Terrible Date #321: The man with no plan – Part Two

Hey hey my lovely Lovertons!

How have we all been? I’ve been freezing my balls off, that’s how I’ve been! If you’re reading this somewhere in the northern hemisphere I am officially jealous! But hey, with cold weather comes winter snuggles and doona sex, so I can’t complain too much right?

So, as I sit here, ensconced in layer upon layer of woollen blankets and suspicious smelling sheets, I’ll tell you the thrilling conclusion of my truly horrendous date.

Right, where were we? Ah yes that’s right, Chester had just shot down my attempt to talk about myself as he ‘didn’t feel the need’ to talk about sex.

Aaaaand cue the dog.

As I was sitting there fuming, an adorable greyhound trotted up to us. Dogs can sense pain right? He must have headed straight for me like a beacon once he got a whiff of my immense discomfort.

Good boy.

Sadly, Chess got to him first before I could thank him for his act of charity.

“I fucking love greyhounds!” He exclaimed, sloshing his Jim Beam around manically in his rush to leap towards the poor dog. “I used to work at the greyhound track when I was younger, so I know like, everything about them!”

Of course you do.

Chester proceeded to grab the dog by the head and turn his ear inside out, “See the tattoo? All greyhounds have one!”

That’s great, please release the dog, I thought nervously, looking around furtively for an angry owner charging up to us.

Luckily for us, the dog’s owner was actually a lovely girl, around my age and strangely calm regarding the whole ear grabbing incident. As soon as she approached, Chester hit her with a barrage of questions about the dog, who was now seriously regretting his decision to rescue me. I met his gaze as Chester continued to run his hands all over him, admiring his breeding stock and agility, and both of us silently agreed; run, run as fast as you can.

I was just about to make my excuses and get the hell out of there when suddenly the dog’s owner exclaimed and fell to her knees by the side of her dog. Concerned, I leaned forward, worried she had succumbed to Chester’s bullshit and was overcome enough to faint.

But no, turns out the poor little pooch had been attacked by a ferocious toy poodle and was bleeding from his leg. The cut didn’t look great, but the wound was pretty clean, clean enough for a vet to sew up with no problem that is.

But who need’s professional animal doctors when you’ve got Chester right? He worked at the greyhound track for like, at least three months, so he was totally qualified to fix this situation.

Chester took charge instantly, puffing his chest up like peacock in heat and ordering the owner to go and speak to the offending poodle’s owner.

“Don’t worry,” the apparent new superman assured her, “I’ll take care of everything over here.”

My beer made a sneaky attempt to make its way back up my throat but I swallowed it down with some difficulty.

The owner ran off while Chester made unnerving cooing noises at the dog, making him infinitely more uncomfortable than he already was.

Finally the owner came back, upset that the poodle owner hadn’t given a shit about clawing up her dog.

Bloody poodle owners.

“That mutherfucker!” Cried Chester, startling myself and the owner, not to mention the poor dog who he was still clutching. “If this was my dog I’d fuck that guy up! I’d fucking deck him! I fucking would!”

Fucking stop.

I only just managed to restrain myself from hanging my head in my hands from the sheer shame of it all. The owner was looking at me with a ‘restrain your boyfriend’ look, and I was staring back at her, willing her to understand, ‘he’s not my boyfriend! Please don’t associate me with him!’

But all of that was forgotten when suddenly Chester thrust his sticky can of Jim Beam into my hands and announced, “I’ll fix this. Wait here.”

And then he sprinted off toward the tree line.

Keh? What the hell was happening here? Me and the nice owner exchanged awkward glances as we watched his ramshackle ass disappear into the distance. Now how was I supposed to escape? I couldn’t very well bugger off while he was trying to do the one nice thing he had attempted all day. I groaned inwardly and swigged my beer in frustration, annoyed beyond belief at the knowledge that I would be stuck here for at least another hour.

I exchanged a bit of small talk with the dogs owner, and we were even joined by another greyhound and her owner at one point, but nothing could lift me from the gloom that had settled over me. Now that Chester was trying to do a good thing, I had to stick around and be nice to him. Gah! Why now? Why didn’t I escape when I had the chance?

Ten minutes passed by… then twenty… twenty five… and then just as I was about to yell, “Screw it!” and walk out, I saw Chester sprinting back towards us, plastic bag in hand.

Lord, here we go.

