Truth in advertising
Many have written (re: my last column) asking why I continued to date “Stinks.” Despite his flatulence, poor taste in clothing and dating venues, he was a nice guy. He also had other assets. And guys, size does matter. If you have a small thingie please stay home, watch TV and fantasize about meeting chicks, we don’t want you in the dating pool.
This week’s heinous disaster: Rudolph. I was getting ready to leave a trendy bar when he started flirting. With his protruding lips and fish-face Rudy wasn’t exactly handsome, but he smelled good. I leaned over and sniffed the nape of his neck. After being with Stinks, I had to be sure. Apparently this gesture turned him on. We exchanged numbers and he called me that same night at 10:30 p.m. for a “date.” Guys, don’t ever call us the same night we meet. We’ll think so much more of you if you show a modicum of restraint.
Date no. 1: The next night. Rudy was engaging and funny. Since he walked to the bar, I gave him a ride home. He bade me to drop him near an alley, never revealing his actual residence. Rudy called me that night at 1 a.m. wanting to “chat,” and again at 8 a.m., then again at 11:30 a.m., at 3 p.m. and almost every hour on the hour, with the same lines, “You’re so beautiful” or “I love your smile” and/or “I miss you.” How could he miss me when he was calling me every 10 minutes? He wanted to come by, but I have a rule, I have to see where a guy lives before I allow him over, and I’d yet to see Rudy’s place.
Date no. 2: This time the evening wasn’t quite as much fun. Rudy spent the night trying to get me to take him home while he begged for a pair of my unmentionables. He needed immediate gratification and there was a reason. Rudy was a former crack addict. Such a pedestrian addiction! Couldn’t he have been hooked on something sexy and chic like heroin? What a loser. Rudy was also evasive. I revealed my rule and left thinking I’d never hear from him again. Then came 2 a.m. and Rudy was on the horn — again. He called so many times I had to unplug my phone. The next day he called to apologize and to make it up to me by taking me to dinner.
His cell was cutting in and out so I asked him to call from his home phone. A woman’s name came up on my caller ID. “Who’s that?” I asked, repeating the name. There was a long pause. Rudy, it seemed, was living with someone.
Trying to rebuild his life from his days “on the streets” Rudy said he was living with a “roommate” who was taking care of his “kids.”
His credit was shot and his ex-wife was too unstable thus was the predicament he was afraid to share because he didn’t want to lose me. Then he inquired again about my undergarments. Rudy apparently had an underwear fetish. About this time, he started texting me photos of his John Thomas which was uglier than a braised pork chop. Look guys; if you care enough to send the very best and yours is the very worst have the foresight to send a pic of someone else’s. And incidentally, if you tell us it’s six inches and it photographs as three, remember … the camera adds pounds. It doesn’t subtract them.
Date no. 3: The food was great, the wine superb, but nothing this guy told me added up. During our repast he blurted out conflicting bits of information such as: There are two kids. There is no ex-wife. There are no kids. He lives in a two-bedroom. He lives in a one-bedroom but sleeps on the couch.
He lives in a two bedroom but his kids sleep in another room. His “roommate” is old and frail. His “roommate” is paranoid and weird. His “roommate” is psycho. The only psycho here was Rudy, who eventually showed me his place. He had a one-bedroom and a girlfriend … no ex-wife, and no kids.
The last night I saw him we met for dinner. He expressed a sincere desire to get me pregnant. Say what? He couldn’t take care of himself let alone a child plus he was a deceitful cheater. His request was coupled with a final and almost desperate plea for underpants.
Knowing about the girlfriend I had stopped by Sears earlier, picked up a pair of cotton undies for a buck and used them to clean my toilet.
Upon leaving I gave them to Rudy and watched as he greedily draped them over his face. Nice. Guys, when you lie to us have the courtesy to get the lies straight lest you wind up with a mouthful of shigella and a Lysol chaser.
Taylor Van Arsdale is a writer/producer. She’s been married, widowed, duped and dumped, and is back in the dating fray while most of her friends are married with kids. She’s currently working on a true-life-tell-all and can be reached at Tailfish@roadrunner.com.
