Part I – meeting the enemy
I met Mr. Fuckwit at a friend of a friend’s party. He didn’t make much of an impression on me at the time. I was busy mingling and having a good time — standard procedure for parties.
However, late that night, as my partner-in-crime, Lady C, and I were walking home, we had the following conversation:
- Lady C: So what did you think of Mr. Fuckwit?
- Me: Meh.
- Lady C: You didn’t think that he was cute?
- Me: Yeah, he’s cute.
- Lady C: WELL?!
- Me: Well, what?
- Lady C: WELL, he was following you around all night like a puppy!
- Me: Oh, I just thought that I kept running into him randomly. It was a small party.
- Lady C: You are so dense. He was into you!
- Me: His conversation wasn’t very stimulating.
- Lady C: <if exasperated looks could talk, it would say something like “What the hell is wrong with you?! He’s CUTE, dammit!”>
Clearly, I wasn’t exactly smitten with Mr. Fuckwit at our first meeting. But in the spirit of open-mindedness, I promised Lady C that I’d give him another chance.
I need to stop making promises.
Part II – first skirmish
Lady C was very proactive on my behalf at that party; she had taken out her iPhone to facebook-friend Mr. Fuckwit on the spot. She also invited him to our upcoming alumni happy hour before we left that night.
Mr. Fuckwit friended me on facebook straightaway. And since I didn’t fix my privacy settings in time, he also clicked on my links to this man-shopping blog and proceeded to send me a message in which he joked that he was “for sale.”
(Mr. Fuckwit, if you’re reading this now, this will be tough for you. But frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn. It’s not often that you get to have a written review of your courtship techniques, so sit back and consider yourself privileged.)
I didn’t expect Mr. Fuckwit to come to our happy hour, since he wouldn’t have known anybody there but Lady C and me. And I wasn’t going to give him my undivided attention at an event that I attend in order to mingle, network and catch up with friends and acquaintances.
But he came.
And he hovered around me (it wasn’t as bad as Mr. Hovercraft though, thank god) for the rest of the night while I did my thing.
I had to give Mr. Fuckwit points for having the balls to stick it out like that. So when he asked me out for lunch, I consented.
I shouldn’t have.
- Me: So my number is…
- Mr. Fuckwit: Wait. You have a French phone right?
- Me: Uh, yeah, dude. After being in Paris for three and a half years, I’d kinda need to have a French phone. <What the hell is this guy on about?>
- Mr. Fuckwit: Are you sure that it’s a French number though?
- Me: Um. YES. <Can he really think that I’m THAT stupid?>
If Mr. Fuckwit had been some guy off the street, I would have abandoned ship at this point. But we must have had mutual friends at that party, and I couldn’t see any polite way out of giving him my number. So he got my digits. And a lunch date.
Winner of the first skirmish: Mr. Fuckwit.
Well-played, sir. Well-played indeed.
Part III: Mr. Fuckwit’s long march through enemy territory
The lunch date was doomed to fail before it even started. My army of date snipers had his troops in their sights long before they were within striking distance of the formidable fortress that protects my naked lady-bits. By the end of the date, all Mr. Fuckwit’s advances were all for naught, as none of his troops survived to even attempt a proper siege.
Here are a few highlights:
He told me to meet him at the Sentier metro stop (which is smack-dab in the city center, by the way), but then he asked me if I’d know how to find it.
- Does he truly believe that I’ve lived here for almost four years without ever learning how to read a metro map? What sort of idiots does this guy date?
“Have you heard of rue Montorgueuil?”
- That’s like asking a long-time New York City resident whether they’ve heard of Wall Street.
“Oh, you already know about <insert long list of cliché attractions in Paris>? Damn, so where am I going to show you around?”
- Paris is my HOME, fuckwit. It’s been my home for YEARS. Yes, I’m American. And no, not all American girls are simpering, naïve, teenaged exchange students whose ultimate orgasmic fantasy is to have a frenchman (or in this case, a Tunisian) show them around the romantic sights of Paris while they giggle, sigh, hang on to his every word, and revere him for knowing SO MUCH about PARIS.
“What do you feel like eating?”
- I HATE this conversation. It’s a pet peeve of mine. You ask me out, so you pick a place. Be a man.
“Those are cool sunglasses, but they hide so much of your beauty.”
- I had to refrain from visibly gagging.
“Oh, you don’t feel like pasta? There’s a Chinese traiteur down this way. HAHAHAHA.”
- No two ways about it. This was just stupid.
“You’ve had mashed potatoes on your upper lip for a long time now, and I was having fun thinking about how long I would wait before I told you. HAHAHAHAHA.”
- This is him being charming? Jackass.
“I’m writing a novel about the economic crisis, but I’m going to make it sci-fi and sexy.”
“Vietnamese girls have a different kind of beauty than Chinese girls.”
- He was feeding me lines like this as if he thought that he was the all-knowing expert on Asian beauty and as if he was teaching me something. I wanted to shove my fork down his throat. And then twist it.
(after we finished lunch) “Do you want to get a drink somewhere? You’re paying, right?”
- Christ. I was GOING to offer to pay if he had let me get a word in edgewise. Seriously, dude. Simmer down. After that I no longer wanted to have that drink OR pay, but I was stuck with it since he was so aggressive about it.
“I think that you are exceedingly beautiful. Oh, I can see that compliments make you uncomfortable. HAHAHA. Well, you really are beautiful, your hair, your eyes, your makeup….”
- After I explicitly told him that these kinds of compliments make me uncomfortable, he thought that it’d be funny to push my buttons. All the wrong buttons. (For the record, I think that these CONSTANT references to a lady’s beauty are much more effective when you’re already in a relationship with her, and she’s having a PMS-induced image crisis.)
“Your cheeks look so fluffy, can I pinch them? Pretty please? Aw come, please? Pleeeeeeeeease?”
- If looks could kill, there should have been a five-mile-wide crater where he was sitting.
To sum up, I was annoyed by pretty much everything that came out of his mouth. I was doing so much fake laughing and fake smiling throughout the afternoon that I think my facial muscles were starting to twitch. I don’t even know why I bothered to pretend. Reflex, I suppose.
At some point, after he remarked on the fact that I was carrying around a sport water bottle, I said, “Yeah, it’s handy. Whenever I’m bored, I can just drink water.” And then I took a big swig.
Mr. Fuckwit didn’t get the message.
n.b. – I chose the name “Mr. Fuckwit” deliberately. According to the latest episode of Mythbusters (“No Pain No Gain”), profanity actually does increase one’s tolerance for pain. I figured that this post would be painful and that you, dear readers, would need some profanity to get you through to the end. Also, he really was a bit of a fuckwit.