Dating Stories: The Sweety Names Lady

I’ve never had a girlfriend, or partner. I think if I do I’ll use some sort of nickname for her. I’m not an overly formal guy. I’m not one who’d say, “Hello this is my friend, Margaret.”

“This is my partner, Margaret.”

“This is my fiancé, Margret.”

“This is my wife, Margaret.”

“Dearly beloved, we are here to mourn the passing of Margaret.”

Never Maggie.

I’d be Maggie straight away.

I couldn’t use a standard nickname though.

I’m not a “Babe,” kind of guy.

“Hey Babe.”

Yuck.

“I’ll just run it past the Ministry of War and Finance. He, he, he.”

No. I don’t want to be that kind of fuck wit.

“Savings account? More like spendings. He, he, he, he.”

Fuck wit.

No. I’ll come up with some name. Not Snook’ems.

I don’t know what. I haven’t meet her yet.

Mum said, “You’re never going to meet someone if you’re not going to call them by their name.”

I said, “I will at first. I just assume our relationship will evolve.”

She said, “Yeah, eventually you’ll put her off. Why don’t you just say ‘Hello Francis, nice to meet you, do you mind if I call you Francis?’”

I said, “I knew someone named Francis. We called him Franger.“

Mum said, “No-one should be called Franger. It sounds like I’m calling them Condom-head.”

Franger was okay with it. He meet a nice lady. She was named Dolorous. I can’t remember what nickname she had.

Anyway, they’re happily married and I never see them again. So that’s good for them. A happy ending.

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Dating Stories: The HR Lady

I had to tell Doug at work not to flick me in the nuts.

He said, “We do it all the time at the cricket club.”

I said, “I don’t care.”

He said, “You can flick me in the…”

I said, “I don’t want to. It’s not on my to do list.”

Somebody heard and we had to see HR.

She said, “It’s lucky it’s not sexual harassment.”

Doug said, “I don’t want to fuck him.”

Which hurt my feelings. Just the part of my brain that wonders if I would succeed being homosexual.

Doug said he wouldn’t flick my nuts again, but he didn’t mean it. He thought that was political correctness gone mad. He did it again when we got downstairs.

His girlfriend came into work and I said, “Hey, mate, what if I offered to flick Christine in the vag?”

I got sent to HR for that. Apparently suggesting to a staff member that I should touch up their partner’s vaginal area is not company policy.

Mum said, “I’m surprised you know where a vagina is.”

I said, “I do read books.”

She said, “You’d learn a lot more from watching porn.”

I did have to watch a video online. It was a three hour tutorial about what parts of the body it’s okay to touch while in the work place. It’s mostly the hands. And head if something is stuck here.

Doug broke up with Christine. So she’s not touching his nutsack anymore.

He’s now going out with Suzan the HR lady. So that’s good for them.

Dating Stories: The Have Kids Lady

My date said, “I want to have kids,” which was off-putting because the waiter had arrived and I was about to order a steak sandwich.

I said, “You could try the veal.”

She didn’t find that funny.

I ordered and she said she wasn’t hungry but would have a pot of tea.

The waiter left and she said, “Are you ready for kids?” It sounded like they were about to shoot out from under the table.

I cupped my hands, bent over, and said, “Let them rip.”

She didn’t laugh.

Mum said I couldn’t raise children. She said, “You’d be horrible at it.”

I said, “There’s not much to it. Feed them, clean them, cloth them. Teach them to do those things until they can do them themselves.”

Mum said, “There’s more to it than that.”

I said, “How?”

She said, “Gin.”

I said, “Okay. What else?”

She said, “Hmmmmm, I forget the rest.”

My date drank her tea. I ate. The imbalance felt odd. I ate as quickly as I could.

She said, “Maybe you’re not there yet.”

I coughed on a section of rump.

She said, “I need someone who’s in the same place I am.”

I coughed again and gestured to the room we were in.

She didn’t laugh.

She said, “My boyfriend,” I coughed. She said, “My boyfriend doesn’t think he’s ready, but I think he is.”

I spat out a portion of steak onto the table.

She said, “Maybe I should talk to him again.”

So that’s good.

Anyway, I still haven’t gotten the handle of first dates. Do you order food or not?

Well, there’s a romance reunited. So that’s good for them. A happy ending.

Dating Stories: The Poop Fetish Lady

I was having coffee with a date. Well, she was having coffee, I was drinking orange juice that I was watering down.

She said, “Look, before we get too far into this, I need to tell you something. Before I have sex, I like it if the guy takes a shit on my chest.”

Now, this took me by surprise. I mean, I don’t suppose it’s normal, otherwise she wouldn’t have pointed it out. It would be for me to have known. After sex she might be all, Yeah that was good but where was the shitting part? You missed a step.

Anyway, I thought I’d be gentlemanly about it. I said, “Oh, is that right? Where did that come from?”

She said, “My last boyfriend.”

I said, “Oh. Do you plan to stick with it?”

