The Harbinger

The editor has suggested I start an article about all of my dating horror stories, and perhaps some dating topics in general. I am, sadly, an expert at this. Having no shame, and until recently, no ability to learn from my mistakes, I have amassed a collection of dates, men, and experiences to rival most of those sluts on Sex In The City, except Samantha, who truly was a whore. Sit down, relax, and let me spin you a yarn of total disgust and embarrassment.

His name was DJ, short for Dwarkadhish – YES I KNOW – and he was Indian. Moderately attractive, well employed, and a little older than me, he seemed like a good catch. My 4-week relationship with him has provided me with enough horror stories for half a year of Bing articles like this one, but I’ll start out slow: Our First And Last Kiss.

It was in a movie theater, on our 3^rd date. He leaned over, I leaned in, he tilted left, I titled right; all systems go! But when it happened, instead of human lips, I found my face being smeared with a cold, wet dishrag—a slimy, huge, undulating dishrag-tongue-thing.

I froze immediately. What the fuck was wrong with this guy, that he had such a revolting orifice? Wasn’t he aware of it? Had he no shame? You don’t kiss people with a tongue like that, you don’t even permit doctors to examine a tongue like that, it’s just wrong. Didn’t I get a warning? “Danger: Kissing This Indian Man May Be THE WORST MISTAKE OF YOUR LIFE.”

I recoiled in horror and fell back in the seat, unsure of my next move, stomach churning. My mouth was covered in his vile slime—It was on my lips, some on my cheek, my chin. I didn’t want it on my clothes, or my hand, so wiping was out of the question. The kiss was maybe 3 seconds long, but his tongue had come rocketing out of his mouth and covered my face faster than a fat man covers the dessert tray at a Chinese buffet. I was desperate to get it off of me, his spittle was on my fucking skin, and I was actually going to reach for his shirt sleeve to wipe it off when IT happened:

Like a slow motion scene in a cheap scary movie, his hand reached out, his thumb squished into the bile on my lip and PULLED SOMETHING OFF MY FACE.

“You have something… Hang on.” His words hung like death in the air. Whatever he pulled off me stretched and snapped after the breaking point, landing on his thumb with an audible squelch. Without thinking of the consequences—(Do I really want to know what just came crawling out of his mouth and ended up on my face?)—I snatched his hand in panic and stared at his thumb.

My friends, it was a LIP BOOGER. A white, sticky, congealed collection of spit, plaque, skin, bacteria, infectious disease and whatever the hell else was lurking the corners behind his molars, the stuff that collects at the corners of mouths of people too unsanitary to wipe it off, or brush their teeth, or avoid getting it in the first place. It was sitting in a white stack on his thumb, taunting me.

His Mouth Snot was ON ME. Once this realization set into my brain, my stomach objected, and I frantically wiped my face with the napkins and made a mad dash for the bathroom, knocking over the popcorn bucket in the process. I am not above admitting that I lost my mediocre Mexican dinner that night, in the movie theater bathroom.

It was, ultimately, a kiss so bad I vomited afterwards. Beat that!

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