Cuối tuần rồi, post lên 2 mẩu chuyện nhỏ về online dating cho các bạn thư giãn. Đây là những mẩu chuyện người thật việc thật mà người viết ký dưới một nick name.
1. The butcher’s daughter
Story Sent in by Joe:
Stacy and I met online. She was nice enough, at first, but she was a little too fond of talking to me about her father, the butcher.
She worked with him in his shop, she helped him place orders, she once beheaded some chickens, she loved weighing steak. She very clearly liked what she did, and routinely filled my head with all manner of meaty facts.
The week that Spider-Man 2 came out, she asked me if I wanted to see it, which I did. It became our first date.
After dinner (during which she had ordered pasta and a salad), we made it to the theater. When we arrived at the concession stand, I asked for a medium popcorn and soda. Stacy asked the poor stand worker, “What meat do you have?”
The worker said, “Meat? We have chicken nuggets and hot dogs.”
Stacy asked, “What type of hot dogs?”
“What quality beef?”
Stacy groaned. “Nooooooo, I mean prime, choice, select, and so on.”
The worker said, “I don’t really know. No one’s ever complained. They’re really good.”
Stacy laughed, “I’ll be the judge of that. I’m a butcher’s daughter. Let me see the package.”
The worker became flustered, and I whispered to Stacy, “Why not just grab some popcorn? Or you can share mine.”
She replied, “Uh, I’m doing my part to support America’s meat industry. How about yourself?”
I shrugged. “I’m doing nothing at all to support it. Why not just buy a hot dog and then we can go see the movie?”
“You don’t understand. I’m a butcher’s daughter. If a customer came in and asked my dad what grade the meat was and he said he didn’t know, do you know what would happen?”
“This is a movie theater. Not a butcher shop.”
“I know what a butcher shop looks like. My father’s a butcher.”
The worker cut in, with hope in his voice, “Will that be all?”
Stacy turned to him. “Weren’t you checking on the grade of beef?”
Without a word, he turned and walked away. Luckily, other registers were open, so other patrons were being served. However, there was a growing line behind us and I just wanted to be away from the concession and inside the theater, regardless of the quality of beef that accompanied us within.
The worker returned with a manager. She told Stacy, “We use Sabrett and Oscar Mayer.”
Stacy asked, “How old are they?”
The manager patiently replied, “We just got them yesterday.”
Stacy asked, “Where did you get them from?”
The manager said, “A local retail supplier.”
Stacy then asked to see a hot dog up close (“I’m a butcher’s daughter. I just want to inspect it.”) and the manager indulged her. Stacy looked it around and around, from every angle.
Finally, she returned it to the manager and said, “Okay. I’ll have a small popcorn.”
The worker blurted, “You don’t want the hot dog? Seriously?”
Stacy said, “You’re talking to a butcher’s daughter. Believe me: I know meat.”
Off to the theater we went with nary a hot dog between us. I spent the rest of the time focusing on the film, and looking forward to ending the date and never seeing the butcher’s daughter ever again.
2. No Sex in Any Room
Story Sent in by James:
Ruth and I had been on a few dates, and I loved spending time with her. We’d been seeing each other for a few weeks when I took her out on a date to a restaurant right on a river, at sunset. She was smiling the whole time, and everything was great.
We hadn’t slept together yet. She said she’d had some bad experiences, and I told her I’d let her take the lead on that. That night, though, by the river, she looked so good and it was hard to think about anything other than holding her. I whispered to her, “You look so beautiful,” and she took my hand and held it for most of the rest of dinner.
Hand-in-hand, we walked back to my car (I had picked her up) and my next idea was to go for a walk downtown and hit up an antique store that she said she had wanted to visit.
Once the door to my car shut, she turned to me and said, “We’re not having sex in your car.”
I cracked a smile, thinking, still, that she was joking. I said, “I hadn’t planned on it.”
She was silent.
When we stepped out of the car, downtown, she turned to me and said, “We’re not having sex, here on the street.”
“Or in the car,” I reminded her, still thinking that she was kidding around. She didn’t smile or give any indication that she was joking, but it seemed such a strange thing to say that I played along as if it was a joke.
We walked into the antique store and she turned to me yet again and said, “We’re not having sex in this store,” loud enough for the woman behind the counter and the five or so other customers to hear.
I replied, hoping that she was just setting me up for some kind of punchline, “If I were to have sex in any antique store, it wouldn’t be in this one.”
The woman behind the counter, rolling with it, quipped, “Pity.”
Ruth darted in amongst the aisles and tables, seemingly wanting to put some distance between us. Concerned, I followed her and asked, “Hey, is everything okay?”
She said, “Yeah. Why?”
I said, “All these sex comments… are you just kidding around? I don’t think I get it.”
She replied, “What’s that? Sex? That’s right. You don’t get it. And you never will!” Once again, she said it loud enough for everyone to hear, and she spun around, but as she did, she hit into a blue, glass vase, and it shattered onto the floor.
The woman behind the counter marched over to us and said, “You’ll have to pay for that.”
Ruth ran for the back of the store and pushed the rear door open. An alarm rang. The woman pushed past me, pulled the door closed, and the alarm stopped. She pointed to the mess and said, “You paying for this?”
All eyes were on me. All eyes that knew I was dating someone crazy who never gave me sex. I told the woman, “Look, I didn’t break it. But I can give you that girl’s name, number, and address.”
“I’m serious,” the woman said, “I’ll call the police.”
“Call them. Give them her information. I’ll write it down for you.” I did as I said, and left the store. I waited by my car for a while, as Ruth lived eight miles away, and I wasn’t sure how else she’d make it home at that time of night. I tried calling her once, she didn’t pick up, so I gave up on her and made for home.
Surprisingly, she called me the next day to ask me if I wanted to hang out. No mention at all of the previous night’s behavior.
As I said, we had great times together up until that point, so I wanted to at least get to the bottom of what had happened. I asked her, “Yeah, maybe we can meet and talk about last night. Want to grab lunch at Rudy’s?”
A pause from her end of the phone, then, “If you think I’m going to sleep with you at Rudy’s, then fuck off.”
Click. The end.