Anyway, when Kate (from KateTakes5) dropped "... a bit like my Debs when I ended up going with an asshole, but that's another story" into an email conversation I pushed for her to tell all via a Listography then maybe the shame would be diluted. Instead she offered me the hosting rights so you can head on over there and see if she's actually shared it when you've finished here.
So, considering I met my husband not long after my 18th birthday, my own "worst dates" are pretty thin on the ground but there were a few. Now, before you read any of these remember I was young, innocent and impressionable...
Mr Sloppy Kisser: Ok, so at fifteen we are all still trying to hone our technique but when you lean out of a kiss and your chin is dripping wet, it's not good. Not good at all. Especially on a November evening and there's a chill in the air. We never saw each other again after that and I can't remember why. But imagine my embarrassment when he walked through the door of a friend's house about seventeen years later? I still don't know if he recognised me or not.
Mr Medallion Man: Another dalliance when I was about fifteen years old. I lived in a village and local talent was slim pickings. He was slightly older (ooohhh by about thirteen months), had chest hair and unbuttoned his shirt in all weathers to show off this hirsute virtue. He had an air of sophistication and invited me over to his house for the evening. I couldn't believe that we were allowed to sit in his bedroom and listen to cassettes but absolutely nothing went on. Why? Because he spent the whole hour and a half in front of the mirror, working out which button to leave undone on his shirt, brushing his hair, changing his earring and, yes, trying on an actual fucking medallion.
Mr Miserable: I was seventeen by this time and went down to the local nightclub. I was in the "fun bar" (debatable... maybe even an oxymoron) and buying a drink at the bar when I noticed a bloke almost weeping into his drink. "Cheer up, for fucks sake," says I, ever so demure and ladylike. "Cheer me up then, love," says he, with a wry smile. So I did, by necking his face off for the next hour.
Mr On-And-Off-Again: Between the ages of sixteen and eighteen I had a very intense mainly-on-but-sometimes-off relationship with my first real love. I was at the party of a mutual friend and he arrived, as I thought he would. We were "off" at the time. He came straight over, sat with me all night, was very attentive and demonstrated his natural talent at ironing board surfing. He later walked me home, kissed me and then told me he was moving away. He thought I would be his "last night-er" but had failed to score the spare room at his mate's house. Lovely!
Mr Rest Of My Life: I had to include the husband, didn't I? We didn't so much as have a bad date - more an embarrassing one. When we first met we had a serious lack of places to go to "get to know each other" but he had a car and I knew of a secluded country lane. He drove, following my directions. We got to where we were going and I stood outside of the car for a quick ciggy then got back in again [insert amorous few minutes here]. After a short while we went to pick his friend up, I climbed into the back seat (2-door car) and his friend said, "What's all this mud on the dashboard?"
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*phew* That was a little less painful than I thought it was going to be. In my defence, m'lud, I wasn't a slag between the ages of fifteen and eighteen, honestly. In fact, it was Really Difficult to come up with five disastrous dates. But now it's your turn. Write your post telling us every single little details about your 5 worst dates and then link it up using the Linky below. I can't wait to read them!