That's after the third date.... Ohhhh, Yeahhh!

She then told me that she liked me. From the Heavens above, the light had finally shone; it parted the clouds and spread light upon my dark, protruding eyebrows. What magnificent beauty I thought, sitting right in front of me, all dolled up? I remember her walking up: her boots’ fur unfurled and coat’s collared fur ablaze; she was conversing on the cellular, the word would be spread from village to village: an honorable man!

Splat: her life stories, trials and tribulations. Was I Barbra Walters? How was I able to expose or, even better, warm up to her so that she’d spill her beans. “I’ve only kissed three guys”, so can I be the fourth? And, ahem, be the fifth? What kind of duress are you under? Maybe she was a moody type – one of those days. I was the wall. Talk, talk, talk. Nod in concurrence, “Yeah, that guy is an asshole. What a dick!” jumping on him as if he practiced witchcraft. I didn’t even know that guy. Her guy. At least she can establish that her former is an asshole and move on, to me. Moving too fast, I know. ‘Let it come naturally.’ Can’t I just nut in her mouth. Settle down there, Marc. I know, I know – jumping the gun. That’s after the third date.

Too bad though, for me, I should have noticed by the regularity of this former guy poking his ugly head, minute after minute in “our” conversation, that she clearly was in a certain stage of a relationship. I couldn’t say, I haven’t been there, yet. She wanted a voice; a male reassurance of what she was feeling was the right amount of anger. I wish I told her vengeance was a virtue. This much alleged former may have gotten his comeuppance.

Cruel and misguided hate aside, it was my turn, it seems, but do I have to? She was an ugly dog who I regret ever even talking to! Go on. Well, vulgarity will follow. I spared this date of my former. I tried to be judgmental on myself more than I should have. Yeah, I made my mistakes, I told her, but every dog has its day. Mine has yet to come. Although, I tell myself this: this vile, self-reflecting madness side of me, erupting in a childish manner during a relationship – I know it will it strike anytime, no matter the dame.

Again? Oh, such a redeeming quality in a man: he listens. What am I, a joyous, overweight, twice married, part-time secretary who actually got use of her employee discount at David’s Bridal? Marry the fucking bastard. Stop pouring out your emotions on this “date”. Pay me for a therapy session! Fucking A. Can we contact “The Macho Man” Randy Savage and have this former snapped into a Slim Jim. Ohhh yeahhh!

Damn, four hours had passed. Admittedly, her former (or present) (don’t bring it up, it irritates me) was not gossiped the entirety. Body language is my key determinant. Our eyes were there. But when we galloped out, it was if I were, suddenly, a leper. Geez, pay attention to detail, woman – I told her, when describing my cons, I was a leper. She’d hesitated to nod, shake a hand or hug. We, more so I, walked away utterly tripped out at this awkward bid adieu.

Worse, “You’re a cool guy” was my complimentary send-off. Wait. Let me hang my blue ribbon “Nice Guy” up there with the rest. Dang, 32 already? She specifically said “call me”. Oh yeah, “Sometime.” Whatever that means? Two days. A week. When the next former gets under your skin. Never.

I think I choose the weekend. And there folks, was my pratfall.