John wasn’t my perfect guy — not by a stretch. He was sort of doughy-looking, talked too much about money, and had a juvenile attachment to Ryan Reynolds films and pot. But he was funny. And he remembered everything I ever said (you’d be surprised how flattering that can be). So after meeting him one vodka-drenched night in midtown bar, I decided, what the hell – maybe he’d grow on me. Our first date was pretty forgettable (minus the part where he showed up late; that part I remember). He definitely wasn’t the kind of guy that had me plucking petals off daisies or running out to buy risqué lingerie. But one Tuesday night, I was home alone and bored. And feeling a little … like playing.
“Hope your apartment is clean,” I said, when he answered the phone. “I’m coming over.”
He didn’t object (duh) and I spent a thirty-block cab ride indulging in a few fantasy scenarios. He’d open the door and … well, I wasn’t wearing all that much under my winter coat.
But John didn’t open the door. The response to my quick knock was, “It’s open!” There went my opening surprise. Clearly, he did not know how the I’m Coming Over Game worked. And his apartment was a disaster. The living room was littered with clothes in various states of filthy, in the middle of which stood John, wearing gym shorts and what looked like the rag I use to clean behind my toilet — a freebie t-shirt with the sleeves torn off.
Never, in the history of ever, has a man done so little to earn nookie. But that night, it was all about me.
One glimpse of bare thigh under my wool coat and John finally clued into the I’m Coming Over Game. Grabbing a handful of hair (yes, please), he scooped me out of my shoes, went in for that first kiss and … What is that? Is that your tongue or a garden spade? I felt assaulted. I pulled back, surprised and a bit disgusted. And then there were John’s hands. I felt like I was getting jabbed with bratwurst or those gross little hot dogs that meatheads eat during the Super Bowl. Blunt, nasty, greasy, graceless little objects. This was not what I’d had in mind. John, however, was really enjoying himself. He began leading us toward the couch. And I was having none of it.
“Hmm, you know,” I said, breaking free and scrambling for a stray black shoe. “I have to get up pretty early tomorrow.” I didn’t care if it sounded like the hollow excuse that it was, and I didn’t care if I was rude, or if he was embarrassed. A 32 year old man with absolutely no game? He should be embarrassed!
A few months later, I was dashing off to a wedding, all silk and (borrowed) diamonds, when I passed him on the sidewalk outside my apartment. John ducked his head, looking sheepish, and I pranced by, feigning total ignorance. Well that was awkward, I thought, relieved when he was out of sight. Then I saw him again, not even a week later, and again, and again, until it dawned on me… that the object of my bad behavior was now living across the street. Of all the corners in all of Manhattan. Every time I see him, I’m just the smallest bit embarassed for having been so cold. But also, I want to holler,
“Fine! I admit it; I was a bitch! But you’re a terrible kisser… so n-yuh!”
In my head that comes with a hand gesture (thumb to the nose, fingers waving) I picked up on the playground as a kid. But instead, we just pass each other, eyes averted, pretending we never met, and I keep my hands in my pockets where they belong. Fingers waving away in secret.
n-yuh to you!!!
funny that you mentioned this story, just recently a good friend of mine – a guy – said that he’s surprised that women have not all turned into lesbians. He (as a guy) was even grossed out by the fact that some (or maybe most) men are embarassingly filthy. i’ve seen dirty cows like your John before – and he sort of hope his girlfriend would clean up his mess – which she did. eeewwwhhh…!
I. Have. No. Words.
No wait, I have six words…
That makes the baby Jesus weep.
I apologize on behalf of the male species.
Not much worse than a bad kisser, bleah
It really is all about the hands, isn’t. I mean, some would say I hit a few too many branches falling out of the ugly tree, but I have good hands, and in my old single days they’ve help me over-achieve when it came to “The Ladies”. As a married man, I barter out massages to my wife in exchange for folding laundry.
Ugh, I’ve met those terrible kissers before. It just ruins the whole experience. I don’t blame you for fleeing… I did it too!
Besides, if he’s in his 30s and doesn’t know how to kiss, he’s either really bad with women, or really doesn’t about their needs. Either way, it’s better not to get involved!
I had met the ‘perfect’ guy – he was a millionaire, sweet, athletic & fit, smart as a whip and into poetry. And then he kissed me. I felt like my face was being MAULED – open mouth, teeth clashing…oh, why, God, why?!! It was our one and only date. We’ve remained friends. But I couldn’t be the girl to train him…it wasn’t meant to be.
