Skip to content

Surviving a Shit Show: Pt 2

Despite the utter shambles of our first encounter (read here) , I managed to bag a date with black hair! 

We met up one rainy, * crossed night in Paris. Here’s what happened..

The climb

We’re on a cobbled, narrow street in the 6th arrondissement, and either he’s trying to race me, or lose me. 

In any case, he looks like a fucking show off.

He finally clocks I’m not beside him and turns around, only to locate me four feet behind, wedged between a pram and a man with a walking stick.

My signature speed walk is now a full blown sprint and I pant:

“Keep going, I’ll be with you in a minute!!”

Do I feel like a slob? Yeah, I do.

Do I feel deterred? Not at all 😉

Arrive @ brasserie

My heart sinks. 

It has about as much charm as my left shoe- one step away from being binned.

(Suede and rain don’t mesh well)

A baby sits high in its chair screaming. I shoot it a look that says 

“Put a sock in it, will you?” 

Only one waiter is working, who swerves from angry customer to angry customer, trying to remain calm.

A glass falls from his tray and shatters. Baby isn’t pleased.

More crying. 

Maybe ambience is overrated?

Sat at table

First date nerves are on #fleek, but trying not to show it.

I uncross my arms, light up a cig and say:

“Right, what we having then?” rubbing my palms together.

Feels a bit creepy, but “c’est la vie”, as the French say! 

Black hair, on the other hand, couldn’t look less fucked. 

His ass? Slung off his seat. 

His eyes? They can’t meet mine, and his hands? 

Well… they’re playing with the popcorn that’s sitting in a silver dish.

It came free, and it doesn’t take long to clock why.

80% of it is covered in mould.

He looks at a piece, looks at me, and then throws it in his mouth, like some kind of sick chirpse.

Baby stops crying.

Waiter turns and gasps.



Once I digest that he probs has salmonella, I start things off w/ a banger:

“So…what music are you into?”

“I used to like music…not anymore…”

Great- he’s already triggered!

I see it unfolding. 

“I did until Uncle Jim broke his back during my Chopin recital.”

In no mood for a sob story. Change topic.

“How was your weekend?”

“Fine, yeah…. well my Mum’s boyfriend just kept on playing video games in his boxers!”

“Right… what does he do then?” I sigh.

“Not much really. He’s a (world famous name).”

“Not very INTERESTING? As if! I’m surprised he’s ever home!” 

He shrugs.

“Last week he came back from a party in a castle. He was gone for a month.” 

“A month? What kind of party was this?”

“Oh, just a satanic sex one.”

He’s reaching for another piece of popcorn. 

Want to kick it out of his hand.

Baby’s popped off again, now an octave higher.

Would someone give the poor love a dummy!!


SEX party? SATAN?” I shout.

His eyes lock mine and widen.

I now see they’re a chalky blue. 

“Well, I mean.. his voice quietens…we should go some time.”


Lucifer N’ chill?

I’m alright bro.

Did I look like the “type”? 

Is there even a “type”?

Must be- his bloody step dad for one! 

The liberty!! The sheer cheek!!

So naturally I… blush and smile. 

It’s the most affectionate thing he’s said to me all evening. 


We’re in an Uber passing by the Louvre, The Grand Palais, and.. he’s talking about McDonalds. 

“Did you know they have a limited edition sauce?”

Consider jumping out the Prius, but something tells me not to.


End up at a small, black room of abar

Clientele look like they’ve just smoked crack or done poppers. 

At least no screaming baby.

Most fucked of the bunch stumbles over.

“You’re wayy too good looking”. He’s talking to black hair. 

“And you.. you look like the girl next door.”

From someone who looks like one of the “Village People”, it’s rich.

Order cocktail.

It’s called “The Donkey’s Bottom” which feels about right.

After one sip, I’m up by the DJ, who’s got a sleeve of tattoos and is playing Post Punk and Krautrock.

I’m into music, so ask him to play something of a similar ~feel~.

But it never does play.


Back in Uber. This time to his apartment!!! 

Don’t know how things have escalated this quickly, but you’re only young once am I rite?

His place is in the boujie part of town and it’s gated and it-

it belongs to his grandparents.

The door opens, we step inside and I’m hit with:

“I’ll be five minutes!!” and he bolts out the door. 

Now I’m alone in this huge 4 bedroom flat, still not sure what I’m doing.

But one thing is clear- this is an old money $ituation.

*trigger warning*

Expensive art is framed in gold, first edition books are on shelves, and there’s a long hallway with blue carpets.

The blue of the carpet is so hideous that it makes me feel anxious and suddenly I wonder why he ran out the door. 

And where the hell he’s run off to.

I think back to the satanic sex party and my heart starts to race.

What if he’s gone off to grab a pentagon?


Maybe this is an initiation ceremony for the “castle”! 

He emerges back into the flat and I say:

“Sorry.. I- I’ve just clocked.. I’ve got to go!”

But I don’t. I stay for two hours, where (…………)


4 thoughts on “Surviving a Shit Show: Pt 2 Leave a comment

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.

%d bloggers like this: