Warning: This is not literary. This is just the story of the worst fucking date I have ever been on in my goddamn life.
Of course, I met this asshole at Clancy's. At least he wasn't a regular, but still. I should have known better than to pick up a piece of ass on a portal to Hell. Oh well. I was working on a Saturday night, and in walked Reynaldo. He was cute, tall, and friendly. He liked me from the start, and instead of staying for one drink before meeting his friend, he stayed for several and invited her to the bar to meet him. His friend arrived--an attractive, friendly female--and I eavesdropped a little on their conversation as I washed dishes nearby. At one point, I overheard his date say,
"I don't know why, but my poops really don't smell bad." I couldn't help myself, so I looked up and said,
"Yes, they do," Reynaldo said the same thing at the same time. Jinx. Clearly this meant we had to sleep together.
We chatted some more. I learned that Reynaldo was visiting from out of town and grew up in Long Beach. He asked me if I wanted to hang out the next day, I said no, I had to work, and then I said
"I would say we can do something Monday, but I'm flying out of town," and he said (OMG) "Wait, I'M FLYING OUT OF TOWN ON MONDAY TOO!"
Not only we were both flying out that day, but we discovered we were both flying to Portland. We did a quick check to see that we weren't on the same flight (we weren't) and marveled at HOW MUCH WE HAD IN COMMON. A poop jinx AND similar travel plans? Is this LOVE? SOULMATES? (Spoiler, it is DEFINITELY NOT.)
The night went on and I did a few shots as usual. I was drunk by the time we closed the bar, and when Reynaldo hit me up around 3 am, I invited him over with little hesitation. We had pretty standard one night stand sex, except for one thing. I'm gonna say this in Spanish because my mom/Reynaldo might be reading this. In order to come, Reynaldo had to look at my CULO. Like, really peer at it. Give it a good once-over, inspect it a bit. That was weird, that he was into butts, but butts are in right now. I went along with it, because ehh it's just one night. Who cares if things get a little...invasive?
He didn't stay over, I insisted that I needed my rest, but the next morning he called, and we agreed to stay in touch. I had people in Portland (Shout out to Shauna and Tabby and Ariel! Hey girls heyyyy!) and he would be back to visit Long Beach. If I ever wanted my CULO looked at and we were in the same neighborhood, I could count on Reynaldo. Cool.
Months passed. Maybe a year passed. Reynaldo would send me memes and message me on Facebook every now and then. Sometimes he would text. Nothing invasive or about my butt, just funny, generic internet stuff. Sometimes it was sexual in nature, but he never sent anything offensive. We friended each other on social media, and he seemed to be a regular guy, close to his sisters and mom, and he clearly also liked to drink. I didn't think he was my soulmate or anything, but he seemed like a solid, decent guy. I would also like to add that Reynaldo also didn't have an aversion to using condoms and using them correctly. I cannot stress how hard that is to find these days, and how refreshing it is when a guy gets it right, but that's another pressing blog post for another day. Basically, Reynaldo was sizing up to be a good travel booty call.
One day, Reynaldo asked me out. In Portland. He wanted to know if I'd go to see Rufus du Sol with him about a month later. I considered it, and decided to go. I would stay with my friend Shauna, I was due for a visit to see her anyway, and I'd spend one night with Reynaldo. I hadn't gotten laid in forever (literally because of someone else's aversion for condoms, BTW I really do need to post about that) and I reasoned he was a safe bet, even though he would probably look at my CULO again. Life is about compromise, people.
So I went to Portland. I stayed with Shauna. We had fun. Actually we both got way too drunk both nights and ended up crying, but all is well in the morning because we are best friends and sometimes that happens. Nothing a good cup of coffee and egg scramble can't fix between girlfriends. Day three rolls around and it's time to meet Reynaldo. I sent him a text:
What time should I head your way? Address? Do you want to pick me up?
