54. Date Fail

Cayden's in Croatia right now for his best friend's wedding. Rough life, right? I just talked to him on the phone and he went on and on about how beautiful it is and how much he's kicking himself for not asking me to go with him. He thought about asking me last September, but broke it off with me instead. Jerk.

Anyway, while he's in Croatia we don't get to talk on Facebook chat everyday like we usually do. So I'm going a little out of my mind. But luckily you wonderfully encouraging readers are entertaining me with stories of your own. Thanks for that! It's keeping me sane right now. One such readers, Krista, in D.C., was telling me about the slim pickin's of the DC dating scene. "So many douchebags, so little time," she wrote.

This reminded me of a priceless story I MUST share with you about the worst date I've ever been on. (I'm not trying to Tyra Banks this shit and make it all about me, but this is too good to pass up)

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I had just moved to NYC a couple weeks earlier, and I was out with Maleah (my crazy Puerto Rican roommate) and a couple of her friends. We were looking for a burlesque club called the Slipper Room because a friend of hers was celebrating her birthday there. We pregamed a little too hard and found ourselves drunk and confused somewhere in the Lower East Side.

"Surely someone knows where this place is. It should be right around here," Maleah said between drags on her cigarette, looking around for someone who looked helpful.

"I bet they know," I said, as I spotted a firetruck full of muscular, life-saving firemen on a corner nearby.

"Good call!" She tossed her cigarette on the ground, stepped on it with her high heels, and we strutted our stuff to the corner.

I saw something I liked. A tall, muscular, black fireman leaning up against the truck in his yellow pants, navy blue skin-tight shirt, and suspenders. Yum. I wasn't one of those girls with a uniform fetish, but damn he looked good. But I bet he looked even better out of it.

Maleah marched up to a group of firemen while I lingered behind to talk to the lone ranger.

"What are the chances you know where the Slipper Room is?" I asked, grateful for my liquid courage.

"What are the chances you'll tell me your name?" he shot back, with a half smile. His pearly whites stood out surrounded by plump lips and flawless dark skin.

Oh, he was a quick one.

"Hey, Whitney! I got directions. Let's roll," Maleah said, pointing her thumb over her shoulder.

"Whitney, eh?"

"Wow, how'd you guess?" I asked, my voice thick with sarcasm.

"I like it. I'm Jason," he said as he held his hand out to mine.

He was walking a fine line between arrogant and confident. I couldn't decide which side he'd land on. I shook his hand anyway.

"Nice to meet you, have a good night!" I said as I turned to catch up with Maleah.

"Wait," he said, grabbing my hand. "Can I get your number?"

I shook my hand free, and linked arms with Maleah. Then I called out my number over my shoulder. I doubted he'd remember it long enough to type it into his phone.

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The next day I got a text message.

"Hey Whitney, have a good time at the burlesque show?"
"Yeah, I made a lot of money."

We texted back and forth that whole week. I learned that he was half Colombian and half black. Quite a beautiful mix. He was in his early 30s, but he didn't look a day over 25 in my opinion.

"Can I cook you dinner this Friday?"

I don't think a guy had ever cooked me dinner before. Maybe this would be my first big-kid date, maybe this was how adults dated.

"Sure."

I was more than a little psyched that it was only my second week in NYC and I had a date with a gorgeous firefighter. I should have known it was all too good to be true.

At at 8 that night he texted me and said he was in front of my building. My stomach was already growling. I added a fresh layer of lipstick and skipped down the four flights of stairs.

I stepped outside and saw a shiny white Escalade on the curb. Jason stepped out and opened the door for me.

"Nice wheels," I said, wondering if that comment was going to push him over to the arrogant side.

"Thanks. I hope you're hungry."

My stomach answered for me.

At this point I realized I maybe should have asked him where he lived.

As soon as we were crossing water, that maybe turned into a definite yes.

"So... you live..."

"In Staten Island. Just wait until you see the view from my apartment."

Oh my god. I was on my way to Staten Island. Gross.

After 10 minutes in the car with Jason I thought about unbuckling my seatbelt, throwing the car door open, diving onto the highway and praying something big ran me over, like an 18-wheeler, or a hearse maybe. All he talked about was himself. Him, him, him. His ex this, his car that, his apartment this, his job that. I looked over at him and thought about making the evil face Reese Witherspoon makes in Cruel Intentions, just to see if he realized I was still in the car.

He caught me looking at him.

"Oh, are you looking at my arms?" He asked as he wrapped his arm around his biceps and flexed.

My mouth fell open. Was he serious? There was no way.

"You can touch it if you want."

I grabbed the handle on the door and looked in the side mirror to see if any semis were coming. The date hadn't even started yet, and it was already the worst date I'd ever been on. I looked around for cameras in the dash and half expected the Hell Date midget to crawl through the air vent.

We took the elevator up to his place and when we walked in the door I expected to see a luxury apartment. Low-back black leather couches, a flat screen TV on the wall, surround sound speakers next to the couch. But what I walked into looked more like a boy's dorm room. No wall decorations, one two-seater couch against a wall, and a CRT TV on a cheap TV stand.

"Oh, look. Here's an award I won for saving a boys life," he said, thrusting a plaque into my hands.

Well, that had been cool HAD I ASKED. I wondered if the corners were sharp enough to do damage if need be.

"So, I'm starving." My stomach growl, confirming the statement.

"OK, hang tight. I'm going to go cook," he said as he disappeared into his dim-lit kitchen.

I texted Maleah: "How much is a cab from Staten Island?"