Dating Stories: The Saddest Story Lady

Often before a gig I hear people say they’ve practiced their new material on their partner, just to check it wasn’t shit first. I don’t have a partner. As I approach forty I know that’s when most divorces happen, so, fingers crossed.

My date doesn’t have to be divorced. Maybe I can meet someone who’s just been cheated-on a lot, or who’s husband’s died. Maybe. Not all three. I don’t think I have the emotional reserves to handle someone who’s suffered all three.

I mean, the best I could sympathise with is this time Mum drove over my pet snail, and she replaced it with one from the garden. I could tell it wasn’t my Sluggy. I told Mum and she said it was, and I said it wasn’t, and she said it fucking was and if I kept this up she’d put me up for adoption.

She often said that.

She never did, but it didn’t make the feeling feel less real.

If I told a date all that, I don’t think I’d get a second date.

Thinking about it, it wouldn’t be so bad to met someone who had all three happen. In the order that someone was cheating on them, and they divorced them, and that person died.

I’d be okay with that.

That’ll be a happy ending.

In the meantime I’ll try new material on audiences. It might be shit. They might still laugh, and that’ll be good for them.

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Dating Stories: The Birthday Lady

It was my birthday last week. At 4:30 in the morning Mum poked me awake with a stick.

She said, “Where’s my present?”

I said, “Oh, yeah, ah, Mum, last night I went on a date, and it was her birthday soon, and she told me her mum was buying her something. She said, ‘That’s normal’. She said, ‘Nobody does it the other way around’.”

Mum said, “Don’t believe what dates tell you. Remember, ‘You’re such as nice guy’ means ‘You’re dead-shit boring’, and ‘I’ll be in touch’ means ‘I don’t want to hear from you again’.”

I said to Mum, “But, you’ve never bought me a present in your birthday.”

Mum said, “I gave you the greatest gift of all. Life. What have you given me?”

I said, “Last year I gave you a bottle of gin.”

Mum said, “The year before that?”

I said, “It’s not all my fault. Vodka and gin are in the same aisle. They’re both clear. I’m sorry.”

Mum said, “I had to choke down that vodka with a bottle of Coke. Gin doesn’t even need Coke.”

I gave Mum a handbag with a bottle of gin in it. She gave me back the handbag. I keep socks in it.

I texted my date. She said I was really nice and that she’ll be in touch.

I hear she’s dating a fishmonger. Fish is really healthy. A good source of omega-3.

So that’s good for her.

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.

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.