Since I started with a lady on the throne, might as well follow with my own first-date crapper.
First date with a girl who lived way out in the country. Literally about 25 miles from my place out in the deep woods. Our date was not long after her birthday and country-boy Daddy had just bought her a new car. I drive all the way out there, meet Daddy, Momma, Grammy, Grampa, sisters... the whole brood. It honestly wasn't my thing. Daddy was about a dozen beers in and wasn't a fan of people who didn't make a living with their hands; who didn't come home dirty. He tried to talk hunting with me. I did my hunting at Food World. He tried to talk fishing with me. I fished at Food World too. I was glad to get away from that.
Date insisted that I leave my car there, she wanted to drive her new ride. That was strike two. I was supposed to drive. Daddy didn't like that either, but she was adamant. So she drove.
We went to a movie (I think) and then to a steak place where I got a giant, greasy ribeye. I think we walked around the mall and went to an arcade before it was time to go back to her place. I was done with her. I didn't like the family dynamic and at dinner she was talking about her future plans which centered on being a housewife, listening to country music, and living the same backwoods life her parents and grandparents did. Maybe I'm elitist, but none of that appealed to me. Yeah, she was sorta country hot, but I really just wanted to be shed of her.
On the way back to her house, my stomach did one of those frightening noisy barrel rolls that announce some imminent bad intentions. I'm thinking to myself, 'maybe I can make it....' Then the second barrell roll hit. It was a 4.7 on the Richter Scale. There were no more intentions, the pyroclastic flow was about to burst onto the scene.
We were five miles out of town, nothing but woods around us. I tell her she's got to pull over. She laughs and says she's not going parking HERE, she knows a better place to go. I'm like no, you don't get it. Pull over NOW. She puts her hand on my knee and says "you can wait, it'll be worth it..." And then I start screaming. Pull the car over NOW, (add a stream of profanities directed at her and the universe).
Shocked, she slides onto the shoulder and goes "what is your problem?" I fumble at the door, and surge from the car just as I feel the first tingle of lava pecking at the back door. I manage to lumber eight or ten steps into the brush, shove my pants down and then it starts. A frothy volcanic eruption explodes from my bowels, spraying flora and fauna, coating it with an obnoxious splatter of poo paint. It is everywhere. I have no toilet paper, clearly, so I strip off my boxers and do my best to wipe off the back of my legs, my shoes, and the simmering volcanic abyss from which the satanic jet had just burst.
Tossed the ruined drawers into the woods, trudged back to the car and rode in silence to her house. At some point she rolled my window down. From there, I exited in silence, got into my car and drove away without another word. Didn't even look at her. Just got in the car and left. Never spoke to her again.
Needless to say, there was no second date. Six months later she was married to a guy who worked laying concrete blocks for a construction company. Not long after that she popped out a kid.
So the greasy steak was probably fortuitous. Without the stomach eruption, we would have gone "parking" because that's who I was and what I wanted. I had no interest in any form of birth control at that point in my life and she was likely country bimbo fertile. I could have been roped into that life.
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