I was raised in a strict Christian household, which meant absolutely no dating. Ever. My mother made an exception to this rule during the autumn of 2004, after she had been approached by this greasy little weasel of a teenage boy; I'll call him Calvin. Now, Calvin believed in courtship, and he called me up one day asking if I would accompany him to a hardcore show (I was a religious freak, but I was still a badass). I accepted, and so began the first date from hell.
Calvin arrived at my house with his mother. He immediately told me how beautiful I looked, and held my hand. I'm not sure if he had been repeatedly wiping the condensation off icy bottles of root beer or what, but his hand was drenched in sweat. Not cool. But it being my first date, I went along with it.
At the show, Calvin was nothing but a gentleman. During one of the crazy breakdowns, he stood in front of me, and this giant hardcore dancer--who is now one of my best friends--kicked him right in the stomach. What is a girl to do? I tried to comfort Calvin, but he seemed pretty humiliated and slumped off into the corner, leaving me by myself in a crowded room filled with sweaty guys. Hot.
After all this mess, Calvin and I jumped in the mom-mobile and she drove me home, where he awkwardly tried to kiss me, and I backed away. He called me three days later to confess the depth of his feelings for me, telling me that he'd love me even if I got fat. Charming.
Then, he proceeded to sing a love song he wrote for me. It sounded like a parakeet colliding with brick wall. When I broke our next date, his mother showed up at my house and confronted my parents, asking what kind of daughter they raised.
Sometimes my friends will remind me of this night with Calvin, and I cringe, thinking of the cute outfit I wasted on him. I haven't dated a nice guy since. Or gone to church. And I've never looked back.