I had my last undergraduate class on Friday, and in honor of being officially done, over the course of this week I will be posting a series of dating retrospectives from the past four years. You can expect the good, the bad, and the ugly—especially the latter two. Let’s start off on the right foot by going directly for my most disgusting romantic encounter.
If you read my post about timing last week, you’ll know that I have an unfortunate affinity for athletic dudes. This guy was big and brawny and muscular, but also nice and friendly and smart. We’d taken a bunch of classes together and I thought he was interesting in addition to being nice to look at. I believed that there was definite relationship potential between us, and wanted him to be more than an average, run-of-the-mill hook up. But, of course, he had a girlfriend, and then when they broke up I was seeing someone—so nothing happened until about a year after we met.
I ran into him on campus and, aware that we were finally both single at the same time, casually mentioned that we should catch up sometime soon. Phone numbers were exchanged. We had lunch the next week. And then, on Saturday night a few days later, I texted to see what he was up to and he told me to come by the party he was at. I did, and we ended up going to another party after that, and it was there that we started dancing, which led to kissing, which led to us leaving together to go back to his place. This was totally going to lead to—no, not what you’re thinking…dirty mind!—the awesome make out session I’d been looking forward to for several semesters, which was totally going to lead to the awesome relationship we were meant to have. Cue Rocky theme.
We got to his apartment and decided to “watch a movie,” i.e. swap spit on his couch. I was under the impression that things were going well when he excused himself to use the restroom. I texted a few friends to update them on this dream-come-true situation. I actually watched the movie. I checked my phone again. I put on some more lip gloss. I had a breath mint. I wondered what was taking so long.
It was only at this point that it occurred to me to listen to what was going on inside the bathroom, and that’s when I realized that he was currently regurgitating the contents of his stomach. Yep.
I knocked on the door. No response. I called his name. A weak reply. “Do you need help in there?” I offered, not really wanting to help—as a friend of mine once put it, “I don’t do vomit”—but feeling that I should at least ask. “No.” Another text to my friend: Uh, I think he is puking :-/ What should I do? (I think that that was a very apropos use of an emoticon.) I tried the doorknob. Locked. “Let me in,” I demanded.
He was curled around the toilet seat, this big, brawny, muscular dude, pale and sweating on the floor. Not to brag, but after that I kind of saved the day. Well, first I just squatted next to him and awkwardly patted his shoulder, but then I saved the day. I helped him up, laid him on his side on the bed, and stretched out next to him—a good distance away to prevent getting barfed on—so that I could tend to him if need be. I stayed there until noon the next morning when he finally woke up, just so that he wouldn’t choke on his own chunder all alone. He went in for a kiss when I left…yeah right, dude, as if I’m sticking my tongue in your mouth after what I just witnessed, and especially before any mouthwash has been introduced to the equation. I turned my face and he got my cheek.
We weren’t really friends anymore after that. I was disappointed for a while and even considered giving him a second chance because I had liked him a lot. But whenever we saw each other he didn’t seem interested, which kind of pissed me off because hey, I had demonstrated that I was a very, very understanding potential girlfriend! I had done vomit! Just for him! Eventually two important things sunk in: 1) Nothing was going to happen between us, and 2) I do not dig dudes who can’t be gracious. That jerk had barely said thank you when I left the next morning. Forget it!
Of course, we still had two more years of college together. Oh joy. Occasionally we say hi to each other, but mostly we just look away and pretend that the whole thing never, ever happened. But few women can say that just kissing them caused a dude to upchuck—at least I have that.