Chester dumped his spoils on the ground and began sorting through them, shoving a bottle of water at me and demanding, “Mix that with equal parts salt, we need to make a saline solution.” I felt like delivering a mock salute and yelling “Yes doctor!” But somehow I managed to restrain myself, instead following his orders and making myself a salty little cocktail.

Once I had completed the task to Chester’s satisfaction, (he seriously checked it three times, including a taste test. What a wanker) he proceeded to wash the dogs leg.

All fine and good yes? I mean sure, normal water would probably have been fine as well but he went the extra mile to make sure the dog wouldn’t get an infection. That’s nice, right?

Until he pulled out the razor.

What the actual fuck are you doing Chester!?

I wanted to scream at him that he wasn’t a vet and spending a little time with some greyhounds does not a doctor make! But no, Chester was in his element, holding the dog steady as he hacked away at its fur with his incredibly incompetent razor. I thought it couldn’t get any worse; but then he opened his mouth, “Fuck! It’s like shaving me pubes!”

Kill me now.

I chanced a glance at the dogs owner who was finally realising Chester was not the magical dog whisperer he claimed to be, but rather a weirdo who enjoyed touching her dog just a little too much. We exchanged pained looks over the dog as Chester continued his shaving frenzy, getting absolutely nowhere.

“Maybe we don’t need to shave his leg?” The owner offered helpfully.

Understatement of the century there lady, this was a greyhound, not a poodle. No shaving necessary. But no, Chester was intent on getting this dog’s drumstick completely bare.

Twenty minutes and much puffing grunting and swearing later, Chester finally gave up.

Bout bloody time hero.

But just as I thought the nightmare was ending for the dog, things got worse! Chester pulled some bandages from his bag of treats, which he was all to eager to tell me the exact price of due to being on the dole. “Nothin’s cheap these days!” He ranted as he prepared the bandages.

And that’s when I noticed it. Chester had gone out and bought those bandages that are already sticky so you don’t need to hold them in place with any clips.

Smart right?

Not when you don’t get anything to put over the actual cut first!

I watched in horror, mouth agape, as Chester proceeded to place the sticky bandage directly over the torn flap of skin on the dogs leg.

Noooooo!

“Yeah, nice and tight, there’s a good boy.” Cooed Chester, oblivious to the moronic action he had just undertaken. The dog’s owner was a little slower on the uptake than me and only after Chess was done bandaging and was giving her the rundown of how often to change them did she ask, “But wont it open the cut back up if I take the bandages off?”

Mental slow clap from me.

“Nah she’ll be right.” Chester said confidently, and offered no further explanation than that.

Finally, finally the dog was free to leave, but God did the poor little guy struggle. Chester had strapped the bandage on so tightly and all over his knee, that the dog could barely walk!

Goodbye dear friend, I thought pityingly as I watched the owner try to get the dog walking as normal, but that little dude wasn’t going anywhere fast until that damn bandage came off.

To top it all off, just as they were leaving the park (after what will I’m sure be remembered as the ‘worst walk ever.’) Chester suddenly sprung up and raced after them. When he caught up to them I noticed them exchange something and then he came strolling back up to me.

I looked at him with high eyebrows, silently questioning his random take-off.

“I just remembered this great vet’s number.” Chester explained, “I figured it would be helpful to give her his number just in case. Plus I gave her my number in case she wants any more advice.”

You’re not a vet! Oh how the words wanted to rip themselves from my mouth. Instead I smiled sanguinely at him and said, “Hmm, maybe it would have been a good idea to give her the vet’s number first.”

“Nah man nah,” Chester retorted, clearly offended. “I just saved her like $300 in vet bills!”

Yeah. Right. Whatever you say Dr Harry.

So anyways, now that all the dog drama had subsided, I was left with nothing else except my beer and Chester’s company.

Kill me now.

Now Lovers, you may be thinking, ‘Ok Claire, it’s time to get out of there. Make your move. Ditch the bastard.” Am I right?

But alas Lovers, no matter how much I dislike someone, I just can’t bring myself to blatantly hurt their feelings! Chester had travelled over two hours to come and see me (by train of course, there was no way he could afford petrol, let alone a car) so it would just be plain mean of me to bugger off after only an hour or so (most of which had been dog time.)

God I hate myself! Why do I have to be so nice?

I screamed these sweet words in my head constantly as I listened to Chester drone on and on about his at best uninteresting and at worst downright disgusting life. Seriously Lovers, he didn’t want to talk about sex but was apparently fine talking about all manner of other bodily functions.

