Watch Out Guys, Women Will Make You Gay!
And Midget Sex Fantasies
I have many stories from when I dated online before I "got off the train to Crazytown," as I call it. As some of you know, when I say "riding the train to Crazytown," I am referring to the 20-year period during which I was misdiagnosed with OCD. I really have bipolar disorder.
I will save that story for my mental health site and blog, which are currently in development.
But, let me just tell you that my judgment then was about as sound as that of Charlie Sheen in a cocaine factory. (Insert Roald Dahl joke here)
I dated online on and off for several years, and back then I tended to ignore, or, more accurately, flat-out not notice some warning signs, including red flags bigger than the state of Texas. Often, after meeting a person, I did see when they were a bit, shall we say, "rude" or "odd," or "psycho," but I could have picked up on these things when texting or talking to them on the phone. I just didn't. I am glad that time is in the past.
The silver lining to that unfortunate time in my life is that I have some whopper dating stories to tell you. I will use false names to protect the not-so-innocent dates and real names, specifically mine, to expose the dumbass!
Today's story is about when I went out with "Jacques." I am calling him Jacques because he was a French-American who had lived in the US for most of his life but still retained a slight French accent. My idiot ass is a sucker for accents. Also, as "Jacques" is such a cliché name for a French person, I think it's quite funny to use it.
So, I meet Jacques for our date at a restaurant and bar that's in between where we live. It's kind of dark and a little loud inside. That way, if either of us thinks the other is hideously ugly in person, the low lighting will make it so we don't have to look at each other. And, if the conversation sucks, we can be quiet and pretend the music is too loud for talking. I really do plan ahead!
I have always tried my best to arrive early when meeting a near stranger for a date. I guess it makes me feel more comfortable. So I get there about ten minutes before Jacques does. When he arrives, I am kind of surprised at his entrance.
I look at online dates as sociology experiments that could have a positive outcome. I have no idea if this person and I will like each other in person, if we will ever see each other again, if we will become friends, or if we might—gasp!—actually go on a second date! I try not to have any expectations and to be very observant. I even did this back when I lived in Crazytown, only then I wasn't successful like I have been since disembarking.
So, Jacques walks in like he owns the place, which isn't what surprises me because I understand making that kind of entrance. I do it too, in a confident but not cocky way. It shows you are self-possessed, plus it makes people wonder if you are important, and then you might get better service! Though, I have never entered any room or establishment in a manner quite as extreme as how Jacques makes his entrance.
He spots me and walks from the front door to the table with a sense of purpose usually exhibited by someone who has finally, blissfully found a bathroom after driving for three hours on desolate rural roads while drinking five bottles of water.
The part of Jacques' entrance that surprises me is that, rather than the traditional hug, or "Hi, I'm Jacques," when he reaches the table, he plops down in the chair across from me. He immediately starts a diatribe about fact-checking political information you hear on the news. Specifically, he tells me you don't need to.
And I'm like, "Dude, so did you smoke crack or huff gasoline before you arrived?" I don't say this out loud, but I am wondering how powerful the horse tranquilizers he injected before our date were.
Regardless of our political affiliations, I think most of us can agree that we need to fact check the news. We might even need to fact-check the news more than we need to fact check most other sources of political information. I believe any and all sources of political news, whatever their leanings, are entirely accurate about as much as I believe Bill Clinton didn't inhale.
At this point, about two minutes in, I realize Jacques is not "my people," but he is entertaining, and I can't wait to hear what else he will say. I am getting the vibe that comedy gold is forthcoming on this date.
Whoa, boy, was there comedy gold!
A little later, Jacques, who at this point I understand is very talkative and also doesn't have a filter, says something unusual. Well, it would be unusual for most people, but it is probably not unusual for him.
"I have this sexual fantasy," he says. "Wanna hear it?
"Uh, okay," I say, sure it is more likely to be ludicrous than gross.
Inside, I'm like, "Awesome! Just what I want to hear from someone who doesn't fact-check the news and who I met in person about half an hour ago."
Still, I am amused and interested to hear what this sexual fantasy might be because, comedy gold, people! And Jacques did not disappoint. It was better than anything I could have anticipated!
"I really want to have sex with a midget," Jacques says.
Thinking he is joking, I audibly guffaw and have trouble stopping.
"I'm serious," he says. "There's just something about them."
"There sure is," I say, mentally rolling around on the floor in an uncontrollable giggling fit at the absurdity of it all. Also, I just know there is additional comedy gold to come.
After that, we eat and chat about random crap that is not political or about having sex with midgets. Then Jacques busts out with something so fantastic and memorable that the moment he said it will flash before my eyes when I die.
"You know," he says, "Men should never let women do anything sexual to them back there."
He accompanies his statement with a downward, over-the-shoulder pointing gesture, you know, in case I can't infer what "back there" means.
"Oh, really?" I say, trying to hide my glee. "What happens if a man lets a woman do sexual things to him back there?"
I use the same downward, over-the-shoulder pointing gesture when I ask my question. Because, why not?
"Men shouldn't let women do stuff to them back there because it will make you gay," Jacques says as he points over his shoulder.
I have to bite down on my tongue and my entire face to keep from laughing so loudly I will get thrown out of the bar.
I compose myself.
"How does that make you gay? How do you know?" I ask.
Deadly series, Jacques says, "I know because it happened to my friend."
"Wait, your friend was straight, and he let a woman do sexual stuff to him back there," I say, with the accompanying pointing gesture, "and now he's gay?"
"Yeah," says Jacques. "After that, he was gay."
I am more delighted than a six-year-old who has been told she can eat her entire bag of Halloween candy in one sitting.
"Hey, Jacques?" I say, bursting with joy at how ridiculous this date is.
"You do know that when someone is gay, it's because they're just gay, right? They were born gay the way you were born-" I say straight, but what I want to say is, ridiculously bizarrely, entertainingly kind-of stupid. "You can't catch being gay like you can the flu, Jacques. Or become gay because a woman did sexual stuff to you back there." (Pointing gesture.)
"Yes, you can," he says. "I told you it happened to my friend."
"Dude," I say. "I hate to break it to ya—(This is a lie. I thoroughly enjoyed breaking it to him)— but your friend is just gay. He was gay before his "back there" encounter with a lady. He was gay ten years ago. He was gay when he was a baby. He's always been gay. Them's the facts, man."
"How could you know? You don't know my friend."
I want to simultaneously laugh my head off and smack myself in the face. I drop the topic, seeing the futility of arguing about how sexual orientation works with a man who thinks you don't need to fact-check the news. I then wonder if he heard this information about how people "become gay" on the news he didn't fact-check.
Now, you may wonder if Jacques' story was one of those "Asking for a (nonexistent) friend" things. But I really don't think it was.
I think the poor guy actually believed what he told me. Like, maybe his friend realized Jacques might be a wee bit homophobic and told him this story to maintain their friendship? I have no idea. All I know is that when I left the date I snort-laughed the entire way home.
I decided not to go out with him again. I've never had a thing for dumb Jacques, not even in high school.