He responded:
UBER LIFE
Uhhh, Uber life? Okay. Is he gonna send me an Uber? Do I need to get the Uber? I mean, look, I'm not stingy but I did just FLY TO PORTLAND I feel like he could get my ride if he isn't going to pick me up. This is when I had a thought. Should I bring my overnight bag with me? Or should I just leave my things at Shauna's, in case this date went sour? On one hand, it's better to be prepared and there's a good chance any guy I attract is a full blown psycho. On the other hand, I should have a little faith, right? Who was benefiting from my cynicism, really? Reynaldo seemed like a solid guy. I should just dive in, give someone a chance for once! I took a deep breath, and really committed to this new, adventurous and trusting version of me. I sent Reynaldo another text.
Address?
I plugged his address into my Uber app and to my surprise, Reynaldo didn't live in Portland. He lived nearby, in a suburb called BEAVERTON. The Uber ride was gonna be, like, 50 bucks! Ugh. But I had committed. I was going to have a great time, with a nice, normal guy. What's 50 bucks, anyway? (Spoiler: 50 bucks is a night of drinks with Shauna which is what I should have been doing.)
Anyway so I was off to Beaverton. Beaverton isn't awesome at all. It's a really standard suburb with ticky tacky apartments and strip malls and trees and SUVs and chain restaurants, etc. I didn't see any beavers at all. But that's just the beginning of a long string of disappointments to follow.
I arrived at Reynaldo's place, and promptly had a panic attack. I get those. It just happens sometimes. I quelled my racing heart and numb face (fun side effects of a panic disorder) by chugging, like, three White Claws, all while trying to maintain a pleasant conversation with Reynaldo. He didn't notice the panic attack--most people don't, thank God--and after my third White Claw, we set out to find a bar. Oh, I think I should also specify, I do not like White Claw. HE LOVES THEM. It's all he had.
"We can walk to the bar down the street," he offered.
I figured this was because we were going to get drunk. But no.
"I can't drive. I got a DUI," he told me.
This explained UBER LIFE but didn't excuse it. I was pretty unimpressed. What kind of 40 year old drives drunk and gets a DUI? Gross. He must have noticed the disdain on my face because he added,
"It wasn't like I was wasted. The cops were posted outside of a bar, pulling over people who left. I barely blew over the limit. Total bullshit."
Okay. I guess that wasn't that bad. Maybe.
Up next we walked to his local bar. It was actually pretty cute. It wasn't a chain, had decent food, and some cool specialty drinks. We talked over mac n' cheese and vodka cocktails, and despite the conversation being a little awkward, he was funny and was making me laugh. You know what I always say, if you can make me laugh, you can make me breakfast. But this didn't last long.
The conversation started to lull. On both sides. I was being annoying, talking too much to fill awkward moments. I could feel myself starting to suck, but I couldn't stop it. Reynaldo was playing with his phone. At one point, he let me know some pretty fucking strange information.
"I don't know why I even text this girl," he said, shaking his head, looking at his phone, "Maybe because she has sex with me," he said with a laugh.
Huh? So I flew to Portland to go on a date with this guy AND HE IS TEXTING A BOOTY CALL? Hell no. Wait. Is this NOT a date? Are we just buds? What's going on here?
"I asked her to come tonight, but she isn't texting me back," he added.
Okay, so this is not a date. Right? I was confused. Goddammit was I going to have to have a threesome tonight?
"My coworker might come, too, he likes the band."
Was I gonna have to to have a FOURSOME tonight? Mi CULO!
I sighed and signaled our waitress for another drink. Why didn't I leave my bag at Shauna's house?! What the hell was I thinking? Trust someone? He's a butt guy, he can't be TRUSTED! Dammit, Auriane. Get your life together! But I was stuck. So I would just have to go with it.
"You are an asshole," I whispered to myself as I sucked down the last few drops of my remaining vodka.
Our conversation perked up a little when Reynaldo told me a secret. Seems he suffers from Trypophobia. As that link will tell you, Trypophobia is the fear of CLOSELY PACKED HOLES. Guys, I'm not even kidding. The guy who has to look into your CULO to have an orgasm is also so afraid of CLOSELY PACKED HOLES that he gets nauseous and has, like, panic attacks if he sees them. I was intrigued.
"So, like, what counts as a trigger?" I asked him.
"Sunflowers are bad. It's fine if the holes are arranged properly, like, evenly spaced," he told me, "But if they're, like, soap bubbles or anything like that, it literally makes me sick to my stomach," then he paused--a very dramatic pause--and looked away, then added, "Sometimes I worry about how easy it can be to slip into madness."
