Originally Posted by WheatToast
That was hysterical!
Here's mine.
Blind date, running late, so I waited for her in the restaurant foyer. She had said before we met, "I 'spose I'm more femme than butch, whatever that means..." (Uh oh).
So, in she comes, with a face like Al Franken only more masculine, and a bobbed, moppy Tony Home perm that had lost its spring months earlier, dyed a putty-ish beige.
She wore a black cowboy shirt tucked into black Wranglers, super pointy black cowboy boots and a thick black leather belt with a giant cowboy belt buckle. It was spring, so the all-black was a rookie mistake for this big old gal, an Ohio native. I didn't mention it.
She also wore about a pint of generic sandalwood oil, covering each pulse point from her ankles to her ears. I could see the scent waves, it was so strong.
She was gruff, another trait I rarely seek in a lady friend, and when the waitress came to take our drink orders, she announced in her booming bass voice, "SEPARATE CHECKS, PLEASE."
(Really? :::eyeroll::: )
She had ordered some kind of boiled shrimp thing, served with the heads on. She made a dramatic presentation out of yanking the heads off, tipping the brains toward her lips and slurping them up so loud, I cringed and gagged at the same time.
By then, I was chugging down a dirty gin martini so fast, the observant waitress didn't have to ask if I wanted another.
Besides her non-stop talking about her ex-lover, "the horrible witch who done her wrong" (yes, she said done, not did) I finally jumped in and asked how recent their break up was. "Seven years," she said. "No, wait, it'll be eight years on the 27th of next month."
By then I was gin-brave and annoyed, so I sighed and said, "Jeeze, lady, maybe you ought to consider hypnosis or something."
She kept forgetting to stop talking about the ex, so I said, "When I raise this finger, it means you're back on your ex."
Finally, she looked up from slurping her remaining shrimp guts and eyeballs, looked me over and said, "Heyyyy, you look pretty dern muscular, that's great. You can help me move some heavy furniture upstairs in my new place."
I did not request a second date, nor did I visit her new place with a dolly and winch.
Years later, I was browsing through a lesbian dating site, looking to see if anyone had poked me.
Yep, there she was again, she'd poked me with her massive, sandalwood soaked finger.
I wrote and said we'd already had the pleasure, and she (probably) grunted as she typed, "Yeah, well, okay then, never mind."
I never saw Ms. Slingblade again. Yet.
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