didn't.
"You mean like Tony Robbins?"
"Fuck Tony, guy's a hack. I'm talking Carnegie, Covey, Hill… the legends. The real deals. Not Tony, fucking Robbins."
I nodded. Having no idea who he was talking about.
"Stand up tall, chest out, chin high, talk with authority, lead the conversation… own the frame, man."
"Own the frame. Okay, thanks Tom."
"And whatever you do, don't go home with her."
"Don't go home… but I thought that was the goal?"
"Not on the first date you numbskull! Make her want you, man. Make her yearn."
"Yearn? Yeah, yearn. Okay, got it."
I didn't.
And now here I was at a bus stop waiting for some girl I had never met to try and make her yearn.
I couldn't imagine this night ending well.
"God I really hope she's not a guy," I thought as a beautiful girl approached from the west. I had never seen a girl so beautiful. She reminded my of Cassy, except she was a grown up. A real dame. With long flowing hair that caressed her hips as she walked with a flow and sway that made her ass swing from side to side like a pendulum.
I looked away before she could make eye contact. I didn't want to be caught gawking at some girl way out of my league. So I pretended to be checking the map on my phone.
"Sam?" said the feminine voice. Uh-oh, that was my name.
I looked up and it was the beautiful girl. Oh shit, it can't be.
"Klara?" I stuttered, hoping that I was remembering the girl's name right.
The girl nodded, her big brown eyes staring into mine.
"I… I didn't recognize you," I stammered.
"Photos. Never as accurate as real life"
I nodded. Trying to understand how a girl this beautiful would have ever agreed to be on a date with me. As if she knew what I was thinking she said,
"I liked your profile. We have a lot in common."
"We do? I mean, yeah, we do." I smiled, an awkward smile. "Do you live around here?" I asked.
"Not far."
"Nice neighborhood."
"It's alright. I've stayed in worse."
I couldn't imagine that statement to be true. A girl like this being relegated to anywhere short of the best neighborhood was hard to believe.
"So what's the plan?" she asked.
Normally, this kind of question would have caught me off-guard, but I was prepared thanks to Tom. He had told me that girls like plans and had forced me to draw up multiple scenarios dependent on how the night was going.
There was dinner (though that was a last option given the normality of it), movies (same), a walk in the park (too romantic) and a laundry list of others. I filtered through them in my head, trying to pinpoint what would make me seem the least awkward and excite this girl the most.
"I was thinking the gun range," I said.
Her eyes opened wide, amazed at the suggestion.
"Aren't you afraid I might shoot you?" she asked dryly.
I laughed.
"You don't seem like the type."
She smiled.
"True, I'm more of strangler," and proceeded to pretend to choke me, her cold, delicate hands touching my skin and making my heart pound in my chest.
We both laughed. It was a funny thought, her strangling me.
"I love the idea, lead the way."
We got to the gun range just after 9. I knew the place because my dad had taken me there as a kid, even though I hated it and was terrible at shooting.
"It's about preparation, son. Everything in this world is about preparation." He was a cop, my dad, so his definition of preparation was a little different than most.
It was an old range, with a musty smell, a combination of gun powder, sweat and mold.
But Klara didn't seem to care. She relished in it. She even knew some of the names of the guns, which surprised me.
Tom would be proud, I thought. She seems to like me.
We spent two hours there, shooting every gun we could get our hands on, from pistols to shotguns and even an AR-15.
When we left we were both laughing and in good spirits, energized from the experience and ready for more.
We stood on the sidewalk for a moment sharing laughs and contemplating our next move when Klara blurted out—
"Come over."
I looked a little shocked. The night had been going well, but it was so forward that it threw me off.
"Come over?"
"yeah, why not. We like each other, right."
"I mean, sure, yeah, but…"
"Come on, what do you got a curfew?"
"No, I said, it's just…" I remembered what Tom had said about first dates but quickly lost focus staring back into her beautiful doughy eyes.
"Oh hell, why not"
She smiled a huge, wide, smile, leaned in and kissed my cheek. My heart fluttered. I could hardly contain myself. No girl, especially one of this caliber, had ever kissed my cheek before.
We came upon her flat just after midnight. The streets were quiet except for a street sweeper pushing debris off the thoroughfare.
She whisked me up the steps to the broad double doors enclosed within an iron gate, common to the city.
Klara opened the gate and then the door and before we could even set foot into the foyer pulled me close and kissed me.
It was the most wonderful feeling I had ever experience and although my heart felt like it was going to leave my chest, I, thankfully, reframed from peeing my pants this time.
"That was—"
"Nice," she said.
"Yeah".
We smiled into each other's eyes and I wondered if this was love at first sight.
"Come on"
She grabbed my hand and led me up the dark stairwell to her flat on the fourth floor. It was the only flat on the floor, as it was a short building with only 8 units, so technically she had the penthouse.
I hesitated for a moment as she opened the door, again, remembering what Tom had said.
But when the door opened and the smell of fresh flowers and what must have been some form of baking wafted up my nostrils I couldn't resist and followed Klara inside.
She closed the door behind me with a clang and bolted it shut.
"Can never be too careful," she quipped. "Come on, let me show you around."
It was an old apartment, but well decorated, though fairly empty which I thought a little odd at the time.
There was one small sofa adjacent to an electric fire place above which sat an empty mantle.
There was a table in the kitchen with two chairs and no paintings or any form of art to be seen.
"Just move in?" I asked.
"Nope" she responded, but didn't offer any follow up so I didn't press.
"Stay here for a moment," she said and disappeared into what I assume was the bedroom.
I stood looking around the rather empty rooms, my eye drawn to a neon sign visible through the window and below the fire escape. It was one of those motivational signs you see throughout the city, of no real use except to attract the tourists for photo ops while annoying the locals who had to put up with a neon glow entering their apartment at all hours of the day and night. This one simply said, "Your future is now"
"Odd," I thought. What a stupid sign.
I was distracted and didn't notice Klara had returned.
"Pretty, huh?"
"I guess," I said, turning around to see that Klara was referring to herself. She had changed into lingerie that didn't leave much to the imagination. I was thrown aback, couldn't believe what I was looking at, her perfectly tender body staring back at me, inviting me.
All I could mutter was, "wow". Trying with all my might not to let my voice crack or pop a woody.
"You look incredible," I forced out through my mouth which felt like gelatin.
"Thanks," she said and smiled.
"I want to show you something," she said. And walked away towards another room at the far end of the apartment.
I followed her, watching her ass bounce in her black thong towards the open door.
She disappeared inside and I followed.
I was immediately thrown off by the putrid smell the minute my foot stepped inside. But I couldn't register what is was and didn't have time to compute as the lights were flicked on and I was momentarily blinded.
They weren't normal house lights, these were some high Kelvin lights, industrial strength. The kind you'd see on a movie set.
I put my hand up to my eyes to try and shield them, my retinas constricting and orbs of color consuming them.
"Klara?" I said, confused as to what was happening.
"Relax, Sam. Try to relax now."
The voice, though Klara's had taken on a sinister tone and it sent shivers down my spine.
Instinctually, I turned to run but couldn't see and ran face first into the door jam.
When I came to, I was sitting in a cold, steel chair, in the same room with the putrid smell. My clothes had been removed, except for tighty whities which were currently wedged in every direction, causing a restrictive feeling, furthering the discomfort of the current situation. But tight underwear was the least of my problems.
Standing over me was Klara, still in her brazier and panties, but brandishing a long, thing blade.
She grinned.
I pulled at the chains on my arms but they wouldn't budge.
"Sam, Sam, Sam," said Klara. "Don't fight fate, Sam".
I tried to get words out but the fear had engulfed me and all I could mutter was… "Serial…"
"Sorry, Sam," said Klara, "I'm fresh out of milk."
"… killer."
"Oh don't be dramatic," she said, "I prefer the term "blood artist". "Serial killer" is so blase"
"why?" I asked, trying to understand how I got myself into this predicament and imaging Tom shaking his head at me for my stupidity. If I had only listened to his warning…
"Because I can," Klara replied and began to run the blade across my chest.
I had never had a knife pulled on me before and especially not one by a beautiful woman who had tied me to a chair and planned to filet me like a mignon.
I didn't know how to react but the fear ran through my body like a deadly flu, and I began profusely sweating, the beads dripping off my brow and down my leg, forming a puddle on the floor.
And then it happened, for the second time in my grown up life, a waterfall began to run down my legs and a pool of pee formed in my pants. I had pissed myself (again).
Despite my predicament, I was embarrassed, so embarrassed that I hoped this would end quickly, that this woman would gut me so that I could be removed from the feelings of dread that swarmed my mind; of the stories that might be told, about the poor boy who was not only killed because he went home with the wrong girl, but who died with a piss stain on his pants. It was a gruesome thought.
And my mind was consumed with this dread that I hardly noticed that Klara had her hand over her nose and a look of disgust on her face.
"Did you shit yourself?" she asked with a motherly disappointment.
"Pissed." I replied.
"Your piss smells like shit," she said, "You need to eat healthier."
"Thanks for your concern. I'll consider that."
"I don't normally kill people like you, you know."
"Like me?"
"Unhealthy people. Guys who don't care about their bodies."
"I care about my body."
"Apparently not," she retorted, referencing my stinky pee with her upturned nose.
"So does that mean you're going to let me go?" I asked, hopeful.
"I can't do that. I haven't had a good one in months. I need to get off."
"Get off?"
She leaned in close, her perfume wafting up my nose and her breath tingling my insides. I was still deeply attracted to her besides the fact that she was about to kill me.
"It's better than sex, you know."
I had never had sex before, nor I had killed anyone, but somehow I didn't believe her.
"How many have you…"
"I lost count."
"Jesus, but you're like 17. How is—"
"23. I just look young." And she winked at me.
The room felt so hot. Or maybe it was my insides burning. Spontaneous human combustion. Either way, the sweat was running like Angel Falls from my brow to my chin and Klara was getting more and more disappointed with me. The pee, the sweat, none of seemed to make her happy. And somehow that bothered me.
"I can't even be a good kill" I thought, disappointed in myself.
Klara grabbed a handkerchief and wiped my brow, running her hands through my hair as she did. She pulled her hand away and paused, staring at her palm.
"Something wrong?" I queried.
She took her hand, wiped it on her pants then ran it through my sweaty hair again. She looked at her palm once more and nearly lost it. Her calmness turning into some rage filled monster. She seemed to stomp up and down like a toddler in a temper tantrum.
"Blonde, blonde, blonde… but your profile. Your profile!"
"What are you talking about?"
"That's not something you just lie about Sam?!?"
She smacked me upside the head in anger. Then put the knife to my throat and leaned close and hissed in my ear, her sputum hitting my eardrum as she spoke:
"I don't. Like. Blondes!".
She showed her hand. Streaks of brown hair dye.
"I knew I shouldn't have used that cheap stuff", I thought.
See, I had died my hair the night before. Tom thought I'd look better as a brunette. He thought blondes were pussies and generally less intelligent as a cross-section of society. So I died my hair. He warned me not to use the cheap stuff, but I didn't have any money for his high-end crap, so I bought what I could. I hadn't really thought about it and it certainly didn't cross my mind that that one decision alone had saved my life.
It was a few hours later when I woke up on a bench at a bus stop. The first dash of light from the early morning sun creeping up beyond the horizon. I couldn't concentrate on the sunrise though, as my head was pounding and an old woman was kicking at my legs—her way of telling me the bus was there.
I hobbled onto it, looking over my shoulder as I fumbled for change, before the driver shut the doors and shoved off along Crescent Drive. I slunk down in my seat, pulled my hood up and rested my head against the glass. Somehow, I felt happy. I felt accomplished. I felt alive.
And, so, I watched the city wake up around me as I rode my way home, never to forget the night of my worst first date.
// The End
