Hello, and thank you for hopping over this way after reading Veronica Forand’s blog.
This week, Collette Cameron has decided to forgo the 3-question pattern to ask us a personal question about Date Disasters.
Many of our novel’s heroes and heroines have had a rocky beginning. Let’s hear some real life stories about disastrous dates. Real is fun, but if you don’t want to go there, feel free to create a real whopper.
I’ve created real whoppers for my novels, but they’re usually based on real-life experiences that have either been embellished for dramatic effect or TONED DOWN enough to keep me from having to cringe my way through the gory details.
There once was a guy named Larry who did everything he could think of to marry Miss Lil Ol Me. True story, this one. We met while working in the same Little Caesar’s restaurant, and while I thought he was a charming enough guy, he had an excess of flaws that kept me from wanting to go that extra little mile and say yes to his many requests for a real date.
We had become fast friends, but his interest in me far outweighed mine in him romantically. That spark or whatever you want to call it just wasn’t there. Aside from his incredibly deep voice, his acceptable height requirement, and later his ability to make oodles of money as a design engineer, it still wasn’t enough to turn my head and make me want to like like him.
But then he invited me to his parent’s wedding anniversary party, and I thought, y’know, this guy is decent, trustworthy, and determined. It’s obvious he likes me after two years of trying and failing, so . . .
He picked me up wearing a suit & tie (which I’d never seen him in until then) and I was like, holy hell! Is that you? Larry apparently enjoyed his new job building highway bridges, too, because suddenly the guy had broader shoulders and tighter arms. His chest wasn’t so puny anymore, either.
I mentioned his extra-deep voice already, right? Oh, for crying out loud, he even showed up in a silver corvette.
At the party, he tended to me like a butler, introduced me to everyone there without adding any titles to our friend-status, which I appreciated, and a few of his uncles had twirled me around that dance floor with such agility and grace as to be marveled considering the fact I couldn’t ballroom for squat.
I had the time of my life, in other words, and Larry helped to make it so — another bonus in my growing appreciation of and swaying interest in him.
And, then we left the party and he drove me back home.
“Do I let him kiss me, or not?”
It was the first time we both behaved so uncomfortable with each other, sitting side by side in that low-to-the-ground sports car of his in front of my father’s house, chit-chatting about the fun we had and reluctant to end the night the way we used to . . . with a see ya! and a wave good bye.
Okay, so I caved and leaned toward him for a kiss.
Never before had anyone used their tongue to wash my face in the act of a good night kiss. No lie. I saw his mouth open wide, but it was too late when that tongue began swabbing the entire width of my mouth, above the lip lines, and then our teeth clinked — I could smell and even taste everything he’d eaten and drank at that party.
I was beyond mortified. I broke free, used an arm to clean my face, and swatted his shoulder, teasingly asking where he learned how to kiss before exiting that sports car in a hurry. Then I spent a half-hour inside the bathroom cleaning my face and brushing my teeth until the willies subsided.
He had me . . . he was so freaking close to winning me over . . .
And now if you would kindly hop your way on over to visit with J.J. Devine and read about her date disaster experience, that would be wonderful.