Part I: Does your worst date beat this?

Most of my closest friends have heard this story in detail, but up until now I've refrained from posting it it up here. Although it occurred almost three months ago, the reasoning behind my hesitation to post is equally divided between the fact that it is a hefty, circuitous story to write and that as much as it is above and beyond what you can imagine for the worst date story possible, there are also elements that (I feel) reflect poorly on me, my judgement and my decisions made. But when all is said and done, if a blog isn't a space where you can admit your shortcomings and share ridiculous, hilarious, horrifying stories, then where else is? Plus, I share it as a forewarning to others...

So as you all know, I joined OkCupid to meet some interesting, handsome fellows in NYC. However, my good friends Tim and Lexa convinced me to join when I was here over New Years, prior to taking my MCATs and about a month before I actually moved to the city. While it proved to be a thoroughly entertaining mode of procrastination when studying (Facebook ain't got nothin' on OkC in that regard), I made what I later learned was the worst decision you can make on OkC - I had ongoing conversations with people. Doesn't sound TOO bad, right? But when you think about it, people can create very particular personae on the internet, they can become whomever they want to become. And while I knew this instinctively, I misjudged my ability to discern between the good eggs and the bad apples.

I was chatting with a guy who shall remain unnamed, and I'd be lying if I said that I wasn't attached at all. I mean, I was cognizant of all the potential weirdness-in-person, but it was nice to have someone to come home and gchat with at the end of the night; I enjoyed having someone to think about when I felt like there were no options in Montreal. So, upon my arrival to NYC, we decided to hang out. I got here on a Monday and waited until I got a little settled, started my internship, moved into my place, and bid Momma Viv adieu before setting a date on Friday night. Apparently a first OkC date on a weekend is a big no-no - you can't use work as an excuse to get up early the next morning, and you might be committing yourself for a full night. Again, news to me.

Anyways, getting to the story (and I promise, I'm going to try to make this as concise as possible, because we all know how I can blab), we decided to meet in Williamsburg since he lives far out in Brooklyn. I texted him as I said I would, just as I was getting on the subway. No response, but I was underground without service, so I didn't think anything of it. I get there 20 minutes later, text again asking where he was, and he was like, "Umm, I'm at home, why?" He didn't realize that I was leaving. Great start to a date. So I wandered around Bedford Street alone for about 30 minutes on a popping Friday night, then hung out next to a bodega right near the subway stop. He got off the subway and texted that he had arrived, and as I looked around slightly-eagerly-but-trying-to-play-it-cool, I spotted him walking towards me. We made eye contact. He gave the hint of the lip curl of a smile. Then he blew right by me and walked into the bodega. Um, what?

I went inside and was like, "[Name]? Hi!" and gave him a hug. His accent was thick, so thick I had trouble understanding him. And people were around. And he wasn't talking much. So I was like, "I'll wait outside while you pay." He came outside and we walked to the dive bar across the street. He kept on shooting me these attempting-to-be-sly, pseudo-cutesy, totally creepy side glances and smiles. We got some drinks and sat at a booth in the middle of the bar, right next to the coatcheck (note detail for later). I got it out of him that he had smoked a joint and perhaps had imbibed a few beverages prior to meeting (he claimed it was because he was so nervous. I'm not sure about that) and his genuine reason for being late was because he fell asleep. I know. Warning signs already.

So we get a few drinks and conversations begins to flow a little more easily (or the snippets of conversation that I can understand). He gets a little cuter. Whether that's because of the vodka tonics or spending time actually talking, I'm not sure. Now, I should throw in a little preface here to clarify a few things; one of my co-intern friends said a great quote the other night. He stated, "I've had plenty of lovers, but not many boyfriends." I feel like I'm in the same boat. It takes me a lot to get close to guys romantically; I usually keep my guard up pretty high. So part of my New York goal is to let that down and genuinely give people a chance, even if that means getting a little hurt. Well, tonight was the wrong night to test out that goal.

He went to get us another drink and this time sat down on my side of the booth. He begins holding my hand, playing with my fingers. Meh, not really feeling it but I go along with it. Then puts one arm around my shoulders, proceeds to finish his drink, and places his remaining hand on my stomach. I'm not even this intimate in public with people I'm dating, never mind a sketchy guy on the first date! I giggle, brush it off. The feminist in me is seething. The naive girl in me is wondering if this is how all OkCupid dates proceed (WARNING! It is most certainly NOT!). He leans in with that same wannabe-cheeky, totally stalker-creepy smile and tries to kiss me. I dodge it. Or quickly start talking about something else. I can tell that he's trying to make deep, intimate eye contact, so I only heighten my effervescent conversation, never allowing him the satisfaction of stilling me with his gaze. He tries again. Will this guy give up? In my twisted, slightly intoxicated state I think to myself, "Well, bonus points for persistence, maybe? May as well give it a shot. He's probably not the most awful guy I've ever made out with," [in retrospect, I might have been wrong, but that's coming later]. Despite all that, not a great kisser; kind of couldn't get into it. And THEN I see a huge flash - some Williamsburg-hipser-chick has just snapped a picture of us (Instagram, obviously) mid-smooch, with my hair awry and my eyes probably rolling back in my head. I flip a shit. I spaz at her (what the hell is she doing taking close-up photos of random people in bars?), insist she delete the photo, grab my coat, and storm outside.

The unnamed man follows me, begging me to stay when I say I want to go home, promising that we will just drink tea and talk, apologizing profusely for making me feel uncomfortable and pushing me to do things I wasn't comfortable with. Can't we just hang out a bit longer?

No, no we can't, I assert. I'm going home. I'm going down to the subway. Of course, the Williamsburg L stop is perhaps the one place in New York City where there is only one platform for a train going in either direction. My home lies toward the Manhattan-bound direction. His? The other end of the line. I wish I could say this story stops here, yet it only gets much, much worse. The other half - aka Worst Date Part 2 - is coming shortly...