If you haven’t dated in awhile, don’t. I highly recommend against it. There are a lot of wackos out there. I’m talking about the whack jobs that make you wonder when the rest of the world went crazy. Let me explain.
One of my irritatingly lonely Saturday nights I decided to have a glass of wine and cruise Plenty of Freaks. I don’t know why I decided to tempt fate and surf into the belly of man hell again, but I did. “Guy” popped up and started a conversation. He sounded vaguely intelligent and could complete a sentence so I checked out his profile. Not my type. Too short, he had a mustache like a walrus and his picture made him look gay. (No, I do not have a problem with gay people I just don’t want to date them) So of course we set up a date.
We met at Downtown Disney so we could walk around, get to know each other and would have tons of stuff to do if things went well. First impression, he was tiny. Teeny teeny tiny. Like I could put him in my pocket. Or if I accidentally sat on him no one would ever find him. He was 5’3” maybe and probably 80 lbs. He immediately grabbed my hand and we started walking. At least he was sweet and not afraid to be seen with me which is more than I can say for a lot of men, bonus points for him. We found an outside bar to grab a few drinks which he paid for no questions asked. Double bonus. We sat and talked where he told me tons of stories about his adventures growing up tiny. I sensed a little bit of a Napoleon complex from the stories, but none of them included women so I thought I was good.
I asked about what he does for a living and he told me that he’s a professional hairdresser. Jackpot! I had visions of fabulously blow dried straight hair, fancy shampoos, sweet smelling conditioners and soothing hair masks and not having to spend a dime for it running through my head when he told me that he also worked full time as a maintenance man for an apartment complex. Ummmmm, what? This seemed a little strange and I guess he could tell from the look on my face that I thought it was when he explained that his daddy was a good ole boy and if he ever found out that he was a hairdresser that he’d whoop his ass, so he took the maintenance job as a cover. Weird, but with double income I was happy to know I wouldn’t have to shell out any dough.
He called me the next day to tell me he enjoyed our date and that he would like to see me again but there were a few things that needed to be taken care of first. “Like what?” I said. Bad idea. He tells me that he needs to find me a necklace that will serve as my daytime collar, that I will need to come to his shop and get my nails and toes done to his specifications, that I needed to call him sir at the end of every sentence, that he had a submissive manual that I would need to read and that he would be cutting my hair and there were to be no questions about it.
What fucking dimension did I just step into?
Don’t get me wrong. Once I’m in a committed relationship I don’t have any problems experimenting in the bedroom. Some might even call it “getting freaky” but I’m not calling you sir in public and don’t even get me started on the whole hair thing. You can’t cut my hair short. I would look like a Chia Pet on crack. So I ever so politely told him I would have to get back to him. I immediately deleted his number and my Plenty of Freaks account. That was the last straw. You will no longer find me there. Or on Harmony, or Chemistry, or Match, or on PatheticSingleFatChicks .
I’ve got a new crazy idea. If you want to meet me, walk up to me, compliment me and maybe ask for my number. How much worse can that be?
Do me a favor. Don’t answer that.
