The fourth of July has come and gone, along with your ear drums. Surely the beautiful gunpowder blasts in the sky known as fireworks have freaked out your babies, pets and vets. Maybe you have a hilarious (or horrifying, probably horrifying) story about the time Uncle Bobby had a few too many and launched a sparkler into your Aunt Becky’s house. I want to hear about it. But I also want to hear about the other kind of fireworks, the kind you feel when you’re with a person and they set your undercarriage ablaze. I’m talkin’ butterflies, but I’m also talking fireworks. In this week’s Pissing Contest, let’s get a little conceptual and a little literal. Tell Jezebel about the time you felt fireworks, however you’d like to define it.
But before we get to that, let’s hear those summer date disaster stories from last week:
killaryclinton, this story has all my favorite elements and is still a disaster:
I met a boy at summer camp, I think the summer between 7th/8th grade. We were flirty and stuff, we never made it ‘official’ but at the end of camp we made plans to keep in touch and to meet at the Mall of America. He lived in Minneapolis and I lived in Wisconsin a few hours away so it was convenient for him, not really for me, but we were going to eat at the RAINFOREST CAFE which was literally my dream. I get back from camp, convince my mom to drive me hours away so her 7th grade daughter can go on a date. The day arrives, we drive there and... he is nowhere to be found. He stood me up! He didn’t even have the decency to call and explain himself. He sent me a letter basically saying he had changed his mind after camp ended and wasn’t interested in me and didn’t want to WASTE MY TIME on a date. Bruh, my time was already wasted driving to friggin Minneapolis. It was really devastating to my self-esteem at the time, it confirmed my suspicions that I was ugly and unloveable and no one would ever want to date me 😔 (I’m engaged now though so I’m over it haha)
TheOtherNico with a devastating 14-word date story:
I went on a blind date to an amusement park. He packed a suitcase.
pthomas745, I hope your date is single:
Mid eighties, my friends set me up with one of their co-workers. I take her to a Dodger game. Driving to the stadium, right next to Olvera Street, some sort of high official in city government or the LAPD runs a red light, smacks the car next to me, and that car smacks the side of mine. We all spin through the crowded Friday night intersection. I go over to the other car, find two women screaming in Spanish, and a young girl cut up from banging around in the back seat. I go to my car and bring towels and help stop the bleeding. That takes about a minute or two. I look up....and the entire intersection is filling with motorcycle cops and black and whites. I’m holding the towel to the little girl’s head (she wasn’t hurt too badly) and see the car that hit me. The driver climbs out of his car, steps into a cop car, and is driven away! Ambulance shows up and whisks the little girl away, and the cops don’t help at all when I’m screaming about wanting to know the name of the guy who hit me. “Just tell your insurance company to bill the County of Los Angeles.”
I finally get back to my car after 20 minutes........and my “date” hadn’t even gotten out of the car. Was completely disinterested in any of it. Got to the game by the third inning, drank two big beers, drove her home and hardly could talk to her.
My friends were mystified that I never called her again.
goofdoof, I’m surprised you made it past minute fifteen:
This date happened LAST NIGHT. It was an online meet-up - we knew very little about each other. In our thirties. Me: Casual, understated professor gal who appreciates smarts and good conversation. He suggested we meet at the Ritz Carlton bar (eye roll) and when I arrived he was in a full suit (I was in jeans).
First minute: He ordered for me. At that point, I should have run and never looked back.
Second minute: Scrolled through a very-long photo album showing me all of his fancy world travels and quizzing me on where he was in the pictures, and about geography more generally. Enthusiastically corrected me when I was wrong or missed any deatil.
Eighth minute: Dropped totally irrelevant details about his career (worked at all 5 of the top banks), education (triple-masters), and class standing (first).
Fifteenth minute: ‘Splained me all about the field in which I am a professor, filled with myths and untruths. I tried to correct, in vain. Appealed to me that me that “we” are both scientists (I am but he is not) and therefore can relate to each other on scientific issues. I became very confused and gave my most skeptical looking face. He was not interested in hearing anything from me. His intuition told him all he wanted to know.
Twentieth minute: Offered to read my palm. I waffled. He pushed. I said fine. He took my hand and told me about my life line, my love line, and so on. Then asked me to rate on 1-10 scale how “adventurous” I am, how “spontaneous” I am. I played along to be polite. Then asked 1-10 how good of a French kisser I am. He grabbed my hair and try to kiss me. I recoiled (news flash: NOT interested in the slightest and sending zero signals to indicate otherwise). After I pulled away he ‘splained that in his past dating experiences, that exploring kissing on a first date is very typical. Ok buddy. Got it. He remarked how cute it was that I was so “conservative” and “innocent” not to want to.
Thirtieth-Sixtieth minute: Insisted I sit closer to him. Teased me for being online looking for dates. ‘Splained more about my field of expertise. Tried to convince me to dance with him multiple times. High fived me after every sentence. Gave me the creeps. Asked me out on a second date. I avoided answering (and honestly, just stuck around to see how bad this train wreck of a date would get, for the story).
Seventieth minute: Told me he likes to end things on high notes, to build lots of love hormones and get those neurotransmitters firing. He asked me if I agree - if I like to end things on high notes, too. I said ... uhhhh? Before I knew it, he grabbed my face and stuck his tongue down my throat. He was stabbing my lips with his tongue while I was pulling my face away from him. I started laughing. He remarked again how cute it was that I was so pious and conservative not to want to kiss him. Yeah buddy, that must’ve been it. Because why wouldn’t every woman want to make out with you, with your great personality, humble demeanor, non-creepiness, and great listening skills?
Seventy-first minute: Rushed away. Laughed all the way home.
SingedVinegar2, hero, but don’t date your co-workers:
August, 2012, and I went on a date with a guy from work who got a bit too drunk and demanded that I let him fist me. Rude. I had him sacked the following Monday.
Deep State Class of ‘97, no:
I went on a date with a girl. She mentioned that her favorite band was Sugar Ray.
I just couldn’t get over it.
Sparkle in the comments below.