BoomerGirl Diary

We asked some of BoomerGirl bloggers to share their bad date stories. From fumblings at the drive in to an encounter with someone overly enthusiastic about feet, here are stories to wince — and laugh! — over.

Modern Jazz Fiasco

It was the mid-1970s, an exciting time in the history of men and women. A researcher named Shere Hite had just written an entire book about a strategic female sexual gland that few young men knew existed. “The Hite Report” was not only highly instructive, it made for a very fun read. As a sophomore at UCLA, I had taken it upon myself to help these poor helpless lads in their search for parts unknown. Along those feminist lines, I decided to do something I had never attempted before. Rather than wait for a certain cute guy I had my eye on to do the honors, I got up the nerve and asked him out on a date. Let’s call him Brian, which may actually have been his name. Brian had dreamy blue eyes and mountains of brown hair. He was sweet and sort of clever and occasionally contributed an article to the student newspaper where I was on staff as a reporter. The Modern Jazz Quartet was performing at Royce Hall. A few days before the concert, I asked Brian if he’d like to go with me. He looked at me uncomfortably, as if I’d asked him to join me for a root canal, instead. “Uh, sure,” he answered. I convinced myself he was secretly ecstatic, but taken aback by my boldness. Hence his painful hesitation. Even so, I bought two tickets and patted myself on the back. This was a turning point for me. I was in charge and man, it felt good. That Friday night, I stood on the steps of Royce Hall, waiting nervously for Brian. I waited a long time. The concert was about to start when he finally appeared. I was so happy to see him… until I realized he wasn’t alone. He’d brought his roommate along on our date. “This is Dan. He loves MJQ,” he explained. I looked at them both and mumbled, “Cool.” Oh, but it wasn’t cool at all! I was devastated, especially when Dan managed to get a seat right next to us. Brian spent the whole evening talking to his roomie. I don’t think I ever saw my crush again. I guess he just wasn’t that into me. Dan, on the other hand, held his interest just fine.

— Carol Starr Schneider

The Wild Foot Man

I agreed to meet a charming suburban man from New Jersey for a walk in the park. On the day we met, Foot Man arrived in New York two hours early and called to let me know. His eagerness was somehow alarming. I agreed to meet him a bit earlier and was shocked to be greeted, not by the handsome man in the on-line photos, but by his evil twin in a shiny track suit. His accent echoed throughout the park. I thought that perhaps sitting rather than walking would quiet him down a bit. As we sat he dropped to the ground in front of me and began to rub my feet. He told me that he wanted to be my foot slave. In spite of my advanced years, no one had ever uttered those words in my presence. To my knowledge none of my friends had ever heard those words in any of their sexcapades either. I was shocked. Amazingly, his shiny track suit was armed with foot lotion. Holding on tight to my foot, he removed his glasses and was brushing his nose against my toes. As calmly as I could, I removed my foot from his grip, stood up and walked out of the park. He followed me as I directed him to the subway. My skin was crawling. He said he couldn't wait to see me again. He called several times. Finally I programmed his number into my phone so that every time he called the word FEET flashed up on my cell phone. I did not answer the calls of the wild Foot Man.

— Michelle Churchill

Drive-in Disaster

Worst "date"? That's a fruit, right?

I'll bet I only had about ten dates in my whole life. I absolutely sucked at it, so I'm sure that the guys unlucky enough to be paired with me could provide lots and lots of information about bad dates.

If I had to pick from my meager pile, I'd pick the blind date foursome with a girl from high school who I wasn't particularly close to. The young men picking us up were extremely polite and solicitous (WARNING TO PARENTS: This is a sure sign that your daughter will soon be attacked! Trust me. The more they sound like Eddie Haskell when they meet you, the more likely it is that they're wearing a t-shirt underneath their sweater that says "Born to Give Hickeys.")

I spent a miserable night in the back of the car at a drive-in, fending off attacks by a total stranger. My friend enjoyed her attacks, and we were soon friends no more.

Funny. The guy never called me back ...

— Pat Detmer

Awards Ceremony

Best pick-up, pick-me-up line of the year. So far. French flirting is alive and thriving in Paris:

Bustling lunchtime. I'm having a noix d'entrecôte at Café Le Babylone, next to Le Bon Marché in Paris. I ask the young guy at the next table if he could pass me la moutarde, s'il vous plaît. Under a curly mop of hair, his glance softens, and with a genuine but soulful gaze as he locks onto my eyes, he replies in a deep trill, "Ah, I knew this would be my lucky day." Then bien sûr, his hand lingers on mine just that extra brief second as he hands me the pot de moutarde. His engaging smile polishes our little duet.

How can this be so enticing? Oh, but it is. And we're just talking about a flippin' mustard jar! I hate to say it, but if Joe American had tried to pull off a line like that, it would have been icky. Laughable. This Adonis is a Grand Flirt Master. I'd have fallen in his lap on the spot if he hadn't been about half my age.

"Merci," I whisper demurely. (What happened to my voice?)

Worst don't-call-me-I'll-call-you line of the year. Same week. French gallantry is dead... or comatose:

Michel (who is my age) remarks, eyeing me coolly as he smokes a Marlboro Light, "Hmm, you must have been very thin when you were young."

"Merci ... a pantload," I grumble inwardly. Two birds. One stone.

— Polly Lyman