It Ended Badly…

When I was a teenager in the early nineties, I dated a guy who had his own dingy basement apartment, but not a phone. He won me over by walking a mile and calling me from a gas station payphone every night. We’d talk 25 cents worth: a half an hour. Through all kinds of weather. No one had cellphones back then. He was the last of a now extinct breed: the chivalrous Quarter Caller.

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…used his real, full, given birthname on match.com.

I replied to his email and asked why he’d release personal information (full name!) into seedy cyberworld. He replied, “I HATE SECRETS.”

On our first date, he presented a book I’d mentioned wanting to read. He looked nothing like his pictures. But he was confident and smart. He brought me chocolate when he saw me after that. By the end of week two, we’d hid our match.com profiles and were officially only wooing each other.

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…lived through Christmas.

After winter holidays, I had a blind date with a guy met online. He was even more attractive in person than in pictures. Extremely handsome… A smoldering hot Czech who spoke with an accent as thick as it was intoxicating. He was very polite. And on time. And offered compliments a-plenty.

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…loved comics.

He loved comics so much that his full sleeve tattoos ended with Spidey on one hand… and the Hobgoblin on the other hand. Not so ambidextrous, it was the evil Hobgoblin that fondled my breast.

For being a tough terrorizing villain (or a web slinger for that matter) Hobgoblin used “Darling” a lot and was sick all the time. After coming down with “gophers” in his throat inflicted on him by the deadly children at a nearby school, the mighty Hobgoblin was forced to go to the hospital where was told he was contagious.

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…rarely spoke.

Amish boy’s single triumphant moment came and went on our first date in a single rap song. We were sitting in a dive bar that fit not much more than two fistfuls of people and a pool table when a brawl broke out “Road House” style. A cue stick was snapped to place a chokehold. Mugs flew. Fists swung. The bartender ducked for cover.

“Don’t worry.” Amish Boy said. “I know what to do.”

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…rode a Harley.

On our first date, I jumped on the back of the PR Superstar’s motorcycle and prepared to ride into the sunset for dinner. I strapped on the helmet. Pulled on the goggles. Zipped up the jacket. Then we drove a grand total of four short city blocks.

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Welcome!

“it ended badly” is where the most distasteful, outlandish, offensive, awkward dating experiences are truly loved and appreciated.

Sweetly gathered on this site are disastrous true accounts from the dating world submitted by those that survived to type on.

Misery makes good company. To laugh with. And at.

Post your horrendous encounter.

Read other tales even more damaging.

AND ENJOY the worst we ALL have to share.

-Jules

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