Dating Fails: The Hot Witch

For the record ladies and germs, I do mean a witch, and not a rhyming word which begins with a the same letter either of my first names do. Although, both statements are true and apropos in this instance.

So, I don’t want to give off the impression I’m some sort of Godlike being who never fails with the women, or that I believe myself to be a being of such description. I’ve failed countless times (sometimes when it really mattered), made hundreds of thousands of vaginal drying mistakes, and I’m sure I’ll continue to do so throughout my life. Fact of the matter is, I have a demeaning and unenthusiastic personality which is a big turn off to a lot of people, nor do I care to hide those traits the vast majority of the time. Of course, I’m definitely also the type of Woody Woodpecker/Freud fan who will sometimes fail on purpose just to see how different people react to the same situation; I wouldn’t dare call myself an amatuer psychologist without conducting constant research. With this site and livestudly.com, maybe it’s more pro-am, but unimportant digressions aside, I wanted to start highlighting some of my more comedic failures with the ladies in an effort to humanize myself (I do enjoy pretending I am Godlike), offer some education to those in need, but more importantly, make you all laugh, since most of these lessons I have learned should have been obvious, but hey, I’m human and humans are stupid. As it is The Studly Way, I like to laugh at my failures as heartily as I celebrate my victories, in a never ending effort to stay remotely sane in a mad, mad, mad, mad world. So I invite you ladies and germs to enjoy the first entry in a series of many more to come, my gloriously moronic Dating Fails!

Plenty of Fish is awful. Just plain awful. I don’t know if you’ve tried using the platform, but it is filled with the most narcissistic, vain, antisocial individuals you could ever come across (I do fit in rather well, how did you guess?). And prostitutes, tons and tons of prostitutes. They won’t call themselves prostitutes either; according to them, paying one’s phone bill is rather difficult in this day and age. I guess if I could bang me to get my phone bill paid I probably would…..

I don’t know why (yes you do) but the siren song of POF calls to me time and time again, despite my fully knowing better. On a fishing expedition a few years ago, I thought I had it made in the shade! While usually catching guppies not worth my time, on this occasion, I was straight channeling Ishmael by making an absolute perfect catch; this girl was Eastern European (accent included, and I don’t care if it’s some sort of ist to fetishize accents), a dropdead knockout, and I assume this gorgeous creature had some money because of the nice car she drove. Her caboose matched her headlights in size, roundness and delectability. I was completely smitten, her admittance to needing to be spoiled financially and inability to comprehend the meaning behind the simple concepts she kept quoting such as Schrödinger’s cat or the definition of existential be damned. This is the type of woman which has to be kept away from wolves, lest their eyeballs bulge out of their skulls whilst their jaws unhinge from their heads as their tongues unroll in a fashion similar to red carpets at Hollywood premiers; a knockout like a punch from a pissed off Tank Abbott. While girls like her were a dime a dozen in San Diego, Chicago and Los Angeles, I was living in North Florida at the time, making the rarity of her physical beauty too spectacular to resist.

Before our sole date, I figured she was some sort of catfish. The girl was just too damn alluring to put into words; her physicality an artistic beauty as perfect as a Frank Zappa guitar solo or DaVinci painting. Body and face combined to create everything I pretend to be, perfection. Despite English being her second language, she typed well and spoke like an intelligent, educated young lady over the phone, armed with a voice that could have seduced James Bond, or any other British man. We agreed upon a moderately priced sushi restaurant up in her neck of the woods; she lived a couplefew towns away and as I was unfamiliar with the restaurants in her area, I asked her to choose a restaurant, despite it not making me look assertive. She could have gotten a much pricer dinner out of me, but she didn’t, something which greatly aroused me at the time (I am ethnically half a Jew, what do you want from me?).

When she got out of the car, it was as if I was hit with a stun gun. Her photos on POF did not do her the slightest bit of justice, and from those photos alone I knew I’d cut off an appendage for a night with her, had she requested it. You might think lowly of me for saying that, but let’s be real, a roboarm doesn’t sound too terribly bad. Having been stuck in North Florida for a good minute, that asshole voice in my head who hates me and wants to see me fail started spouting off nonsense about not being good enough/being too old and too broke for a girl like that. That dickhead voice wouldn’t have been surprised to have seen myself screw up dinner. Unsurprisingly, I didn’t.

Yes, on the contrary to my momentary fears, dinner went swimmingly. At first, she drank in every word of mine like a fine wine, exuberantly and slowly taking them in, delightfully letting them simmer in what appeared to be ecstasy. She appeared as smitten as I, perhaps moreso, as she had been trapped in this meth laden, human garbage infested wonderland far longer than myself. At first, I thought it made perfect sense; intelligent, sexy beasts were in rare numbers in these parts. How could we not be an ideal match? Then we kept talking and I realized I was just being charming and she was an idiot.

