Context: I matched with ‘Stalker’ on Tinder, mostly because his bio said he was interested in learning yoga, and I was willing to exchange some tips for free booze and tacos. Priorities. We chatted for a while, but when ‘yoga’ got more and more ambiguous, I stopped responding, because euphemisms are some high school shit. After a week of my ghosting, he messaged me again.
S – So, no yoga then?
J – Actually, I stopped responding because I couldn’t tell if you were using yoga as a euphemism for sex.
S – What? No! I meant yoga! I promise!
S – How about I buy you dinner, and we can discuss yoga plans?
S – Dinner can be tacos!
J – Deal.
We made plans to meet at Alero at 6 PM on a Wednesday night, before I hosted trivia.
There is a certain art to knowing when it’s time to leave a date.
Has the man paid? LEAVE.
Have you resorted to talking about the weather? GET THE FUCK OUT, BITCH.
Has he mentioned children, marriage, or ex-relationships? Run. Run, and never look back.
My date on Wednesday, unfortunately, did not know when to leave the date. And, as a result, he will never receive a second date. Let me back up.
Stalker and I were scheduled to meet at Alero at 6:00 PM. As someone who does not like to waste any time, I texted him at 4:30 to confirm that he would, in fact, be there.
No response. Fuck.
I don’t have time for guys who don’t respond, I thought. But I really love margaritas, my brain countered. You have a fuck ton of work to do, bitch, called out my responsible side. MARGARITAS AND TACOS, THOT. GET YOUR FREE SHIT FROM THIS UNSUSPECTING MAN.
My thot side always wins. Luckily, I got a confirmation from Stalker while I was on the Metro, en route to tequila paradise.
S – Sorry, work was crazy today!
J – *Running on two hours of sleep over the past three months* OH HAHAH YEAH I’M SURE IT IS THIS MUST BE SO HARD FOR YOU AHHHHHHH
S – *oblivious to my life struggle* I’m on the bench right by the entrance!
Now, there are several Aleros in DC. And there is no bench at this Alero. My left eye began to twitch. Was he at the wrong Alero? Did I interrupt my very busy very important work schedule for NOTHING?!?!?!
The good news: My date was at the correct Alero.
The bad news: My date does not know what a bench is.
IT WAS A CHAIR, MOTHER FUCKER! LEARN YOUR FURNITURES!!!
Things were obviously off to a great start.
And, overall, the date was good. He was easy enough to talk to, he bought me tacos and FOUR margaritas (*heart eyes emoji*), and he didn’t seem like a serial killer. Yippee!
Everything changed at 7:15 PM.
J – Ah, look at the time! I need to head over to trivia to set up.
S – Can I come?
J – Well, most people play in teams… and it’s mostly regulars… and I can’t talk to you, because I’m hosting… but if you really want to come, I’m not going to stop you?
S – GREAT SOUNDS GREAT LET’S GO!
So, I roll up to trivia with my puppy dog in tow, trying to play it cool. I go to hand him a packet of answer sheets, and he waves me away.
S – Nah, I don’t think I’m gonna play.
You FOLLOWED ME to TRIVIA, where PEOPLE are JUDGING ME, and you are NOT GOING TO PLAY?!
What the fuck what the fuck WHAT THE FUCK.
So, for the next 2.5 hours, he sat at the bar, sucking back one gin and tonic after another, staring at me. Cool. Awesome. Stellar.
After the weirdest trivia of my life, it was finally time to leave. He walked me to the Metro, and – when I was expecting this man who STALKED ME TO MY SIDE GIG to try to eat my face – he shook my hand.
He SHOOK. My HAND. NO KISS. NO HUG. NO NOTHIN. WHO ARE YOU?! IS THIS THE SOCIAL ETIQUETTE THEY TEACH YOU ON THE PLANET YOU COME FROM?!?!?
So, I went home, logged back on to my work laptop, and worked into the wee hours of the night, trying anything to get my mind off what had just happened.
The next morning, he texts me.
I’ma let you digest this for a second.
1) Of course you’re David from last night. Who the fuck else would you be? Thank you for sharing the context clues, just in case I had blacked out from that third margarita?
2) He shared with me very early into our date that, when he had texted me “I’m almost there,” it had almost autocorrected to “I’m almost heterosexual.” Same.
3) That picture is not me (thank GOD). That picture is not him. That picture is a random person whose Snapchat trust he disavowed by screenshotting it and then attempting to send it to that person. Dude, why? They know what they looked like in that snap. TBH, they probably saved it and are planning to instagram it later today with the caption “#selfie #iwokeuplikethis #willtherealGuyFieripleasestandup #DinersDriveInsandDivesfolyfe”
I did not respond. I will never respond, Mister Stalker.
Best of luck on your journey to full heterosexuality!