Last Weeks Date With The Writer. Ugh…

Jesus . . . I’m fucking STUPID. I had high hopes for her too.

Sigh. 

Samantha, a twenty-nine year old struggling comedy writer a friend hooked me up with had amazing facebook pictures. The shot of her hoisting up a tall brewski showed off her beautiful half-Latin smile, white teeth and brown eyes. And the other one where she wore skin-tight gold pants and a teeny top at some sort of Mardi Gras type festival proved our mutual friend wasn’t lying about her 5’7 frame and five day a week yoga regimen. Ugh. Her body looked SO fucking good I almost licked my laptop screen.

Baby-got-a-bangin-hip-hop-music-video-body aside, what I really liked about Samantha was her easy-going and always chuckling attitude. A funny girl has always been a plus, and as I’ve gotten older that plus has turned into a must. “Let ME tell you a funny story,” I said while trying to come off equally as entertaining during our first phone conversation, then stammered into a four minute long ramble about how I freaked the fuck out the last time I smoked weed.

I finished…

Brief silence…

“But I thought the story was going to be funny?”

She was also humble when explaining her dire financial situation. “I work all day, seven days a week and make zero money. I don’t know how I keep managing to pay my studio apartment rent each month. Half the reason I’m going out with you is for the free food!”

With that, I safely set up a dinner date instead of the always-easy-to-get-out-of “drinks”. I’ve struggled financially plenty in the past and totally got it. And it’s not like I make all that much bread, but treating a funny hottie and potential eff-buddy or wifey to a swanky LA restaurant is always in my budget.

When I woke up on the day of our date I still didn’t know where to take her, but the morning started off with some very positive news at work that put me in a celebratory mood. I said fuck it and made a spur-of-the-moment reservation at Geisha House. And for those of you who live in LA…

Yes.

Geisha House.

For the out-of-towners… Geisha House is a super pretentious, overpriced, Kim Kardashian, Paris Hilton, need to be seen, every-episode-of-Entourage-was-filmed-there hellhole. You can smell the collagen, fried hair and desperation when you walk in. It’s impossible not to see one of The Hills cast members sipping a rainbow colored drink. Loud conversations about production deals, development contracts and screenplays fill the air like a philharmonic being played by blind monkeys.

It was a DUMB move and NOT normally my style, but the restaurant was three blocks from her house and the first place that popped into my head. I thought — Fuck it, I can be Hollywood for a night. And Samantha seemed like she would’ve been happy with a burrito truck, so I went for it.

The date had actually gone quite well… all up until I realized what a stupid fucking irresponsible dickhead I am. Much better than I’d thought, considering it was a partial blind date and Samantha looked even better than her pictures, which NEVER EVER HAPPENS!!! Her thin, white summer dress showed off her toned arms, tight legs, b-cups and made me bite my fist when quickly peeking at her utkatasana’d rump-shaker.

I went fucking crazy when ordering dinner. Thirty-five dollar dry aged kobe rib eye steak? Bring it. Rare toro sashimi at a crazy overblown market price? Yes, I’ll take TWO of them shits. Oh, and a bottle of the most expensive sake you have please. Samantha…  Anything you want, girl. I’m feeling good; you’re fucking hot and super poor and I’m DOWN to throw around some cash.

Through dinner laughs were plentiful, accidental knee-rubs under the table weren’t uncomfortable, sarcasm was heavy and it looked like Samantha and I would definitely be more than just one date. She was quicker than I was and continually made me laugh. I loved it!

We were halfway through shared desserts, rice flower banana fritters and hot brownies topped with fresh cream and berries. I felt SO fat. Didn’t matter. Because as we all know a woman sharing a dessert with a man on a first date is code for: Yes, I WILL let you sloppily stick your tongue down my throat after you hug me goodbye. 

I should have been stoked.

But then… I realized it.

Oh… FUUUUUUUUUUUCK!

The awareness punched me in the face and killed all of that days excited energy and my hope of a funny fuck. I began to sweat profusely and screamed at myself — You fucking fat pig IDIOT! What am I going to say to her?! How am I going to say it?! What the FUCK do I next?!

As we finished dessert I got up and went to the bathroom in a pathetic effort to buy time. I grabbed my phone in a panic, scrambling to think if I knew anyone who lived close by to come rescue me. I didn’t. I was FUCKED. I knew that by the next morning I’d be the laughing stock of her friends, family, the bloggosphere, TMZ, CNN and whoever else caught wind of my blunder.

As I sat back down my heart was pounding like a techno track. Our struggling actor/model waiter put the check on my side of the table. PRICK — I thought as I stared at him like he’d just screwed my sister… and forced her to do anal.

I flipped over the bill – $269.72

My life is fucking OVER! 

I looked up at Samantha with a worried smirk.

“Samantha, you’re not going to believe this… but I forgot my fucking wallet.”

She chuckled.

I laughed back, “I’m totally serious.”

“NO!”

“Yes.”

“How much?”

“269.72. Not including tip.”

“Umm, I think I have $200.00 in my account.”

“We’re fucked… and I just blew it.”

Silence.

Shame. Embarrassment. Loserville. Fucking asshole.

I called the waiter over and shamefully explained the situation. He laughed. I told him I wasn’t joking and almost punched him. He left and returned with TWO managers AND a security guard. Paris Hilton’s friends began to look in our direction while trying to figure out who I was and why restaurant staff surrounded our table while I practically cried.

They took all my information and made me promise to call when I got in and give them my credit card number over the phone. I apologized profusely; thankful they weren’t breaking my legs and looked like a MASSIVE pussy doing so. Through the whole thing Samantha stared at me in silence with a look of utter shame. She wasn’t impressed with the way I was handling the situation. She looked at me like a bitch. I was a bitch.

I got my car from the valet. SHE had to pay for $7.00 plus tip. Heavy silence during the three-block drive to her house. Pathetic apologies as I pulled over. “It’s okay. It happens!” She said, trying to make me feel better. No hug. No sucking face. No “let’s do it again next week.”

When I got home I called and paid the tab. I haven’t heard from Samantha since. I’m not calling her. I need to jerk off to make myself feel better.