Mum later told me, “It’s called a Cleveland Steamer. Which is different to a rusty trombone. That’s when you lick out someone’s arsehole.”

I said, “Thanks Mum.”

My date said, “Yeah. I just seem to like it like that. Do you think you could do it?”

I said, “I’m not sure.” I mean, I’ve never walked by a dog crap in the street and though, You know where that could be better placed? On someone’s chest.

She said, “Well, could you?”

I said, “Just wait,” and then I spent 10 minutes in the bathroom. After that I decided that, No. Shitting on command and then performing sexual acts was a talent I didn’t have.

It was hard for me to break the news to her. Wendy was her name by the way. She said it was okay. She said she had meet someone willing to do a rusty trombone and that she’d settle for that for now.

So that’s good. She’s met someone. That’s a happy ending.

Dating Stories: The Balloon Ladies

This guy said to me, “It must be great to be single. You can do whatever you want, with whoever you want.”

But that’s not true.

I wrote a letter to Natalie Portman outlining what I wanted to do with her, and she hasn’t replied.

She might be thinking about it.

The awkward thing is, I pretty much wrote the same letter to Scarlett Johansson, and if she writes back, and if Natalie Portman writes back, then I’m stuck, because I can’t afford to take both of them on a balloon ride.

Mum said, “Don’t worry about that. You’re no chance.”

I said, “I could be if I got a good job.”

She said, “No, not the balloon rides. Those two wont write back.”

What Mum doesn’t know is that I sent really nicely worded letters. So they might write back. Then again, they’re in relationships. So they might not. But that’s good. That’s good for them.

Secretly I hope one of them finds out about this, and they write back, just to let me know they got the message, because it’d be nice to get a reply. That’ll be a happy ending.

Dating Stories: The Dancing Lady

I was having a beer when this woman came up to me and said, “Do you want to dance?”

Then I realised I was in a Spanish bar, and a guy was playing Spanish guitar, and the empty space behind her was a dance floor.

I said, “I don’t know how.”

She said, “I can teach you,” and she reached for my hand.

I have sweaty hands so I didn’t take it, but I got up and said, “Ok, what do I do?”

She said, “Take my hips.”

So I did, and she started moving, and I staggered after her. She seemed happy. She was happy dancing and swaying.

Mum said it wouldn’t have been real happiness. Mum said, “Dancers fake-smile to make it look easy.”

I said, “She might have been thinking of me.”

Mum said, “No, she would have been thinking of Chris Hemsworth. Chris Hemsworths’s arms, Chris Hemsworth’s legs, Chris Hemsworth’s face. Mmmm. Chris Hemsworth.”

I said, “It’s a bit weird you’re imagining dancing with me while using Chris Hemsworth’s body parts.”

Mum said, “Don’t ruin Chris Hemsworth for me!”

After staggering for a bit we stopped.

My dance partner said, “You have to move to the music. Listen and just move.”

I said, “Okay,” and started to move.

She watched and said, “Is that the hokey-pokey?”

I said, “Yes. You can try it too.”

She smiled, not because of Chris Hemsworth, and started to hokey-pokey, but really well. I’m not good at the hokey-pokey but she was really good, and then this guy came over and took her by the waist, and she stopped hokey-pokeying and started dancing, proper dancing, and they did it really well. Which is good.

I picked-up my book and left.

They were having a good time. So that’s good. A happy ending.

Dating Stories: The Good-looking Lady

I meet a friend for coffee. We hadn’t seen each other for awhile so when she saw me she said, “Oh, you look good.” What she was really saying was, Oh, You haven’t aged terribly.

I wanted to say, “You look good too,” but I couldn’t. Not because she had aged terribly. She hadn’t. It was because I felt weird telling her she looked good. Like by saying that I was implying that I’d just developed an erection and was horny, because usually that’s what’s happened when a man finds someone attractive.

So instead I didn’t say anything about her looks, leaving the whole idea of her appearance down to her to decide. Maybe she spent the afternoon in front of a mirror, scrutinising her smile lines – or worry lines depending on which magazine she had read last.

After the hesitation I said, “Thanks.”

She said, “Are you seeing anyone?”

I said, “How do you mean?”

She said, “Like dating.”

I said, “Ha ha ha ha ha. Of course not.”

Later Mum said, “Did I drop you on the head as a child?”

I said, “No.”

She said, “That’s right. You were very clingy.  Much like today.”

My friend is fine though. I mean, at the time she was a little upset and single, but she’s now meet someone.

He’s a bit socially awkward and dull, but she’s lovely and, well, last time I saw her she was happy, and she looked well, so, so that’s good. That’s good for them. A happy ending.

Dating Stories: The Herpes Doctor

I had to go to the doctor. You see, I heard that most people have herpes, but I don’t, and that made me feel really left out. Like everyone could talk to each other about herpes, and the time they got herpes, and how much their herpes hurts. But I couldn’t. Then one day I got an itch, down there, and I thought, Cool!

