Who are you (really)?


Last night. Drove thirty miles through a storm for the WORST. BLIND. DATE. EVER.

Look, at 53, I’m not a young man. Once upon a time, I was slim and trim, and well-muscled – but that time was a quarter-century ago. I’ve never been called handsome – not by either of the women who married me, or any of the women I’ve had relationships with. Two years ago, I weighed 257 Lbs, and I’m only 5′ 7″, so that’s an unsightly LOT of extra weight … even with a couple of years fighting it, and the loss of 50 Lbs, I still have a pronounced gut, and my body has long since ceased being impressed by my exercise regimen, or diet: it stubbornly refuses to go below 200 Lbs – and laughs at attempts to get back to my ideal weight of 145.

I’m pretty upfront about all these things, and I’m not at all critical of women who are in the same boat as me … I’ve said it before, and I’ll repeat it: I can find something beautiful in almost any woman – and I rather prefer women with figure flaws as pronounced as mine: I feel slightly less ludicrous when both of us are naked!

Kayla, my very young and very lovely room-mate, recently broke up with her boyfriend of more than two years, and has been quick to get back into the dating scene:  she’s happier than she’s been in a while, and young men are lining up to go out with her.

So are some not-so-young men.

Last night, she had a date after work, with a guy she thought was in his twenties … he turned out to be 34, but the error was in her estimation, and not in any claim he’d ever made, and she had a good time.

With Kayla headed out for a date, I felt that maybe I should make some effort to go out, as well – she is not my daughter, and just sitting around the house wondering if she’s ok, if she’s having fun, if she’s going completely round the bend, etc, isn’t worthy of either of us!

I logged on to a dating site I use, and lo and behold, a woman I’d been trying to chat with for ages was online, and willing to chat, finally! It quickly became evident that she was just as desperate for something to do as I was, and, impulsively, I asked her out. She quickly agreed, so long as I drove the 30 miles to her home: as I mentioned, it was storming hard, and she’d rather have me to her place than go out in it …

That should have set off warning bells, but I decided it was just a mark of confidence, and I quickly agreed.

I should probably explain what was on her profile:  it described her as 5’5″, with “a few extra Lbs”, blonde, with green eyes, and “a very pretty face” … In addition, she had the following profile picture, and no others:


I think I’ve mentioned elsewhere in this blog that I’m a boob-guy.  I’m not fanatical about it, and I’m perfectly happy to concentrate on legs, ass, figure in general, eyes, or the entire woman – but, after her eyes, the first thing I’m likely to check out will be a woman’s boobs. Ladies, sorry if that makes me shallow, but it’s the truth – and I won’t blame it on our culture encouraging breast worship:  I’d probably be this way, in any case! So, please, feel free to consider me a pig – but at least grant that I’m an honest, and unrepentant pig! I like boobs. Period. I’m not stupid about it, either:  the boobs pictured above are NOT going to be attached to a slim young thing – those are the breasts of a larger woman!

Didn’t matter to me. I haven’t got the ideal figure, myself, and the prospect of entertaining a VERY full-figured woman did not trouble me in the least.

The whole 30 miles to her house, when I could spare the attention from a dangerously narrow back-road, and heavy rain, I kept trying to picture what she’d look like, always careful to add lots of mass to the picture …

I got lost at the very end, ended up on someone’s farm, and had to quickly backtrack to avoid catching a load of buckshot. Called her on my trusty iPhone, and got directions to her place.

I was expecting a figure like, well, Bette Midler, at her heaviest, with maybe a few extra pounds … The woman who greeted me at her door, however, was carrying more than “a few extra pounds”. A lot more.


This isn’t her. It’s a picture I pulled from the internet, when I googled “obesity”. She was actually CONSIDERABLY heavier. She did in fact, have blond hair, and I think her eyes were green.  It was hard to tell, them being buried under heavily made up eyelids, and surrounded by her high and heavy cheeks. The final lie was the “very pretty face” which turned out to be liberally sprinkled with dangerous-looking moles, and plenty of warts …

I had carried a bottle of Canadian Mist with me, which was fortunate, because, by God, I needed a drink!

What do you do, when you can see at the first glance that your date holds no attraction for you? Turn and run? Call her fat, and demand she reimburse you for the gasoline it took to get there? Point out tactfully that her profile on the dating site was fraudulent, and qualified as fantasy fiction? Ask at what point many years ago her breasts actually matched those in the picture???

I’m a freaking wuss. I offered her a drink … she said “Well, just a small one, I’m a type II diabetic …”


We conversed. I learned that she had been married twice. I learned that since husband number two died (of congestive heart failure), she’d been branching out … trying to experience all the stuff she’d never had a chance to try, having been married at seventeen, when she first got pregnant … and she was especially enjoying her sex life, nowadays …


Ok. It’s time to get clear of this … but how? Her glances were becoming increasingly amorous … her references to sex far more open, and frequent … at any moment, she might throw herself on me, and I’d be crushed! I don’t mean I’d have my feelings hurt – if THAT woman landed on me with any velocity at all, it would be sure to break several ribs, and possibly my back!