Am I the only one that finds it a bit creepy that he’s now living across the street from you?! I mean, really…what are the odds of that?!
Nah. When I knew him he was looking to buy a place. You buy where there’s open, affordable housing. Not too much creepy about that.
This is why spring training is to critically important in major league I’m Coming Over. If you had engaged in the recommended schedule of doorstep and movie theatre Let’s Make Out, you would have known better than to progress to league play Coming Over. In fact, you could have sent him back nto the farm team and already have had a couple of promising young players in the bullpen.
I have now had ended up living only a block or two away from men I have dated – both of which ended badly. The coincidental bump-ins at the grocery store are excruciating! It’s NYC – how in the hell do you repeatedly run into someone unintentionally!! Loved the post!
First off — Fish, I’ve been reading this blog for quite awhile now and I just love how you write. Can’t wait to hear the end of the head-butt incident.
And to Mike — right you are! There is nothing sexier about a man than a good pair of hands! My boyfriend’s opening move was a great neck massage and we haven’t looked back since. Great kissing is important too, so when someone has neither, fish is right to toss ‘em back (pun intended)!
ugh bad kissers suck! My first kiss was with this horrible kisser im talking to much spit,teeth clashing wanting to suck my face off (ewww i just had a flashback!) and at first I thought maybe it me? (FAT chance) but then i met my current sweetie definetly not me! noooooo complaints. soooooo glad i didnt stay around to teach him!
Blowing the I’m Coming Over Game?
Horrible, horrible and yet again, horrible.
You’re on a roll here with these horrible dating stories… You know how to put those kinds of experiences into words, and amazingly so! I hope this is cathartic for you…
And I also I really hope you fall upon the guy who deserves you and appreciates you for who you are soon!
Now were there live animals crawling around in the dirty laundry abyss of his apartment? Because that’s where I draw the line….
Kissing is the relationship God’s gift of sign of future awesomeness to a woman. Ignore the bad signs and you will suffer terrible consequence.
AKA, more power to you Fish. Not enough girls in this world let guys know just how much they need to work on their skills.
Yes, there is a relantionship God. Her name is Yolanda.
Hi Heather, I loved this post, and the one before. They were old school Fish, and I’ve been missing it. Please check out my blog.
another great story…
as for what happened, it could have been a lot worse…
one time a girl threw a live octopus at me and it got stuck on my head.
You. Rock.
He may have been a bad kisser, but HOW bad? When I started dating my boyfriend, he wasn’t the best, but not terrible either. Sometimes they can be taught how to do it a little differently to please. If he and I ever break up, his next gf will totally thank me.
The hands, on the other hand, I would have none of that. BIG problem there. If he doesn’t know how to touch you, call it off.
Ok, bad kisser, bratwurst fingers…
What about the guy who thinks your nipples are the tuner to his radio??? True story.
Thank god things didn’t go further, the horror of being with a guy who was a bad kisser with bratwurst fingers AND tuned your nipples.
Bad kissing is SUCH a turnoff. I can’t deal with that. Kissing is so important to me and if they can’t kiss – I’m gone!
Small world him moving so close to you. I’m sure he felt like a retard. No need for you to be embarassed
Live octopus! Bwhahaha!
I consider myself lucky when it comes to kissing. When I was 15, I was taught how to kiss by a lovely girl named Lisa S. And I do mean taught, as in “No, do it like this” and “Close your mouth…you’re not trying to swallow my face.” I say a silent prayer of thanks every time I get a compliment about how I kiss.
The bad kisser can only learn if seemingly interested women continually run like lunatics a few minutes into it. I did my part to make this point in college when a few mintes into making out, the guy bit the tip of my nose! I was so mortified that I stood up, mumbled “I’ve gotta go,” and ran across the street to the sancuary of my neighbor’s house with no futher explanation. Sometimes there are no words…
is “ew yuck” still a valid response these days?
I dated a horrible kisser on and off for two years. He was great in almost every other way, but there was absolutely no chemistry. Worse yet, he was oblivious as to its lack. When we broke up, he said, “But, but, we have such great chemistry!” What?!?!? I think we were in different relationships. A year later, he bought a condo in my complex. Freaky. And this is Southern California, where, unlike New York, the choices are many.
Yeah yuck. I remember being 18 and have a guy crack on in a club. His kissing me was like someone bobbing for apples on my face. Needless to say, I was out of his arms and running for the door within the blink of an eye. Some men are clueless as to what women really desire.
Lol, awkward.