Not really. I actually thought, How’d I get that? Had someone come in the night, ridden my bones and infected me. Wouldn’t I have noticed? Or maybe there’s some sort of bed sheet born herpes, if that’s possible, or do I have some unusual herpes infection exclusive to me? Maybe I have my own brand of herpes. Something unique. Something that makes me special.

Mum says that I’m special already. She often says it in a mental retardation sort of way, but yeah, I could be special with my herpes.

But I couldn’t just rely on this hunch, so I went to the doctor to get it checked out.

One of the first questions she asked was, “So, when was the last time you had sex?” and I didn’t want to tell her because, well, conversations like that just end with someone saying, “Oh, have you tried eHarmony?” (Which is a waste of money by the way. Better to buy a stranger a drink somewhere. You’ll at least get out of the house.)

I just said, “It’s been a while,” and then she looked at my groin, which was a novel experience. The last time someone looked down there was for a tropical wart, and the time before that was probably my Mother changing my dippers. Though I don’t remember her changing them. More so tipping them out and then putting them back on.

Anyway, the doctor said it was bicycle rash and that I just needed to rub in a cream and it would go away.

I asked her to show me how, and she did, and now we’re married.

No. No she didn’t, and I didn’t ask that. She looked to be happily married to some guy in a photo on her desk.

I left with some ointment and no herpes. No, special brand of herpes for me. Just bicycle rash. So I’m not special after all. But I guess that’s a good thing. So a happy ending.

Dating Stories: The French Lady

I was sitting at the bar and a woman came up to order a drink. She had a French accent, so I thought, She’s from out of town. She might go out with me. She wouldn’t know any better.

So I summed up my Year 8 French and said, “Bonjour.”

She said, “Salut. Parles bien français?”

I wasn’t sure what she said, but I wanted to keep the conversation going, so I said “Oui.”

She said, “C’est magnifique de parler Français. Avez-vous là vécu?”

I took a guess and said, “Non.”

She seemed happy with this.

Mum wasn’t so happy. She said, “Why’d you learn French at school? It only increases the number of people who don’t want to speak to you.”

I said, “I didn’t really learn it, and it was just a class I had. It wasn’t something I wanted. I more subjected to it.”

Mum said, “I know how that feels.” Then she kept looking at me until I left the room.

The French woman got served and said, “J’adore la bière et pommes frites.”

I think the last part was “chips”.

The French woman seemed to be waiting for me to say something.

I looked at her.

She waited.

I said, “Oui.”

She looked at me.

I said, “Non.”

She said, “Et toi parlez vous francais?”

I said, “Bonjour.”

She smiled, said “Au revoir”, took her drink and chips, and went back to her friends. Then she pointed at me, and all her friends laughed. So that’s good for them. A jolly time was had. That’s a happy ending.

Dating Stories: The Cake Lady

I was walking along and this woman stopped me and said, “Hey, how have you been?”

I said, “Good.”

She said, “Did you hear Kevin got that new job.”

I said, “I didn’t know he was looking.”

She said, “Yeah, he’s been keeping his eye out. How’s Megan?”

Now, I’m not good with names or faces, or people in general, but I was pretty sure I didn’t know a Megan, and this put more doubt into my mind as to whether I knew this woman talking to me or not.

I said, “She good,” and to test the idea, I added, “We’re really good thanks.”

The woman said, “Oh great, sorry I haven’t seen you since the wedding.”

Now, I’m not good with people, but I was pretty sure I wasn’t married – so this ruled out the me knowing Megan idea, or at least in that way, or at least, I wasn’t wearing any rings. So I took a gamble, and said, “That’s okay, I’m sure you and Kev (I called him Kev) have been really busy.”

She said, “Sure have! But we should catch up soon.”

I said, “What about this weekend?”

She said, “We’re still unpacking.”

I said, “Come around to our place,” because I assume I live with Megan. “Just lob on over sometime. We’re home all weekend.”

She said, “Oh cool, we could use a break sometime. What should I bring?”

I said, “Bring a cake. It’ll be a surprise. I wont even tell Megan. Don’t tell her you’re coming. Just come over one afternoon.”

She said, “Great idea. I’ll bake up something and I’ll see you on Saturday.”

I said, “Great.”

Mum said she wanted to know where the cake was.

I said, “There’s no cake.”

Mum said, “I want cake.”

I said, “Mum, I don’t know these people. There’s no cake. Here, there’s no cake here. Have a look around. No cake. No cake here. I could get you cake. I could get cake and shove it down your throat until you’re full, and then pump it out of your stomach, but that would defeat the purpose of having shoved cake down your throat in the first place.”

Mum said, “I have seen Chopper. I do know what you’re talking about, and you still owe me cake.”

So I made her a cake, and she ate the whole thing. I didn’t get any. But then Kevin, Megan, the guy that looks like me (poor bloke) and some woman I don’t know, they all had surprise cake on the weekend. So that’s good. Assuming Megan and her partner were home. Otherwise it was just Kev and his friend, sharing a cake. That’s a happy ending too. That’s good for them.