Dating Fail: Mr. Hotshot

Dating Fail: Mr. Hotshot

After getting divorced at the age of twenty-six, I found myself back on the market. Looking at the dating pool for the first time was very daunting. I was not a “dater”. I had gone from one long-term relationship to the next within months of the previous relationship. I had never had a chance to find myself. I was always someone’s girlfriend or wife. Getting divorced was like being set free. I remember thinking, “Good, I can go home, now.”

I was happy to move back to my parent’s home to help my mother get through her divorce. We made a fine pair. I refused to date, seriously, for quite a while. My mother was dating before me. I had cajoled her into joining a dating service and she was like a kid in a candy store. The phone was ringing off the hook and I could hear her giggling from her room as she chatted away for hours. It was a tad embarrassing that I was avoiding the dating scene.

I decided to join a dating line even though I was hanging out with some guys that I knew wanted to be more than friends. I took the plunge and composed my voice message about myself, trying to keep it short but funny,

brunette with convertible, love for fishing, motorcycles and shooting pool seeks date with his own tackle box

I received over 100 replies to my voicemail. I could not delete them fast enough before the voicemail would fill up again. The power was a mad rush! I started setting updates left, right and center.

Every single guy that I met was not a match for me. Was I being too picky? I know it must have been me. I was not ready and some of those dates were just plain shocking. I will tell you about the worst date. I talked to “Mr, Hot Shot” on the phone and he raved about his pool shooting prowess. He claimed to play 8-ball frequently and he was very persistent about getting together. Our schedules were not in sync. I finally agreed to pick him up at his place after I finished work. He knew that I worked in a formal office environment and should have suspected that I would be fairly well dressed and hungry after work.

I picked “Mr. Hot Shot” up at 6 p.m. I was, as stated, the owner of a convertible. I had worked very hard to move up the corporate ladder and I was proud of my car. I arrived at the address he had given me. It was not a good area of the city. Before I got to his front door he came bounding out of his building, wearing a tracksuit from the eighties that was stained with something he must have eaten at lunch. He shouted out a greeting and bounded towards me. He wrapped his arms around me, giving me one of those lift hugs and then asked where I had parked. Overwhelmed and frankly slightly nauseated, I showed him back to my car where he refused to put on his seat belt. Always insist that a passenger, especially an octopus, wear their seatbelt, so when you suddenly hit the brakes they don’t almost smack their head on the dashboard. I was not impressed.

I was too shocked by his bold grope of my knee to speak. He suggested a restaurant close to his place that had pool tables. I was hoping for an upper scale blues club, instead, he directed me to a downtown dive. Perhaps this was for the “best”, as being seen with this throwback to the era of the mullet would have been soul destroying. I was racking my brain for a polite way to take him home as soon as possible, the handy-dandy cell phone was not something that I owned. I can only say that dark clubs have benefits. I crossed through the bar and picked up a pool cue and racked the balls. We played two games. I was in a snit and my game was bang on. I beat him the first game by three balls and he said something about being hustled. I laughed and then thoroughly trounced him for game two. A conversation was at a minimum.

Mr. “Hot Shot” was not impressed. In fact, he was sulky and snotty. I was a lady and did not bother to sneer at him when he suggested we leave. I gladly marched over to the bar and shelled out for the games. He was furious that I had paid and proceeded to ask me if I had any idea how to be, get this, “a girl.” I was wearing a skirt, I had long hair and high heels on and trust me, I look very much like a girl. I waved him towards the exit and we got back in my car. I was expecting to say goodbye with a nice fake smile at the curb but he had other ideas. He went in for the full frontal kiss when I turned to say goodnight to him in the car. Instead, he smooched my ear as I jerked my head away in surprise. He left the car, slamming the door. I drove away laughing like a loon. What gall he had exhibited! I had to pick up my own supper on the way home.

My mother met a very nice man through the dating service and they have been together now for over twenty years. I slowly built a beautiful relationship with one of those guys that I knew that wanted to be more than friends. We’ve been together for over twenty years, too.I still laugh about “Mr. Hot Shot” and wonder if he found himself a “real” girl to pander to his fragile ego.


Writer bio:

Hello! I’m Tracy.  Mother of two sassy ladies and the longtime love affair, to the love of my life for 24 years, Rob. We found the secret to making love last.  I’ll be happy to share it with you.  I’m a dreamer, reader, and writer.  I am also a card-carrying member of the Gypsy Soul Travelling Club.  Want to join? Come to visit me at my travel/lifestyle blog, “Our Four Suitcases”  Check out my 4 part series on “How to Catch Mr. Right” or “7 Ways to Tell if the Dude is a Dud.”

If you liked this story check out Date for Hire.

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