Gross.

To make things worse, Chester seemed to have quite the temper on him. I had noticed him getting heated about the dog which I suppose was a valid reason, but he tended to go off his nut about quite a few things (mostly political rants. Ew such a turn-off.)

Finally I could take it no more. I had to get out. Now.

So Lovers, what do you think is the best way to get out of a date? Pretend to be sick and make your excuses to leave? Make up some phantom event that you mysteriously forgot until now? Silently will one of your friends to text or call you so you can help them out of their ‘emergency?’ Fake a seizure?

No no Lovers, the best way to get out of a bad date is to do exactly what they don’t expect.

So I kissed him.

Don’t look at me like that Lovers! I had to do it! I was afraid if I told him the truth, (that today was the worst date of my life) he would get angry and start yelling at me! Every excuse I could think of just wouldn’t work and I still felt guilty deep down about him coming such a long distance.

At least by kissing him I could give him a good time in the moment and then let him down gently later (when I was far far away from him and his raised voice tendencies.)

But boy did I pay for that act of kindness.

He tasted sickly sweet like Jim Beam and his beard scratched the shit out of my face. I closed my eyes and pretended I was locking lips with Brad Pitt, Keanu Reeves, Tim Allen, anyone that wasn’t Chester. But then he grabbed the back of my head (in what I think was meant to be a passionate embrace) and mashed my face into his.

Hard.

Good Lord Lovers! I couldn’t breathe! My arms flailed about wildly as I grasped around for purchase on something I could hit him over the head with. Sadly my beer was out of reach so I just had to sit through my tongue bath and accept the fact that I make bad decisions far too often.

When he finally allowed me to resurface I was gasping for air. Poor old Chester assumed I was panting with barely suppressed passion and lunged in again for another kiss.

This one I managed to dodge.

“Ooh, I’m a lady!” I supplied weakly, attempting to pull off a coy look but probably failing miserably.

“So?” Asked Chester, grinning and reaching for me with is sticky hands.

“So,” I interjected, inching ever so slightly away from him, “a lady never gives it all away on the first date!”

I could see Chester’s disappointment, but after a moment he relaxed and sat back again.

Phew, crisis averted.

“So, you want to grab dinner somewhere?” Chester asked suddenly, surprising me as I surreptitiously tried to pick his beard hair from between my teeth.

Enough was enough.

Time to get those lying pants on.

“Sorry, but I’m helping a friend move tomorrow.” I said apologetically. When I saw his high eyebrows I quickly added, “They’ve only got the moving van for three hours and they’ve hired it from six am. So… early morning tomorrow.”

Again Chester looked disappointed at my statement, but if I was putting my lying pants on then I was pretty sure he could manage to shove his big boy pants on.

Success! Chester finally accepted defeat and ruefully started sweeping his empty cans back into his backpack. I attempted to look anything but triumphant as I watched him pack up, but boy it was hard!

“Well, I guess I’d better be off.” I began, ready to make a dash for the park gates.

“Nah nah,” Chester said quickly, “I’m a gentleman, I’ll walk you to your tram stop.”

What? After all this you decide to be a gentleman now? I groaned inwardly as I outwardly pasted a smile on my face and simpered a thankyou at him.

Polite bastard.

We walked out of the park together, but not before Chester had cracked the last of his Jim Beam’s though. My warnings about street drinking seemed to fall on deaf ears and sadly instigated another rant about how corrupt the system was and how we all deserve rights.

Sweet baby Jesus, would I ever be free?

But finally, that blessed tram appeared on the tracks, signalling my imminent departure from this, the most abhorrent of dates.

Not without one last kiss though right? Not my choice Lovers. Chester, fuelled on by six cans of Jim Beam and the heady scent of dog hair, grabbed me by my shoulders and yanked me forward, crushing my face with his and sealing that damn mouth over mine in some twisted parody of romance.

That tram couldn’t get to me fast enough.

“Bye!” I cried as I jumped onto the tram, trying not to wipe my face free of his spit while he was still in view. As Chester slowly began to recede into the distance, I waved goodbye to him.

And with my other hand I deleted him from Bumble post haste.

Phwoar! What an experience!

Lesson of the day Lovers? Always trust your gut when you think the dude might be a weirdo! The gut never lies!

Until next time you saucy minxes.

Claire xx

 

 

 

 

 

 

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