The Serial Dater

by Judy Voss

The First Date

Nerves? Excitement? Flip a coin.

We met at the restaurant and conversation was going well. Until a loud fart interrupted me mid-sentence.

Breathing became a problem. I forgot what I was saying. My date’s eyes teared up. Was it him? I couldn’t tell.

Fanning it away didn’t help. And to make matters worse, the smoke alarm went off.

Which brought in the firemen and police.

What are the odds . . . ?

Turns out the restaurateur owned an exotic parakeet. He blamed the flatulent bird. Nobody believed him. Or paid their bill.

Soon, a second date. Nerves? Excitement? We’ll see.

The Second Date

Anticipation? Wariness?

We met again. Nursing drinks, avoiding eye contact while perusing the menu. A loud snort, followed by thunderous snoring, startled me.

I looked up. He was sound asleep, drooling. He became lop-sided. His chair hovered at tilt. He tumbled headfirst to the floor.           

A waiter rushed over, helping him up, muttering, “We don’t tolerate drunks here. Don’t. Come. Back!”

As he was shoved out the door, he shrieked “You’re free Saturday night?”

No! I deserved better than this loser-man! Right? Didn’t I?

I paid for the drinks.

The third date? The sex date! Second thoughts? OH?????

Anticipation? Wariness?

The Third Date

The sex date!

Mind-blowing? Disappointing? A crapshoot.

I wanted flowers. I wore perfume, lacy lingerie, and easy access clothing.

He dressed better than his usual sweats and T-shirts; freshly shaved, spruced up. Clean underwear?

We met. We sat. I smiled.

He frowned. “The dog ate my Viagra. His tail became very stiff.”

“What? Your dog? Honestly?”

“His ears too. Stiff. This is hard for me . . .”

“I’m glad something is hard.”

“One more chance?” he begged.

Could a tiny blue pill make any difference? I deserved better.

So much second guessing with this crapshoot.

Mind-blowing! Disappointing . . .

The Fourth Date

Aftershock? Resignation?

My foot slipped in dog poop on the cafe terrace. There they were, man and dog, seated in the shade.

The stink rose from my shoe as I approached. Perhaps the soft breeze would blow away the stench?

“I have to take care of something,” I said. “On my shoe. “

“My dog . . . I should’ve warned you,” he responded as I headed to the ladies’ room.

No amount of rinsing worked.

When I returned, they were gone, but the stench remained.

A note on my plate read You’ve embarrassed me. Goodbye!

Aftershock. Resignation . . .

The Fifth Date

Anticipation? Hope?

At the restaurant, he brought me flowers. Conversation was going well as we perused menus.

A fart erupted. I looked up. Sure enough, my prior, Crapshoot-Man, was seated at another table, across from a new date. Were her eyes tearing? She was fanning her nose.

The exotic parakeet landed on Crapshoot-Man’s shoulder, bit his ear and chirped, “Loser.”

Crapshoot-Man screamed, “It wasn’t me!”

“Yes it was,” his date replied, leaving.

My new date shrugged. “Let’s go. My place?”

“Yes,” I smiled. “Before the smoke alarm goes off and the firemen arrive.”

He laughed. He just didn’t know.


© 2023 Judy Voss  All rights reserved.

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