• Wed, Mar 20 2013

Dating Hijinks: ‘Packing. He Was Packing. A .45 Pistol.’

Dude be packin'.

Dude be packin’.

On Wednesdays, Amanda Chatel will be sharing stories about her strange, fascinating and sometimes wonderful dating life. If it makes you want to date, check out TheGloss dating page.

This week we come back to submissions from our female readers (although, next week we’ll have a darling tale from our Sean — yes, he’s ours now.) Alison C. has a terrifying story that may make you realize why gun control really needs to be handled… and handled now.

Last fall I went on the worst date I’ve ever been on.

It started out normally enough, optimistically even. His name was Jonathan and he was an architect who was my age. He liked running, Its Always Sunny in Philadelphia, was conventionally attractive and had dual citizenship in the US and South Africa. On paper we were a match with a lot of interests in common, however being an “on paper” match means nothing in the dating world. I’d forgotten the very basic rule about dating and that is simply: there are no rules. I was blindly about to jump head first into a whole bunch of crazy.

We met at a local tapas place at 8:30 in a nice part of city in Atlanta. There had been the SEC championship game that day and the restaurant, while usually nice, was filled with people who had 10 to 12 hours of drinking under their belts already for that day. While harmless, they were loud, and smelled in the way only a day full of drinking can make you smell. My date was visibly pissed off by them and elected to have us sit on the patio. That was fine with me even though it was cold outside. It was then he dropped this bomb on me:

“So, would you fuck on the first date?”

This was the first full sentence he had spoken to me since I’d arrived at the restaurant. I’m generally a very sarcastic and joking person so at that moment I was searching his face for any signs of teasing. What I gleamed from his expression was a stone sober and inappropriate query. Also throughout the entirety of the date he never smiled, and said to me later that smiling was a “waste of energy.” I didn’t know how to react to the sex comment except to say, “Has asking that ever worked for you?”

To which he replied, “You’d be surprised.”

I wish I could say that at that very moment I bolted up out of my chair but no; I sat there in stunned silence. There was no reprieve from his jaw dropping opener, because Jonathan then decided he wanted to see what I wanted to accomplish in life, as if it was some kind of test. He told me that usually women my age (he and I were the same age) were so scattered that he couldn’t “deal” with them. I don’t know why I still sat there. I think at that point I was so morbidly curious to see what else this jackass had to say that I was willing to subject myself to more. I outlined to him my career plan, including my decided change of fields, which he told me was “brave.” And that may have been the highlight of the entire evening.

As far as the actual food part of dinner was concerned, I had only ordered one tapas dish that mercifully came out quickly. So I’d thought I was in the home stretch and that this date would be over as soon as our waitress came back to the table with our check. And then Jonathan turned our discussion toward guns.

“How do you feel about guns?”

I said, “Ummm, I haven’t been around many so they make me feel pretty uneasy.”

“Oh well, don’t be uncomfortable, but I’m packing.”

Packing. He was packing. A .45 pistol in a holster that fitted to the small of his back. I was sitting at dinner with someone who had brought a concealed weapon on a date. I can’t think of any situation where this wouldn’t be wildly inappropriate unless your date venue happens in be inside of a Grizzly bear’s den.

At that moment the waitress reappeared with our credit cards, and my wit and the grasp on how badly this night had gone finally caught up with me. I stood up and I ran to my car.
It was the kind of run where you don’t care how you look. Arms flailing, high heels chipping into the asphalt, loose change spilling from your purse and all. Honestly I didn’t run because I was scared of him; I was just so desperate to leave that moment and somehow move into the next — to a new time where I didn’t feel like I was being bullied into telling this awful person how I felt and thought about things.

When I went home, I started my healing process immediately. I met a good girlfriend for drinks where I relayed the finer points of my evening’s events.

I have to say that that was the worst date I have ever been on. You would think at this day in age there would be a way to identify these broken, freaks of nature, but no. They aren’t even ear-tagged like sheep.

Ladies and gents be careful, it’s a jungle out there. I wish the best for all my fellow singletons, and I hope that none of you ever have to go out with a gun-wielding, non-smiling South African.

Words you never want to hear on a date: “I’m packing.” Now give me your horror story: chatel.amanda@gmail.com

Photo: Big Beat

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  • Sean

    Wow, I don’t know what this guy saw or did in South Africa and I wouldn’t care less.

    I’d run like fuck too.

  • DebMoore

    I love the part where you just up and ran! Awesome

  • Lastango

    Packing a .45? Excellent choice. The mark of a connoisseur. Who said there are no real men left! To get a second date, show him you know who John Browning was.

    Never trust some metroboy or Euroweenie who CC’s a cute little five-round, 9mm handful.