What the fuck? Oh God, this is not a normal, solid guy.
"We should get going," he said, pressing his hands to his thighs and standing up, making a check gesture to our nearby waitress.
Reynaldo paid for our dinner and drinks (is this a date again?) and ordered us an Uber (UBER LIFE!) to downtown Portland. We had just enough time to hit a few bars and get to the concert. I was still pretty in shock from the "slipping into madness," comment.
"You got my drinks tonight, right? I got dinner and the Uber," he said in the car.
"Sure," I said and forced a smile.
"Whatever. Just go with it, and it'll be over soon enough," I thought to myself.
Honestly, at this point, I was okay with this being the most expensive date ever. I was just hoping Reynaldo didn't slip into madness and murder me. I was stuck, since my bag was at his place, and I would have to deal with it. Maybe if I drank enough I could black everything out. So what if I FLEW HERE and then UBERED TO A SUBURB ( I don't do suburbs, guys, like, ever) and was stuck with this potentially dangerous retard. I would make the best of it. That's just what I do.
Fortunately, Reynaldo's gay, elderly coworker joined us in Portland. (Not a date?) We went to two bars, and had some fun. I chatted with his coworker, and we headed over to the concert.
Let's take a break from all the bad date stuff and acknowledge one thing. RUFUS DU SOL WAS AWESOME LIVE. I had so much fun watching them, they were so cute and energetic and grateful and genuinely so excited to be there. I highly recommend seeing them live if you can. Just not with Reynaldo.
I asked Reynaldo to dance with me, but he didn't want to stand in the crowd.
"That's disgusting," he said pointing to groups of people enjoying themselves.
I opted to dance by myself with all the disgusting people. I had fun. The concert ended, and Reynaldo, his coworker and I went to a bar nearby for a few more drinks. The bar was like any other, just some sports bar with a fat, rude bartender and too many college kids around doing dumb shots like Jager bombs. Not my scene, but really, was ANY of this my scene? Whatever. Make the best of it.
Everything was going fine-ish, I mean, I didn't want to be here, but at least no one had gotten sick from seeing holes or whatever. We were all laughing, having some version of a good time. But then, Reynaldo's coworker left. Reynaldo and I sat at the bar together.
"Do you want to go to the strip club by my house?" He asked me.
I had spent like, 500 dollars on this terrible night so far, and no. I didn't want to go to a strip club and spend 300 more. I told him this. Gently.
"If we go to a strip club, I'm gonna drop another three bills, and this night has already been pretty ambitious as far as spending goes for me," I said.
Then he flipped out. Guys, he flipped out. He threw his hands in the air and started on some weird diatribe about how women are crazy and why would you ever spend 300 dollars in a strip club, I must be an idiot or not know how to count and "WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU?!" and now he is really shouting and I'm like WHOA BUDDY.
I stepped outside to smoke a cigarette. I had quit, but fuck all that. A cigarette is a great escape in many awkward or dangerous situations. While I smoked, two girls came out onto the patio and approached me.
"Do you want us to call the cops? That guy seems pretty crazy," they asked.
"Ugh, I wish. My stuff is at his house. I have to go home with that guy," I told them.
"Girl, that sucks," One said.
"Tell me about it," I extinguished my cigarette and prepared myself for whatever would come next.
Fortunately, Reynaldo was done drinking and ready to head home. We got back to his apartment (UBER LIFE!) and we chatted about the concert. I mentioned how much I loved to see artists in their prime, before fame had tarnished them, at that stage where everything was coming up roses. He was scrolling through endless Netflix titles looking for a movie to watch. I saw him scroll past WE ARE ONE DIRECTION.
Okay, hold on a sec. Let me explain something. Years ago, I used to have drunken movie nights with my friend Jenny. We would watch all kinds of dumb shit, and one night we watched We Are One Direction. We LOVED it. It was adorable (we were wasted) and showed these young artists in their prime, before fame had tarnished them, at that stage where everything was coming up roses. Okay. So, I jokingly said to Reynaldo, OH WE SHOULD WATCH WE ARE ONE DIRECTION!
