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My date couldn't keep his hand out of his pants
If anyone ever tells you, “Being single is so great! You’ll miss it when it’s over”, send them this story.
I met Peter* on one of the apps (are you sensing a pattern in my columns yet, reader?).
He was quite funny, pretty charming, the chat was great and it took him longer than an hour to eventually start making suggestive comments – what a win.
We matched in that strange in-between period of the pandemic when Sydney wasn’t locked down, but no one was going anywhere because we were all collectively traumatised from the last few years and were still afraid of catching Covid.
People weren’t really back to meeting up at bars and restaurants, but I was determined. I was going to meet this guy in public because it was the smart and safe thing to do.
Then it rained in Sydney.
Not normal rain, that torrential kind of ‘Hey Noah, can you start building your ark?’ rain and I thought, f**k it, what’s so wrong with a date on the couch?
He would bring some wine (tick), we would order takeaway (tick, tick), and we’d stay dry (monumental TICK).
But uh, things didn’t quite go that smoothly.
It started out rocky and then fell off the cliff altogether.
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He showed up late.
It’s fine, it’s a date at home on a Saturday night, it’s not like I was sitting in a bar alone after schlepping out of the house.
We exchanged pleasantries, chatted for a bit, things got steamy and, he got his thanks to my assistance.
It wasn’t like the night was over, so I thought, fine, that was an entrée, we’ll have dinner and then dessert later.
We settled back onto the couch and started talking over wine.
His flatmate was apparently a nightmare. He recounted the story of cops being called and things being thrown and food being left on the stove so long it tripped the fire alarm at 3:30am.
I nodded along quietly.
Then he asked me how people knew whether they were depressed or not because he suspected he was. I said I hoped he was OK but that he should probably try therapy, not Tinder for the answer to that one.
At this point, the pizza (that I paid for) arrived and he kept talking at me… for about an hour.
Eventually, a movie went on, and I kept my glass of wine full to try and make time pass more quickly.
He sat at the other end of the couch, eyes trained on the screen, but with his hand down his pants, seemingly trying to raise himself from the dead while Rosamund Pike executed her revenge against Ben Affleck in front of us.
I could see the two of us on the couch, uncomfortably unsettled, and it was like watching a car crash in slow motion, I couldn’t look away.
After two excruciating hours of me covertly texting my friends while watching the film, deciding that I didn’t want anything else to do with this guy and his frankly Eeyore-level malaise, followed by their unanimous advice for me to tell him to leave, the credits rolled and he got up to use the bathroom.
Finally, he would leave.
A few minutes later he reappeared in the doorway with his pants low around his hips and his flaccid penis hanging over the waistband.
“So um, this isn’t gonna happen.”
Buddy, your major general could have been on full salute and he still wouldn’t have made it to the trenches.
I had no intention of having sex with Peter at this point, but what annoyed me was that there was no effort for quid pro quo, and that’s just rude. Though it’s not unheard of that a guy is lazy and suddenly forgets the meaning of the word “reciprocation”, what he said would’ve made me flip my coffee table if I’d had one.
“I mean, you should be satisfied that you did so well that I can’t perform.”
Good, so you’ve picked your phone back up after throwing it across the room?
This man, stood at my living room door, penis hanging out of his pants, one hand on his hip, the other gesturing at his crotch like he was complaining about an overcooked steak served to him at a 5-star restaurant, said that.
“You should be satisfied.”
Once my consciousness kicked back in after doing backflips trying to decipher what gave this man the audacity, I picked up his shoes, pushed them into his hands, and told him to get out.
He asked if I wanted to do trivia with him and a few of his friends that week.
I shut the door, deleted and blocked him on my phone, and realised that the bar truly has never been lower.
*Names have been changed
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