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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


A star-crossed meeting at The Hot Dog club turns sour for writer

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.

We made plans to meet for coffee (which I don't drink) on Tuesday night. Since I am a true romantic at heart, my mind started racing: Will I move to France? Will we get married, and can I get French citizenship? Will my sister, Lisa, like him? Will my family like him? Who will be the breadwinner? Who will stay home to raise the kids? Who gets the Jeep? Who gets the sports car? Can I go two days until I see him again?

Monday we didn't speak. Tuesday morning I sent him a text message to confirm our date. He texted back, "I am excited see you," and he also texted me his address. Abbreviated texts bug the shit out of me. I was pleased when Pierre spelled out his entire text message, and his lack of correct English just seemed to further avalanche into a pile of amazing adorableness.

All day Tuesday seemed to take forever. Isn't it odd how slowly a clock ticks when you want something to occur? And how fast a clock ticks when you don't want something to occur?

Finally 8 p.m. arrived and I was in front of his apartment building. He lived in a very nice building -- a 1920s Spanish building in the historic area of Los Angeles called Miracle Mile. The building was gorgeous, with great detail, and I could just imagine the amazing parties that were held there back in the day. Where someone lives says a lot about his or her personality.

He came out, and he looked adorable and preppy and really clean. Don't you love it when people look clean? I don't understand the dirty grunge look. I also don't understand guys wearing jeans below their asses. Really fucking annoying.

We talked in the car with the same great energy as the phone call we had Sunday morning. We arrived at the Coffee Bean on Third Street, ordered drinks, and sat outside. As we sat, I realized that he was even hotter than I'd thought he was when I was drunk. While I was thinking that, he said, "You look hotter than I remember." I thought, Oh my god, we are going to fall in love. My thought bubble also contained the two of us on the bow of the Titanic. I was Leo. He was Kate. And our ship would not sink!

We talked nonstop for hours until the employees came out and said they were closing down. Pierre was smart. He was funny. He had a great body. He loved his family. This was one of the best dates I had ever been on. It wasn't based on some sassy over-priced meal and formal attire. It was laid-back, relaxing, and stimulating -- a rare combination. And to top it off, Pierre also said he was about to become a U.S. citizen, so all our ducks were in a row to live happily ever after.

So I thought.

We left the Bean, got in my car, and drove back to his place. When we pulled up, he asked me to park and come up for a little while. I thought, Perfect, his apartment will be filthy and hideous and I can stop liking him so much.

Pierre held my hand all the way up to his apartment, not caring who looked at us. (Most European people have much less insecurity about sexual identity.) He was scoring so many points that if this were a video game, he would already be at Level 10, have a million points, and four spare lives. If I were Pacman, and he were a ghost, I would let him catch me and eat me.

When he opened the door to his apartment, I was extremely disappointed.

His apartment was beautiful and immaculate. You could eat off the floors. I was disappointed because I still had no ammunition to load my normal disappointment gun, and I wasn't used to that. He had amazing taste, great artwork, and true mid-century furniture. I could move right in and live with him forever. I kept thinking to myself, What the hell is this guy doing single?

Little did I know I was about to find out at least one reason why he was single.

We sat down on his couch. He went to the kitchen and came back with a bottle of red wine. I love red wine. Before I knew it, we were opening a second bottle. I am a super lightweight.

The next thing I knew, we were making out. Somehow we had made our way into his bedroom. On our way, our clothes were getting ripped off and thrown all over his immaculate apartment. His body was "sick" hot. He had no body fat, eight-pack abs, and a bubble butt that I could have rested my drink on.

We finally made it to the bed and the sexual heat was on full blast. We rolled around naked, and our swords were headed into full battle. He kept aiming my sword toward his bubble butt, so we were completely compatible. I remember thinking, How could this get any better? What will our next date be like? Is this just sex? Is this a date? Oh fuck I need to lose weight.

As I was getting lost in thought, Pierre said, "Do you wanna have some more fun?...Hold on, I'll be right back." He then ran into the kitchen, naked, as I watched his amazing butt scurry into the next room.

I sat back, thinking, Holy shit, if he gets any more alcohol I will probably upchuck all over his spotless bedroom.

I heard him rustling around in the fridge. Shit. How in the hell was I going to be able to drink any more wine?

A few seconds later Pierre came back into the room...just as I was realizing that red wine is typically not kept in a fridge.

He just stood at the bedroom door, staring at me. I said, "Did you get some more wine...where is it?" He seemed to be trying to get up the nerve to speak.

After he spoke, I realized why he'd been hesitating.

Pierre pulled out the hand that was hidden behind his back. He opened the hand, which I immediately saw was holding a hot dog. He said: "Stick this in me."

I was dead silent.

Was this a joke? Was this a test? Is this really happening?

I sobered up fast. I sprang up from the bed like a kid on Christmas morning. Santa, however, had nothing to do with this. So I got dressed, and left.

I drove home so disappointed. Hey, I don't mind a few freaky moments here and there in the bedroom, but, seriously, on a first date? How was I ever going to look him in the face again without seeing a hot dog? How would I ever look a hot dog in the face again?

I drove home thinking, Oh my god, the name of the bar is Hot Dog. Is there some type of connection? Does everyone there stick hot dogs up their asses? Does everyone there assume that I stick hot dogs up my ass? Should I have brought some relish, ketchup, and mustard? It was really hard to fall asleep that night.

The next morning I did what any sane person would do. I called my best friend, Matthew, to tell him the story. Matthew is the most intelligent person I have ever known or met, but he also has a wicked sense of humor, so I knew he would put it all in perspective. I also knew he would greatly appreciate the story.

Matthew managed to make me feel better. "I highly doubt the bar Hot Dog is in cahoots with Oscar Mayer," he said. "I highly doubt anyone else in that bar is cramming hot dogs up one another's asses. No, people in France are not known for doing that. Pierre sounds like a total freak, and the fact that his house is beautiful and perfect and that he's hot is irrelevant. You will never be able to look at a hot dog the same way again. Move on."

I took everything Matthew said into consideration. I usually do exactly as he says, because he is pragmatic, insightful, and always has my best interests at heart. He is my Gayle King.

Pierre had the common sense to not call me again, as my lightning-bolt/Flash Gordon exit was all the communication we needed. I saw him two weeks later at the same club. Before, I had seen a cute guy. Now all I could see was a huge hot dog swaying on the dance floor.

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Eddie Campbell