Ok. Gotta think. Find a legitimate excuse to NOT have the sex she was so clearly expecting. Such excuses include:

– Illness. I felt certain I could vomit with little effort …

– Erectile Dysfunction. I could claim it was my Blood Pressure meds that kept me from achieving an erection, and not her appearance.

– Migraine. I could claim it had begun in the car on the way, and was just now getting so bad that I’d have to quickly get to my medicine, which, darn it all, I’d left at home …

– The building’s on fire. With luck, I could shift her interest to a fireman.

I was just fiddling with my lighter when the unthinkable, and unbearable happened:  one fat arm snaked around my neck, like an enormous boa constrictor, and she nearly ripped my head off pulling me into a kiss …

Unthinkable:  I realized that giving it too much thought would make for many years of nightmares. Unbearable: I literally could not bear her weight leaning against me … and, just to make everything worse,  she was starting to give me tongue!

After a long eternity, she allow me to come up for air … I quickly and truthfully told her I could use another drink, and would she mind if I got some ice from her freezer? She quickly agreed, but said she’d get it for me …

I quickly readied my emergency escape equipment:  I opened the settings on my iPhone, and got it to the section where ringtones could be selected … but I couldn’t set it off right then … it would be suspicious, and would certainly hurt her feelings, and might, conceivably lead to death or serious injuries for me …

She came back with my glass, and I quickly added liquor, then proposed a Tarot reading, to help us get to know one another better.  She thought that was a great idea, so I excused myself to my car to get my trusty Tarot deck.

Reading Tarot for someone IS a wonderful way to get to know them.  Most women think it’s for telling their future, and who isn’t in to that? The ones who are a little more scientific, will generally go along, because it seems to them a nice party trick, and then, they often become engrossed in how freaking accurate a reading can be. The seriously fundamentalist types, on the other hand, will flat turn down a reading, and quickly decide they’d prefer it if I moved on – preferably to a church, to be re-baptised, since it obviously hadn’t taken, the first time … It also gives me a chance to reveal a little about myself, in the course of explaining what Tarot is, and how it works. On this occasion, however, all I wanted it for was to distance myself from her, and give her something to think about besides bedding me!

I can’t do a fake Tarot reading. I just can’t. I also can’t do a reading just anywhere – I need room to lay out the cards. This moved us from the couch, to the kitchen table, which was a distinct improvement, as far as I was concerned. I gave my little explanation of the cards, and she quickly became interested. I went through the routine of shuffling, and having her cut, then began laying out the cards in a Celtic Cross spread … as I read the cards for her, she became more and more excited, claiming that it was dead on about her life and circumstances … as we neared the end of the reading, I slipped my hand into my pocket and triggered the ring tone …

I apologized, and feigned answering it …

“Kay? Is that you? Sorry, I’m getting like one word in three … ah, yeah, that’s better, what’s up? Oh … he doesn’t have anyone closer he can call? Oh, I see … well, I’m about thirty miles away… can y’all get someplace out of the rain to wait? Ok, well wait there, have some coffee, and I’ll come get you … it’ll be about 30 minutes. Ok. Yeah, I’ll call you when I’m nearly there … ”

I put the phone away, and explained that Kay and her date had blow a tire, and he had no spare, and the people he could call for help were out of town, so I was going to have to go get them, and I was REALLY sorry!

She bought it, or so it seemed.  I gathered up my cards, and my whiskey, apologizing profusely and got the hell out of there as quickly as I could.

Driving home, I felt bad about tricking her. The I felt bad that she’d tricked me. Then I felt good about feeling bad on both those scores, and got angry that I’d been reduced to deceit in order to save myself. At some point in the witches brew of emotions this situation triggered, I felt sorry that she had been reduced to deceit in order to get some company.

When I got home, I found Kayla bundled up in bed, shivering and sporting an enormous hickey on her neck … her date ( and it was the FIRST date) had declared his undying love for her, proclaimed that she was the perfect woman, and proceeded to brand her as his by sucking on her neck …

I asked why she was so wet and cold, and it came out that he had no car, and has been walking everywhere, and that he walked her from her work to his place, in the rain – and she had no coat – proceeded to make out with her, declared his devotion, then walked her from his place to mine, in the rain, and coatless …

I told her I was sorry she’d had a bad time, while secretly exulting that her night had been as bad as mine – a thought which she squashed almost at once:  “yeah, it was cold and wet for most of it – but the sex was great!

Damn it, damn it, damn it.

“How was your date?” she asked, innocently.

I considered an honest answer, but just didn’t want to think about it anymore. “Oh, it was fine, we just didn’t have much in common…”

I left her to warm up in bed, and went to take my third shower of the day – maybe I could wash the night away …

Damn it.


~ by dourscot on February 26, 2013.

2 Responses to “Who are you (really)?”

  1. OMGosh I am so sorry! :0/ Scary!!

  2. That’s terrible 😦 So sorry…

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