Volume 1: Dating Horror Stories - "No I won't have sex with you."

Draw close, fellow fallen Angelenos. Mother Nikki is here to titillate sensibilities and stimulate funny bones on a bi-weekly basis. I offer diversion during your bullshit job when your Myspace page is blocked; the straight and twisted truth about matters of the
heart and other organs; and personal experiences for your amusement and enlightenment. But don't just sit there, LA; share with Nikki. This is, after all, an interactive medium. Ask me anything. Tell me everything. Inspire me with ideas for future columns. Because, let's face it, you might think it, but I'm the lady who writes it.

You know that old song, "You're Nobody Till Somebody Loves You" by Dean Martin? Well, fuck that song. That song might be catchy but it's bullshit. I've accomplished a lot in my life and I don't think I have ever been in love. Sure, I've dated and cared about guys but never really got that feeling that people seem to get when someone makes
your heart go thump. So, on the ever quest to meet someone who really knocks my socks off, and getting out of a horribly tumultuous relationship that lasted a lot longer then it should have, I dusted off my date britches and decided to get out there again. I met a man who might as well been my dad, he was old and boring. I met a man at
the grocery store that possibly could have been the rudest man I have ever met in my life and I met this particular guy that I'm about to tell you fine people about. I'm not joking, I'm not embellishing. This is real. Men like this exist in Los Angeles. Sure, it's probably not the worst date ever, I could give you a number of bad and boring dates
my ex took me on, but this one stood out to me. So here it goes.

It seemed like the perfect scenario. Boy meets girl in cigar store. Boy flirts with girl and gets her number. Boy calls girl and plans date. Girl meets boy for date and he proceeds to almost devour her whole. I'm one for affection and let's face it; I crave attention in
all aspects of my life. But when your potential suitor treats you like a steak dinner and he's starving, it's overwhelming. I decided to go with the flow and take it as it comes. I get it, he's into me. He's not the first and he won't be the last. We proceed to Ma'Kai on Ocean in Santa Monica. It's a trendy joint with amazing hand rolls and killer drinks. The place is right by the ocean so you get that low-key vibe with a bit of salt in the air. When I walked in, I noticed the lingering stares of men from the bar. I don't mind this and let me reiterate, I love attention. I kept thinking I have to move to Santa Monica. Not only were the men attractive, the intoxicating aroma of the salt air was invigorating. We proceed to sit outside in an intimate setting where I can indulge in my cancer vice. My date proceeds to demand that I sit beside him at the table. I politely tell
him that I will sit across from him. I will not canoodle in front of strangers. Even a gal of my stature has limits. When the bubbly waitress with the vixen red lip-gloss asks for our drink orders, my date proceeds to say, "Two White Russians". I couldn't get a word in. Wait? What if I was lactose intolerant? What if I hated vodka? Those two things could be any further from the truth, but I smiled coyly. As we get our drinks, I'm already bored. I couldn't get a word in because he was too busy talking about his famous father and his art collection. Usually this would make me enticed, but there was something I didn't really like about him. Maybe it was his over the edge cockiness or that he didn't wear an undershirt under his dress shirt. I don't know. I sat and tried to listen intently, all the while thinking about the laundry I had to do and the bills I had to pay.
After our drinks he says, "Do you have a fiver?" Wow. I'm paying for a drink I didn't even order.

He walks ahead of me and then apologizes, "I didn't mean to leave you behind, baby". Baby! Wow. He proceeds to ask if I want to go back to his house to check out his art. He also tells me he has some Cuban rum that's contraband. I again, decline. He puts his arms around me and we walk briskly. I feel like chains are tightening up around my throat. The alluring stares of other happy couples are making me nervous. We head to Renee's, a cool intimate spot with a New Orleans flair down the street. As we get two beers, which he orders without asking me what I want. (Again, I could be allergic to wheat), we sit at a dark booth in a room that would be fit for Bette Davis in "What Ever Happened to Baby Jane". Old paintings, china and rag dolls sit in china cabinets that look dirty and decrepit. Hues of dark green and blood red paint the walls giving it a sinister charm. Normally, I would love this ambiance, but the more I was in there I was feeling I could be meeting my impending doom. My date has his arms around me, holding me close and says, "I'm glad you're refraining from coming home with me. Not because of morals and all that, because I think you are scared of what will happen." Yeah, I'm scared you have a hole in your basement floor and a little white dog named Precious. All of a sudden I flashed to me being on an episode of Dateline, a show no one wants to be on. If you're on Dateline, you're either murdered or a pervert. It was time to go. I loved both bars we went to but even being a girl that loves attention, I hate being pawed over. As the night comes to an end, he grabs my head so hard for that kiss, it might make Ted Bundy squirm. I make it to my car. A safe haven. On the
way home I get a text from him, "I need to see more of you." Hum, I think to myself. In what way was he implying?

So you might not think that was so bad. Well, it was. I lived it and it sucked. So now I ask you to write to me and tell me your date horror stories. If they are worthy, I will repost your story (Anonymous, of course) and give you a bit of commentary in the process. I want to hear about it. Maybe because I'm intrigued, maybe because I'm nosy, but living here we have to share horror stories. So, come on L.A., what's it going to be?

By Nikki Wantz