Her interpretation of Schrödinger’s cat is still my favorite I’ve ever heard. As far as my high school dropout ass can understand it, the concept with this somewhat lamebrained (in my opinion) theory is that if you put a cat in a box and don’t know if it’s dead, it isn’t alive or dead to the individual, as they don’t know if the cat lives and breathes without opening the box. This eastern European beauty queen expanded that definition to include an individual’s opinion on anything. Her purse wasn’t red, we only agreed that it was red. We might wrong about it being red, and if our waiter were to decide it was blue, she’d have to consider that fact that maybe her purse was blue. Her own example. She did have quite a nice purse, it is entirely possible that this fan of some really overly fancy sushi just wanted to show it off.

sushi rolls
Photo by Valeria Boltneva on Pexels.com (not the girl I took on a date)

I was okay with her not being the brightest orb of fish roe in the pile. We all have our strengths. I’m sure there were things about me that weren’t ideal to her, but we were getting along great. We had a lot in common, or at least I was good at pretending we did, and with nearly every other sentence we were laughing hysterically. To say the date was going well would be as truthful to say the sushi was delicious, and it was; if you’re ever in the small North Florida beachtown of Navarre, be sure to stop by The Slippery Mermaid for a healthy lunch or dinner. There was a fun bar with a pier she wanted to show me not too far off, so after a dinner full of flirting, guffaws and lots of smiles, we were off for the second part of our date.

The city of Navarre isn’t doesn’t just exist on the mainland. It also has an island, connected by big ol’ bridges, chock full of hotels, restaurants/bars and beach, making the small North Florida town a popular spring break spot, and vacation getaway in general. It was a Friday or Saturday night, so nearly every bar was packed to the gills with locals and tourists enjoying a warm summer evening, with a full moon sparkling and shimmering over the gulf as if we were in a movie. It’s hard to leave North Florida when you love the beach and fetishize white trash, lemme tell ya; much beauty, such trashy, very easy blowjobs, wow (not this night though). I ordered us a couple glasses of wine, white, if I remember correctly (which I hardly ever do but I don’t care;  call me Bill Pullman from Lost Highway).

We sat there, continually laughing, whispering into each other’s ears erotically while enjoying plenty of light touching. Somehow, we got onto the topic of religion and spirituality. She told me that she was an incredibly spiritual person (which was pretty obvious the way she defined philosophical and psychological terms), and that she used to practice witchcraft. She stopped practicing when her child was born, for some karmic reason or another. In case you didn’t know, when dating in your 30’s, it is difficult to avoid single mom’s. Not having a lot of experience with witches as I do mothers who couldn’t keep a man and/or chose the wrong man to procreate with, I shared a story of how a hot Latina lesbian put a curse on me, and how a cute songbird tried eating my eyes when I was asleep. (This is absolutely true by the way, you can read about it here). Sometimes, it only takes one mistake to screw things up royally and beyond repair; this was that moment.

Her light olive skin went whiter than my fourth grade pale complexion (the kids called me Powder, like the movie), while her eyes grew as wide as a racist cartoon drawing from the 1920’s of a black man.. Her lips began to tremble, and every word that came out was a fairly good Stuttering John impression, back when he still had the stutter. She said she had to leave, and couldn’t risk absorbing any of the black magic following me around. She had a kid to look out for, and couldn’t risk bringing any of that into their home. I tried to assure her that the curse was lifted, but she was having none of that. Whilst only 25% of myself believed I cursed, 75% of that 25% was sure the curse was still going strong. My date told me that she was sorry but never to call her again, got up and nearly ran out of the bar. I’ve never seen someone leave a date that quickly before, and I’ve seen a lot of girls run out on dates, believe you me. Beyond that, I don’t know if I’ve ever seen a person leave a building that quickly in my life, outside of those fleeing fires or gunshots. She sprinted out of that bar like a character in a horror movie who didn’t want to die, or an Olympian racing on the track. Honestly, it was impressive how fast she could move with those heels on. The Flash like. Impressive, and sexy.

Boy did I beat off that night! Maybe I bought a whore? I don’t recall to be honest. I was pissed, tipsy, and I’m sure stoned out of my gord once I got home. I’m sure I did something to attempt to quell the sting of rejection, a pain I’m normally immune to. She was just too sexy, too curvy, and with that accent as thick as her booty; *heavy sigh* However, I do remember coming to a realization about the curse which cursed my date about a week later. For anyone who has read the story of me being cursed (which can be found here), you know that animals, majorly of the cute variety, had turned against me. Squirrells were throwing acorns at my car, birds were trying to eat my eyes a la Alfred Hitchcock, and dogs transformed from best friend to vicious scorned lover seemingly overnight. I didn’t notice immediately, but the day after the date, the beef the animals and I had was squashed, unbeknownst to myself. Roughly a week later, I was golfing with a Chef friend of mine (if Doctor should be capitalized, so should Chef damnit) who happened to have worked with the girl a couple years ago. His description of her as a money hungry, manipulative, lazy nutjob didn’t strike me as much of an exaggeration necessarily, as she practically admitted to as much while we were munching away on sushi. By then, I had become cognisant of animals going back to either enjoying or ignoring me, and had wondered what spurned the change, but didn’t want to look a gift horse in the mouth, so to speak. The 25% of me which truly, 100% believed I was cursed came to the realization that since the curse saved me from a succubus style of woman (who even physically resembled the girl who cursed me, ironically enough), the curse had defeated itself. If this bit of black magic was something which I was using to my advantage, then it ceased to fulfill its own purpose and would be better off leaving me to be cursed by my own human nature and stupidity. So, the curse was lifted(!), even if it never existed.

I think the moral of this story though, regardless if you are using it as some sort of comedy shtick or you actually believe to be a victim of black magic, don’t admit to curses when on dates with ladies who believe in or have practiced any form of magic or witchcraft. That or, if you are determined and/or lucky with the right mentality, there isn’t a single bad which can happen to you that cannot be used to your advantage. I guess the moral is sort of up to you now, isn’t it?

Follow me @bongstudly 

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