Dude. I was kidding. It was a callback joke with myself. But I guess Reynaldo really doesn't like boy-bands because he flipped out again! His arms went up again, and he again started yelling a string of nonsensical insults at me. This time it was less scary and more funny, I'm not sure why, and I again ducked around the corner for an escape smoke.
After that, I cracked us a few more White Claws and we went to bed.
The next day, Reynaldo asked me if I wanted lunch. I had 6 hours to kill before my flight, and I was hungry.
"You can drive my car, I know a great little Mexican place," he informed me.
I was still pretty groggy, and didn't really want to drive someone else's car, especially with them in it, but again, whatever. Just get through it, that was my motto. So I drove. Over the river and through the fucking woods, I drove. Where the hell was this great Mexican place?
We finally arrived at a strip mall, and parked in front of an unassuming restaurant. Inside, the place was crowded and dirty. Dried shredded cheese was crusted to the tables, salsa was spilled on the floor. The trashcans were overflowing. Great little place.
Reynaldo ordered a ton of food and I ordered one chicken taco and a water. We sat in a filthy booth and waited for our order, our receipt with our order number, 19, on the tabletop between us.
"Diez y nueve?" An old Mexican waitress called out, walking by slowly, "Diez y nueve?" she repeated.
"I think that's our food," I told Reynaldo.
He looked at me like I had just thrown a glass of water in his face.
"What are you, fluent?" he asked me in an accusatory tone.
Now hold on a second. This motherfuckers name is REYNALDO RODRIGUEZ you guys. Just so you know. Okay? Okay. And I'm not even judging, because whatever I'm Auriane de Rudder and I don't speak French but...wait for it.
"I mean, I know enough to get by," I told him.
"Diez y nueve?" the waitress was still walking around.
Reynaldo reached out his hand and gestured to her. She placed the food on the table, and he aggresively slid his food in front of him.
"I don't speak that bingo bango jango," He said, taking a bite of his burrito.
Ya'll. BINGO. BANGO. JANGO. Okay Reynaldo Rodriguez. Do you, boo.
I wolfed my taco down and chugged my water.
"I"m sorry about last night," Reynaldo said.
"It's fine," I told him, quietly. We didn't speak for the rest of the meal. Soon we were back on the road.
As I drove his car back toward the apartment, Reynaldo spotted a car wash.
"Pull in there!" he shouted out, his hands now on the steering wheel, as if I wasn't going to pull over.
He then had me drive his car through the fucking car wash. I'm not even kidding. And, because I have never driven a car through a car wash (I hand wash mine, thanks) I didn't do it right at first, and he was ripping on me for it!
"Oh, I'm so sorry Miss Daisy, would you like to drive your own fucking car next time?" I asked him. He actually laughed.
"Uber life," I added.
After the car wash, there was one more stop.
"Pull over there, we need to go to Albertsons. I'm almost out of toilet paper," this was actually the second time he had mentioned being almost out of toilet paper to me. I didn't think to mention it earlier, but obviously, butts are a theme, here.
"You have a whole roll in your bathroom," I responded. I had noticed that when he warned me the first time.
Then, and I am really not mincing words here, he turned to me and looked me dead in the eyes and said,
"We need more. In case you need to take a big shit."
I sat with that comment for a second. Let it hang in the air for a bit. Then, I asked,
"Exactly how much poop do you think is in me? I mean, that's a lot of toilet paper."
"I don't know. Girls always use a ton of toilet paper so I just assume they take huge dumps," he said
"Maybe it's because we use toilet paper when we pee?" I said quietly.
"Oh. Uhhh, oh wow. I never thought of that."
It didn't get much better from there. We bought more toilet paper. I drove him home. We watched Tosh.O in silence. A random kid from the neighborhood came by, like a teenager, for reasons unbeknownst to me. I called my Uber 3 hours early (UBER LIFE!) and 80 bucks later I was safely in the airport, no where near retarded-ass Reynaldo Rodriguez.
When I got home I changed my Facebook profile picture to a cluster of Soap Bubbles and I'm happy to say I've never heard from that Bingo Bango Jango ever again. I know this story isn't literary, there's no huge life lesson here, but if I had to give it a name, it would be :
Getting to know your One-Night Stand: DON'T DO IT.
