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.
Normally I wouldn’t bring someone else’s dating life into Dating Hijinks, but honestly this one is too good not to share. Since I was given permission to use this particular story, I absolutely have to because it’s not only vile but… well, there are no words for it.
My friend Jennie has always been one of those avid daters in New York City. Before she met her boyfriend, she was the type to go out with three or four different guys a week in the hopes of finding the one. She also can easily talk to strangers, unlike myself, so it was easy for her to score numbers, go out on a date, and then nine times out of 10 realize he’s just not the one after all.
Not long before she met her current boyfriend she was out at a club in the Lower East Side and met some fella — who was wearing leather pants. Most people I know would walk away from a guy in leather pants unless that guy is Jim Morrison, but not Jennie. Instead, she ended up making out with him for most of the night, and just as the sun was starting to come up, they exchanged numbers. She didn’t expect him to call.
However, a few days later he did call and asked her out on a proper date. Leather pants aside, she was intrigued that he followed through on his word to see her again, so she agreed to meet him. He proposed a place in the East Village that has actually been closed for years, something that apparently, neither he nor Jennie knew. So she’s standing outside this abandoned former bar that has a sign in the window with contact information in case anyone wants to rent the space thinking to herself that sometimes you really should avoid guys in leather pants unless, yet again, they are Jim Morrison.
After 20 minutes, the guy showed and apologized profusely for not only being late, but for not knowing that this particular venue was no longer in existence. So they opted to head down to someplace on Delancey that had a roof deck.
Before Jennie finished her first drink, the guy started listing all the things he wanted to do to her later if she’d go home with him. In classic Jennie form, she laughed it off and tried to make light of the situation. But when he got into his foot fetish speil, she started to realize that maybe she was on a date with an official pervert. Not only did he detail his foot fetish, but he went into a graphic explanation of how his ex-girlfriend was a dancer and he loved to suck her toes and chew off her blisters. As to whether or not he consumed this dead skin or just spit it out, we’ll never know because Jennie didn’t ask. All Jennie could do was sit there in extreme horror, speechless (which is a feat for Jennie), all the while thinking that this was indeed a pervert and if she looked up his name online he was probably a registered sex offender. I tried to explain that just because someone likes to dine on foot blisters from time to time, this doesn’t necessarily make him a sex offender, but someone whose kinky side is maybe not exactly on par with her kinky side.
While I do not understand the whole foot fetish thing (as I did turn down the chance to give a “foot job”), I try my best to respect the fetishes of others. But chewing on blisters just seems like something that’s so out of even my realm of comprehending, that respecting it is really difficult.
Jennie is, of course, still scarred. She also abruptly faked sick that night and was out of there before she finished her drink (another feat for Jennie). Although he texted her a few times, she never responded.
The lesson here, people, is that if you have callouses and blisters, there are people out there who will gladly munch them away for you. Why? I don’t know. But apparently they do exist. Next week, we can get back to my dating life as I’ll be seeing Attorney Guy again later this week. Here’s hoping he will have learned his lesson that asking my “number” even on the second date is pretty damn uncouth.