Worst Date Ever: Coldstone Creamery
I was looking at my stats and saw an increase in traffic coming from Victoria’s site, MyVeryWorstDate.com. I hope it becomes a macro-blogging UGC site like fmylife or one of those. I’ve gotta come up with an idea for a fun site one of these days.
Anyhow while thinking about it I thought of this nightmare date I had once.
Ok so imagine the author 6 years younger. 20lbs skinnier.
Ok, it was the early 2000’s so I had my hair styled like a queer kinda. Mentally make it less queer and more macho and butch like these bearded times we live in now. There you go-that’s a guy you can respect. That guy probably works as a fireman or something!
Alright so I met this girl at a liquor store near my house. I was wearing a white t shirt and jeans-very casual and scruffy looking, it was a Saturday.
She was wearing those tight black (lycra?) workout tights that pretty much makes me think any girl is hot if I see her wearing them. Dark hair, giant brown eyes, hair pulled back. From India but like a really light Indian that you’d probably think she was a Latina or maybe middle eastern if you didn’t know any better. She looked sorta preppy like she had a good job.
Like all girls that wear those workout pants she had a rockin ass and excellent roundies. I mean the type of tits that you know she intentionally tries to hide because they’re a bit bigger and rounder than what is like over-the-plate mainstream acceptable. Her jealous girlfriends might suggest a breast reduction. She’d get called a whore just for wearing them in some third world country like Egypt or, well India I suppose.
Back To The Liquor Store:
I had grabbed a 6 pack of beer and was headed to the counter. I asked the guy for a cheap bottle of whiskey in case the 6 pack demanded that I forge ahead. One of those days.
I look over and this girl has a bottle of nice champagne.
I swear in an instant all that was going through my mind was how I’m going to see those tits—I phrased that wrong.
All that was going through my mind was “how am I going to see those tits?”
If you’ve experienced an emergency like this before you understand.
“Ah yes, Veuve Clicquot; my old friend.” Just throwing it out there.
“Yeah. You like it?” She said.
“Yeah” I said.
I’m great with banter.
Silence.
“So where is that bottle headed?” I asked, casually paying for my stuff.
“Oh some girlfriends of mine are coming over to watch a show— it’s my turn to bring the booze” She said.
“Not Sex And The City?” I said with disdain. Please not that show.
“No, <some other crap show>” she said.
I don’t remember what crap show it was.
I motion to let her come up to the counter and I just stay there and talk. The guy behind the counter is sorta giving me the face that any other dude will give you when you’re trying to conduct business with a girl with insane tits.
After more useless chatter to buy some time to get away from cockblocker clerk, we’re walking outside together talking like old friends.
“Well look, I’m sorta new in this neighborhood (not 100% true) and since I like shows like <crap show>(lie) and nice champagne why don’t we get together on a different night and I’ll bring the wine?”
She agreed, gave me her number and her business card, separately. She was an attorney. Her name was Priya-every Indian girl’s name is Priya like every Filipino girl’s name is Maria or Theresa or a combination of the two.
When we start dating I’ll call her coconut curry. This is a dumb trait of mine, referring to girls I start dating with a sophomoric nickname. Usually they end up thinking I’m a creep before I can use the nickname to my friends.
I give her my number which she enters into her phone. This step is always awkward for some reason.
The Next Day.
Remember this was when Swingers was like not brand-new but going fairly strong and everyone was waiting 3 days to call so the next afternoon I’m laying on the couch and thinking of something to say. Usually eagerness is not a good thing but if you can play it off like you’re just casual and friendly like that it works, especially when everyone else is waiting three days to call someone.
So I call and she answers and acts like she doesn’t know who I am at first and then is nicely surprised. I tell her that I saw a show which is similar to the crap show she likes and it’s premiering and thought of her and that it would be a good time to hang out.
She says “Oh yeah that show looks great, and that detective has the pet dog that helps him!”
“Yeah the pet dog!” I said, having no clue what she was talking about.
