He walked back in the room, shirtless, and sidled up to me seductively. I backed away in horror. “You’re sick! You just threw up! Don’t you want me to go so that you can rest?” “No. I’m fine now.” He reached for my waist. I stepped back again. He scowled. “What? I brushed my teeth.”…
Mr. Saturday Night had just moved to town and joined Match to “meet new friends.” He was attractive, a runner, and said on his profile that he loved to cook. I think most women would agree that guys who cook are hot. Since the dawn of humanity, a man who can not only bring home the bacon but also dice it and season it to taste is far more desirable (and reproductively successful) than his less culinary counterparts. I think it’s even in one of those tongue-in-cheek “Porn for Women” books that shows Chippendales vacuuming and changing diapers.
On our first lunch date he talked about how he was looking to make friends to party with and hoping to find a special girl with a “Saturday night energy.” I wasn’t sure what he meant by that, but I thought it meant positive and out-going, so I smiled and nodded, assuming I fit the bill. On our second date we went for a walk. He told me about the party he’d been to the night before and how lucky he was that he doesn’t suffer from bad hangovers. Looking back, I should have clued into his agenda based on the fact that his conversation started with probing questions about my alcohol tolerance, moved to a treatise on the benefits of regular weight-lifting and tanning, and culminated in an admission that he’d read the entire Kama Sutra cover-to-cover.
At the end of the walk, he invited me to dinner at his apartment and offered to cook for me. When I arrived, he opened the door looking handsome in a form-fitting button-up collared shirt and slacks. He kissed me full on the mouth and handed me a glass of wine. (I think he’d also read “Porn for Women” cover-to-cover.) I sat at his bar and watched as he prepped and prepared Lemon Chicken with parmesan crisps and sautéed spinach. He was somewhat less chatty than he had been before, but I figured he was concentrating on his cooking. After plating the meal a la Top Chef, he invited me to sit down at the table and he presented me with my dinner. But just as he moved to set it down in front of me, his face paled, his eyes widened, his cheeks expanded and his throat convulsed in the tell-tale “vomit face.”
“Oh my god!” I exclaimed, pushing back in my chair. “Are you okay?”
“Yes.” He gathered himself. “I’m fine. Totally fine.” He turned and retrieved his plate and sat opposite me. We didn’t speak as we ate. I watched him closely as he chewed and swallowed with great concentration, his face grew greener and greener in hue.
“This is delicious.” I said, trying to break the tension. “Thanks.” He replied, tight-lipped, “My mom gave me the reci…” He ran for the bathroom. I tried not to listen as he vomited repeatedly, but the walls of his small one bedroom apartment were incredibly thin. I could hear every hack, every cough, every snort. I was trying so hard not to get sick myself from the sound, I closed my eyes in the hope that shutting off one sense might shut off another, but it only made the vomiting more distinct. I started doing the dishes, banging and clanging pots and pans, to drown him out.
When he walked back in the room, I saw that he had removed his shirt. I assumed he had thrown up on it. Nope. He sidled up to me seductively, eyes gleaming, and it was clear that he intended something else altogether.
I backed away in horror trying to appear concerned rather than disgusted. “You’re sick! You just threw up! Don’t you want me to go so you can rest?” “No. I’m totally fine now.” He reached for my waist, grinning suggestively and moving in for a kiss. Utterly disgusted, I stepped back again. He scowled. “What? I brushed my teeth…” I stepped back farther. “You just threw up. I’m sorry. I can’t kiss you now,” I said, incredulous. “Fine.” He said but advanced again. “What about…other stuff?” I side-stepped him, “I should go.” He shrugged and didn’t move as I picked up my purse and headed for the door.
I obviously didn’t have the “Saturday night energy” he was hoping for.