All of the weird.

All of the weird.

Most dates are a banal sort of affair. A bland Starbucks-fuelled chat between two people who find each other moderately pleasant and moderately attractive. Occasionally you get lovely dates, which involve laughing, a shared penchant for melted cheese and full-frontal snogging. And finally, there’s the weird. I always thought my handcrafted ‘worst date of all time’ award would remain the property of The Interrupter, a man who ate most of my food and failed to let me finish a sentence throughout the entire duration of our three hour dinner.Sorry, Interrupter. You’ve been upstaged. Enter The Brazilian Comedian.

Three minutes into the date, it transpired that ‘comedian’ was a something of a stretch.

‘I’m not actually a comedian. I made it up because it gets me lots of girls on Tinder. Sometimes I tell them I’m a prostitute for a joke too. I’d like to be a comedian though.’

‘Oh right,’ I said politely, the little red whackadoodle alert flashing wildly inside my brain. ‘What kind of comedy do you write?’

‘I don’t write it. I just think I’m naturally funny. I’ll just get up on stage and be me. That’s what all the big comedians do.’

‘Actually I think they prepare stuff….’

‘Yea? I’ve got jokes. What’s the difference between a bar and a clitoris? A man can find a bar!’ (Not only was he the least funny man I have ever met, he laughed at his own jokes.)

Dinner continued in the vein of general awkwardness. He babbled incoherently, I drank wine and wondered if he might be on the spectrum.

Then he pulled out the big guns.

‘I don’t seem to have much luck with dating. I’ve had loads of Tinder dates but people all seem to be weird. I went out with a crazy girl a few months ago. She fell madly in love with me and sent 30 declarations of love a day.’

To lighten the mood and veer away from the topic of restraining orders, I suggested a game of truth and lie.

‘So I once had a threesome with two Russian girls and once gave a blowjob to a guy,’ was his reply.

Turns out number two was the truth, and he proceeded to launch into a verbose explanation of how the whole thing came about. (In case you’re wondering, he met some girls from London through couchsurfing.com, who were hoping to score a foursome in Dubai. They thought it would be nice if the boys met each other prior to their trip, just to create intimacy and prevent the whole thing being weird.) I was always under the impression that intimacy meant a shared passion, mutual understanding and chemistry between two people in love. But apparently it means masturbating over porn with a man you just met and inserting their widgy in your mouth. My bad.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m all for celebration of sexual expression. If people want to organise bodily fluid sharing events with random people they meet on the internet, more power to them. But it’s probably not a story that should be repeated one hour into an awkward first date.

After telling me he didn’t believe in buying girls drinks or dinner, we split the bill and went to the bar. (If you’re wondering why I didn’t leave at this point, it’s because I have this horribly British polite thing going on. And I *desperately* needed alcohol.)

Would we like something to drink, asked the waiter. YES PLEASE.

What would I like? ALL OF THE DRINKS. JUST ALL OF THE DRINKS. (Brazilian dude had started a story about the time he weed into a cup at Sandance, spilt it over some girls he was dancing with and groped their boobs. There’s not enough alcohol in the world for that shit.)

Just as I was planning my escape, (and wondering what I’d done in a past life to deserve this), he asked to see my feet. ‘Oh, he’s probably spotted my toe ring,’ I thought.

No such luck. The second I slipped off my shoe he lurched forward and grabbed my foot, sending my chair flying backwards. After catching me before I crashed to the floor he said ‘Oh sorry. I have a foot fetish. I’d love to suck your toes sometime.’ WHAT. THE. LIVE. LONG. FUCK.

Nobody EVER touches my feet. With the possible exception of vomit and other people’s cut toenails, there are few things in this world that gross me out more. (I know it’s a bit weird. But it’s nowhere near as weird as grabbing a virtual stranger’s foot and telling them you want it in your mouth.)

Excited by the prospect of feet, and oblivious to my revulsion, he launched into the tale of yet another girl he’d met on couchsurfing.com, who’d asked him for a massage the second she met him. As you do. Apparently he’d agreed only on the proviso she let him suck her toes. (Cue another three minutes of vivid description about sex with a stranger.)

I knew I had to leave. He was shuffling closer towards me, suggesting more drinks or a trip back to his flat. What might I find there? Had couchsurfing.com started offering two-for-one orgy packages? Had he pre-arranged some sort of toe-sucking group masturbation programme?

In the end I fabricated an early morning marathon training session as a reason to escape.

If you need me today I’ll be showering my skin off, deleting Tinder and pretending to run.