There was a blog called, My Very Worst Date, that has since been acquired or ceases to be but it was a good blog. People wrote in about their experiences on their very worst dates and I did, too. I was immediately catapulted to the top, put in the “best of” category, only seconds after I clicked ‘send’. Not for any particularly clever writing on my part but because this actually happened to me. This is my very worst date.

I met my Very Worst Date a couple weeks before the event on New Year’s Eve, a guest of my brother-in-law. He was very tall and in pretty good shape, had kind of a mewly kind of face but it evened out a little instead of staying scrunched up when he smiled or laughed. It was something I could overlook and we sort of fell into step with each other.

Our first date was atrocious but given that I actually agreed to go out him after that is testament to how lonely I was at the time. I should have known that going out with someone who has to borrow a bottle of wine from his neighbor when I arrive, thinks that Macaroni Grill is the height of sophistication, brags about his T-shirt collection and rips on his ex for hours on end, is probably a bad idea. But, hey, hindsight and all. For anyone who would rather be on a date than be lonely, I’ll make you feel better about that falsehood, believe me.

So, like an idiot, I agreed to go out with him on a second date, giving him the benefit of the doubt and praying, that on our first date, he was having a bad day and off his game.

The day of the VWD arrives and I’m at home when he arrives two hours early. Of course, I’m confused and put out but let him in. He explains that he was in the neighborhood for some conference and thought he’d just come by (without calling). I ask him that since our date was for dinner, should we just get going early. He says no, he’d just eaten at Denny’s down the hill. Um, okay. I didn’t think it was normal for people to eat full meals before a dinner date but he was two hours early so maybe for such a tall guy he’d be hungry again. We sit around, he helps himself to what’s left of my wine, that I bought from a store not raided from my neighbor, and smoke cigarettes.

He is occasionally squishing his face up in a way that is certainly not appealing but I am trying my best not to be that kind of person to judge. I’m sure I look hideous with certain facial expressions, too. I get him up off the couch and we head out to dinner.

We walk to a beautiful, hip new place down my street. I am fully enjoying whatever it is I’m eating as all their food was good but he picks at his, barely nibbling, and not talking. I try to make conversation but it’s difficult and am glad when the check arrives. For a second. He tries to convince me that since he really didn’t eat much, he shouldn’t have to pay for such an expensive tab. I think the entrees were about $10 a piece and not a tab I would’ve called expensive for a nice dinner. He reluctantly pays the whole thing, after I offer to share, and without really saying so implies it’s a favor to be repaid. How, I don’t know and shudder to think of it.

Absolutely, if your question is, “hadn’t you had enough of this guy?” but we walk back to my apartment slowly as he’s clutching his stomach to get his jacket or some other excuse he gave. When we get to the house, I’m ready to clear him out of there, but he runs into the bathroom instead. The retching only got louder and more violent as the longest 60 seconds ticked by. My apartment was probably the least private I had ever lived in as the doors hardly fit on any of their jambs. It didn’t bother me because I lived alone but I sure got to see quickly how that could be a problem adding one more body to the mix.

He comes out looking sheepish and sick and I pick up his jacket to hand to him and say, “You poor thing. Take care driving home.” And I’m cut off as he leans in quickly for a kiss. After he threw up. After the worst date I’d had so far. I dodge out of his way, suggest he leave again but he’s already running to the bathroom and this time he’s getting assaulted from both ends.

No matter how loud I turned on the music or TV, each trip to the bathroom was clearly audible, clearly distressing, and clearly carrying across the apartment courtyard. I actually don’t know if that last part is true but from where I’m sitting, I can only imagine.

All night, yes all night, he ran back to the bathroom for whatever ailed him to come out looking more haggard and slump on the couch. I try and try to suggest he leave but I’m either cut off by his mad-dashing or I’m fighting him off whenever I let my guard down. The night draws and long and painful and I’ve never been so happy to see the sun hoping that it’ll bring health and quiet to my house again.

It’s not like I was a saint. My frustrations showed every time he made a sound or moved. He fell asleep a few times and the bottle of vodka I was nursing didn’t help mature me any. I’d blow smoke at him, “accidentally” turn up the TV on occasion just to see him jump and do any number of other childish crap when it came to me. I know it was stupid and I know now that it probably didn’t help him heal any faster but I was annoyed beyond control. I was far too understanding in the beginning but who wouldn’t be? We’ve all been there. We all haven’t been there doing that in front of a near stranger who we’d like to impress but we’ve all been that sick before and it’s hard to not have a little sympathy. It had gone on too long and he’d been a terrible patient and a much worse human being so in the dark early morning I was doing anything I could do to make him want to leave. It didn’t work and he was snoring comfortably on my tiny couch smelling like sweat and sick.

Finally I kick at him to get up. He mumbles and gets up and goes back into the bathroom where the symphony of bodily functions continue. I’m about to call the police when he comes out of the bathroom looking worse than before. I just look at him with what could only be unbelievable scorn to which he ignores and says, “Pwease take cawe of me.” And runs to the bathroom again. Coming out, I’m still standing where he left me in awe, but say, “You okay?” to which he replies, “Pee-pee’s coming out where pee-pee shouldn’t come out.”

It feels like days that I stand there stunned but he never pays any attention. Did he, a 41 year-old man, just tell me about his diarrhea? In baby talk? It was a yes or no question about his general well-being and possibly if he was going to die, to do it outside, not, “How’s your butthole? Please tell me in graphic detail what’s coming out of it. And please do it in baby-talk because THAT IS WHAT NORMAL PEOPLE DO!”

I want so badly to throw him off the balcony but he’s too big. My only other option is to tell him I’m calling my brother-in-law or, if necessary, the police to get him out. He is strangely not insulted by this at all, almost as if it’s a regular thing for him to hear and he, I kid you not, tries to kiss me and begs me to call him for another date. I would’ve punched him but I’m hating the very look of his slimy, sick-slick skin and couldn’t even touch him to give him pain. Just out, get out, get your disgusting foulness out of my house!!!

18 or so hours after the start of the most foul nightmare thrust into my life and home and it is finally over. I clean and clean and scrub and disinfect for days and finally remove any and all traces of that horrible event. And cursing his name every second of it, especially when I’m cleaning the “misses” he’d made all over the bathroom; the toilet, the walls, the sink. No, he didn’t clean up after himself at all, not even a little, and not after literally exploding each and every time in my bathroom.

A few days later, I’m feeling pretty good about things. I have a funny story to tell and I’m not receiving too many pleading phone calls from pee-pee boy anymore. He has slowed down the calling and message-leaving, though, those were pretty entertaining in a creepy way. My favorites were the messages that begged me to consider the good times, the things we’d been through together and to remember how much we liked each other, “in the beginning”. I don’t know if he considered a New Year’s Eve, one shitty date at his house watching TV with his roommate, and one night alternately puking, exploding and unsuccessfully groping at me, a relationship or if he thought I was someone else. Whatever he thought, he was wrong on all of it. And I’m just glad he’s going, going, gone.

In my house I have a couple of dragons carved out of wood and lacquered. They’re cute and I like them but hardly what one would call a collection. Apparently, it needed to be, though, because the package I received on my doorstep contains a dragon T-shirt, a dragon carved out of crystal, dragon necklace and dragon earrings and one big poster of a dragon. To top it off, there’s six homemade CDs of one of my favorite bands. This same band only has two albums made so I can only imagine how long he had to have sat at his computer stealing every recording they ever made to make this many CDs. I can’t help imagining him sitting at his desk naked, smoking and wiping tears. I don’t consider this cruel, I really do think that’s what happened to make this little proof of devotion.

I seal everything back up and return it to sender. Then lock my door and wash my hands.

Last but not least because this story couldn’t end without a grand finale/insult. The band I love comes to town a short time later and I hear from my brother-in-law that pee-pee boy wants to take me. Thankfully, I already have tickets and plans and when he ignores my brother-in-law’s advice to leave me alone and texts me, I tell him so. His choice reply, constructed to prove who’s the bigger person here, says, “I decided to let you have a good time and not ruin it by going to the show. Have fun,” Bursting into tears is what I’m sure he’s hoping for but I’m bursting into laughter. I had forgotten his name by then, only referring to him as pee-pee boy when I told the story. So, as annoyed and disgusted as I am, laughter is the only response possible when he signs it, “and Good Bye, P.”