Tom Daley
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Op-ed: Another Bad Date with Pierre and The Hot Dog

Op-ed: Another Bad Date with Pierre and The Hot Dog

Editor's Note: Win a copy of 44 Horrible Dates by leaving the story of your absolute worst date below in the comments. Read Eddie's first installment here.

There was a great dance club/bar in Los Angeles called Hot Dog. It was always packed with an assorted crowd of hip guys, hot women in short skirts, in-shape gay guys, lesbians, transsexuals, male cross-dressers, and overall just really interesting people. The Hot Dog crowd had a great sense of humor and was one of the few bars in LA that had no attitude. Judgment and bitchiness were not an option. No one dressed to impress. No one was wearing a Rolex.

One night while at Hot Dog with two of my closest friends, Brian and Dawnne, I locked eyes with this guy across the dance floor. He was my height (five foot ten) and really cute. He had lime-green eyes that made him look like a sexy leprechaun—I could already see the pot of gold at the end of his rainbow. He had the second most beautiful eyes I had ever seen in person. (The first being this crazy Armenian guy I dated who I later found out wore colored contacts.)

This guy kept staring at me, looking away occasionally. Finally he walked over to me on the dance floor. It was loud, but I could hear his adorable accent. He was French, and he said his name was Pierre. I am a sucker for an accent!

Pierre and I hit it off immediately. Everything he said sounded better than it would in regular English because his accent and lack of correct verb usage were adorable. He was charismatic and he joined our group seamlessly — like birds flying in a V formation. Before I knew it, many drinks later, 2 a.m. arrived, much faster than I had hoped. We never even heard “last call for alcohol.” Most bars in L.A. close at 2 a.m., which is a complete bummer when you feel like you can stay out all night.

So after we were forced out by some muscle-head security goon, we were all standing around outside the club. I gave Pierre my business card, which had my cell phone number. He called my cell phone in front of me and left me a message while I was standing there: “Hi, Eddie. It’s Pierre. I’m standing in front of you and you are hot.” He won major points for doing that. Then Pierre gave me a little kiss good-bye, and my friends and I left.

Sunday morning I woke up thinking about how long I should play it cool waiting to call Pierre. Surprisingly, he called at 10 a.m. In the seconds it took for the phone to ring twice I was able to run a million thoughts through my head. Does Pierre not know about the waiting-two-day rule? Does he not know that Sunday is the sacred ignore-the-person-you-met-the- night-before holiday? Still, I thought it was refreshing that he had the nerve to call the next morning. So I quickly took his call.

We ended up talking for almost two hours. We talked about everything from jobs, family, religion, crazy people in L.A., and a little bit about sex but with no major sex details. I found I loved his French-to-English accent even more than I had the night before.

Then, just before we hung up, he said, “I cannot believe someone like you is single.”

Pierre earned special bonus points for saying that. The pinball machine lights in my head went crazy. His French charm was making me rethink my beliefs about French people—that they are all assholes.


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