For this Valentine’s Day, we want you to share your weirdest, worst and most WTF moments from V’days past. We’ll post them through Valentine’s Day, then have readers vote on whose story is the best (well, best-worst) and the winner will receive an amazing Pacifica prize pack. For contest guidelines and details on the prize, click here! You can read all the entries here.
About a week or so before Valentine’s Day, I found “Paul.” He was the first man discharged to me from the bloated bowels of OKCupid. Paul worked as a mid-level manager for a legal consulting firm downtown and enjoyed dove hunting, Malcolm Gladwell and his Lexus. In addition to this, he informed me in a pre-date message that he would be picking me up “in the Lex” and take me to dinner at a chi-chi restaurant. He then messaged me the day of our date (Valentine’s Day, no less) to lay out an e-neg: since he didn’t know that I was “worth it” yet, we’d be going to an IHOP. Winky face. Why I didn’t cancel, I still don’t know. The pressure of having a Valentine’s date? Anyway…
During dinner, he spoke extensively about his collection of custom-made exotic skin cowboy boots, insisting that I feel the texture of the pair he had on (ostrich). He then dove into work talk, repeatedly referring to his staff as “peons” and “minions” unironically, and letting me know that while he OBVIOUSLY had to keep his useless underlings around him at all times, he could make them stop their work and wait in a conference room if a special lady (hint) happened to stop by for a midday quickie on his desk. Cue an intense stare.
Having veered the conversation back to something less horrifying, he again began talking about his boot. Then, tragedy struck: I took a sip of my water and accidentally inhaled it. I started to cough pretty forcefully and did my best to minimize the interruption, covering my mouth and trying to shrink down into my chair and away from the restaurant’s cumulative side-eye. Having caught my breath a bit, I look up to see Annoyed Face. I gesture to him to continue his story, flashing an apologetic smile. Maintaining perfect Annoyed Face, he loudly says, “NO. I DON’T APPRECIATE YOU DOMINEERING THE CONVERSATION. I’LL JUST WAIT UNTIL YOU’RE DONE.” The restaurant suddenly became very quiet save for the noise of pink glittery garlands brushing together in the breeze from a heating vent.
At least he paid. He then insisted on walking me to my car, which was parked under a streetlight, so there was a cloud of crickets and moths buzzing into my hair and down my collar as he aggressively tried to kiss me, landing a damp tongue on my cheek while an insect crawled along my scalp.
He texted me later to say that I earned a dinner at the fancy restaurant. I replied that I wasn’t interested. He texted back with a long, detailed story of how he wanted to take me dove hunting and fuck me against a tree. Much narrative was given to the act, force, and profundity of his hypothetical ejaculation.
On the bright side, the next guy I went out with from OKC was a prize gentleman, and we’re still happily together over a year later. There is hope!