By Rose U., TIWP Student

Today’s the third date of the week, and it’s only Wednesday. I think this guy’s named Eric or Evan or Ethan or something like that. Hopefully he doesn’t greet me with my name so I don’t have to try to recall his, or maybe I can just mumble something quiet enough that no one can understand what I just said, and he doesn’t ask me to repeat it.

Watching him walk in, I’m immediately confronted by a rush of dread. He looks nothing like his dating profile, which was to be expected. The man on his profile was 6’2 and went for daily 5 mile runs. This man is at most 5’9 and I can’t tell the last time he’s even touched a treadmill. He looks his age – 25 – which is a plus, but he already has a receding hairline. As soon as he walks over to the table, I’m hit by the overpowering smell of too much cheap cologne and body odor. It smells like he hasn’t showered in 3 days and tried to cover it with a gallon of some drugstore-bought scent.

I really hate this routine, it makes me feel like I’m going to die alone. I plaster a smile onto my face that feels more like I’m gritting my teeth. I pray it doesn’t look like a grimace. I stand and his eyes immediately drift to my chest. I should feel disgusted but I’m mostly just relieved he can’t see the dread that’s impossible to hide.

It’s fine, I’ll bite my tongue and try my hardest to get through dinner. I’ll take him home and never call him again. Then onto the next. I just have to get through dinner.

His eyes flash with something that should scare me but doesn’t. He’s immediately leaning in, ignoring my crossed arms and overall how my body rejects him. I should’ve skipped this date. I just have to get through dinner.

He launches into conversation about his startup paralegal company with an undeserved confidence. It really sounds like his friend’s the one doing all the work but I don’t say anything, just nod along. I almost don’t register when he asks what I do, he’s been talking about himself for the past half an hour.

“I’m a performer.” I reply, and his mask slips to reveal a dangerous, predatory desire before he quickly hides it again.

“Oh, like birthday parties or something?” He asks, but I already know that’s not what he’s thinking. I would’ve specified.

“Sure.” Is all I say. More like bachelor parties.

The night drags on, with him talking more and more about himself, whining about small problems in his life that he thinks are unique to him but really everyone experiences. Every so often he seems to remember he’s on a date and asks me a question about myself that I give another brief answer to. When the bill comes, despite bragging about his financial success, he doesn’t reach for it. I let out a loud sigh and pay, but really I don’t mind. The price of this dinner is like a drop in the ocean for me – I could go to this restaurant a thousand times this month alone and it wouldn’t hurt my bank account.

Despite my undisguised disgust throughout the whole dinner, after we pay I down the rest of my wine glass and reach across the table for his hand, my voice dropping into a low, sultry tone. I bite my lip, stained red with lipstick, and do my best to appear desirable, but I could probably throw up on this table and he still wouldn’t care. Men like him only want one thing. Lucky for him, so do I. Otherwise I never would’ve been able to deal with him for more than 20 seconds – no one could.

“Wanna go home with me?” I ask, and he nearly jumps out of his chair, suddenly giddy and energetic despite seeming like a slob for all of dinner. His clammy hand grips mine with a brute strength.

“Y-yeah.” He mumbles on his way out of the restaurant, but he says it so quietly that the sound is almost entirely swallowed by surrounding conversations. I take the lead once we’re out of the restaurant, practically dragging him to my car, now gripping his wrist. He lets out a nervous chuckle, like he can tell he’s in danger now but is still holding out hope that he’ll get laid tonight.

I force him in the backseat instead and instantly child-proof the doors, but he doesn’t seem to register, instead focusing on the material things. “Wow, you have a nice car for a um… you know…”

“Stripper?” I finish his sentence, no longer bothering to beat around the bush.

“Yeah, that.” He responds, taken aback by my blunt attitude.

“That’s because I’m not a stripper. I lied.” I don’t look back at him, now speeding to get back home. I no longer bother with the performance, the drugs I slipped in his whisky should be kicking in soon anyways.

He’s too stupid to understand that he should be afraid right now, simply responding with, “Huh.”

After a few minutes, his voice now slurred as he fights the inevitable unconsciousness his body will fall into soon, he speaks up again. “Hey, uh, where are we?” He asks, and I can’t help but let out what’s almost a girlish giggle. We’re now on a dirt road, engulfed by forest. In fact, we’ve been driving on this one-way street for a while now, I’m kind of surprised he’s just now commenting on it. I contemplate not responding and just letting him sit in confusion but decide against it.

“The middle of nowhere.” Is all I say in response. He nods, hardly comprehending anything now. A beat later, he slumps down in the backseat, fully asleep.

As I pull up to the cabin, the other girls greet me, all equally giddy. They rush over to the backseat, pulling him out and carrying him inside.