Sorry for the long build up, I just want you to feel what I am about to lose.
So on the date night I meet at her place, very nice Brentwood apartment, and we crack the bottle of Champagne (Moet White Star, not the best but not bad) and before we watch TV she asks me if I can help her figure out how to download music on her new laptop. Because I work in technology people assume I do computer repair or something. So I help her and this gives me a good reason to download a few songs to show her what good music taste I have. Unlike most people who hear new music and make that fake smile and pretend she actually listens thoughtfully and says that she really likes it.
We drink the champagne and walk to go get a snack and drink more wine at an Italian place that is stuck in 1998. It’s going well.
We knock back 4-5 glasses of wine each and then start heading back to her place.
Now since timing is everything this was the early 2000’s. There wasn’t a Coldstone Creamery in every town that gets a new shopping center with the words “Promenade” or “Village” quite yet. Pre-housing boom.
Coldstone was sort of a thing then.
“The Coldstone is finally open! Can we go?” She asks.
“Yeah I like that place” I say, totally lying but figuring that those knockers require a certain amount of upkeep and this is something I should get used to. I get slightly worried that ice cream might sober us up but we’re kind of at that point where it would probably take a few chimichangas to sober us up so I feel that our insobriety is safe.
While I’m here I might as well try it out, I say to myself.
I get a waffle cone with all kinds of garbage mixed in with this saccharine sweet white ice cream. She gets like this tiny child size.
I scarf it quickly so that we can switch gears back to wine at her place without me holding this giant ice cream cone with a fucking ice cream mustache or something.
She invites me up to download and listen to more music.
She opens a few microbrew yuppie beers which are more for decoration than anything and comes to the couch which is all dimly lit and we download some songs and then start making out.
She says “You shouldn’t drive home” so I agree and say that I hate driving drunk (not really that true) and that I could sleep on the couch.
“You can sleep in my bed but we’re not gonna have sex or anything. You can let yourself out in the morning”.
Ok so we’re in her bed making out and I’m playing with those tits and they are gorgeous. Like I could play with these every night and not get bored— like I want my friends to see these in a low cut shirt or bikini.
A few failed but casual attempts to get in her sweat pants (principle, not period) and I go to sleep. There’ll be other times.
Now remember that ice cream cone?
Your friend and author is extremely lactose intolerant but it only gets really nasty sometimes (overall I just avoid ice cream and milkshakes and I’m okay to eat cheese or whatever).
This was one of those times.
I woke up and went into the bathroom. I fired off a few really loud ones but had the assistance of running water and echoed bathroom coughing. My secret is safe.
I wake up in the middle of the night after hearing a loud noise, which was me, and look over at her. Her eyes are closed. I feel another one coming so I being very comfortable just decide that if a tree falls in the woods or whatever.
I squint my eyes and let it out and its louder than I expected. I see her stir and sorta make a frown and sigh and then turn over.
50/50 chance here that I’m caught.
The next morning I wake up and she’s waking me up saying that she has to be at work soon.
Hey what happened to “You can let yourself out”, I’m thinking, but like a guilty man I accept my punishment.
“Your stomach was bothering you last night, eh” she had to say.
I must’ve been dropping bombs all night.
Like a convict being led around to collect my personal items I grab my pants, socks, jacket, etc.
As I’m walking out the door she says: “I had fun, thanks Andy”.
I never got in the sweatpants.
I never heard from her again.
(Epilogue: In order to indirectly and passive-aggressively punish Coldstones I wrote a post making fun of their stupid sizes which can be found here)
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Man, this was a great, great story. Well done.
“The guy behind the counter is sorta giving me the face that any other dude will give you when you’re trying to conduct business with a girl with insane tits.”
Thanks Tom. Yeah when some chump sees an unattractive guy like me trying to flirt with a girl they usually give me that look like “hey bro, the lady wants to be left alone”.
Egypt = a third world country? You had a ‘queer’ hairdo? I couldn’t read any further, you obnoxious asshole.
haha!! Nice