Because I live near Accounting firms like Ernst & Hung, Goldman’s Ballsacks, and Pimp-Hoe, I get to encounter men in the Finance sector. One common theme resonates with them all; they are desperately trying to be Patrick Bateman. Like literally the first 30 seconds of talking to Bankers sound like the opening quote from American Psycho: My name is Patrick Bateman. I’m 27 years old. I believe in taking care of myself and a balanced diet and rigorous exercise routine. In the morning if my face is a little puffy I’ll put on an ice pack while doing stomach crunches. I can do 1000 now.
Don’t believe me? Click here. Psychopaths. I told you. Patrick is handsome and wealthy (always a plus), but also shallow, addicted to drugs and sex and- oh ya- a serial killer.
Erick, in corporate finance, was my very first Bumble date. And like the ol’ nursery rhyme says: First the Mother-F@$&*ing Worst. We started out like any other Bumble song and dance. Hey Ma. What’s Up. Let’s slide. Alright. And we gon’ get it on tonight. But when we met in person, shit went down hill quick.
The hostess, who was about 18/19 years old, sat us near her hostess stand. A fiery Red-headed server took our drink order, and as a total Ginger-phile, I said “OMG! I love your hair, I can’t imagine how long it took to get it that shade!” When she brought our cocktails, I said “Thank you so much,” with a big smile. I may be a miserable bitch- but I have a
soft spot hard boner for servers. I am very grateful to all people in the service industry- especially bartenders, Bless you all! Stimulating the economy by paying other people to do things I refuse to do for myself brings me great joy.
Erick insisted he order for me, since he’d been to Japan and knew Sashimi blah blah blah. Fine, I’m not a picky eater- in fact I will put anything pink in my mouth. Pink is my favorite flavor. While I sipped my Raspberry-Lychee martini, Erick Bateman nonchalantly asks, “Where did you go to college, again? I am really curious to know where you learned to become such a bullshitter. Was it in a business class?“ I don’t think I’ve been that speechless since the time a very drunk Andy Dick tried to hijack our limo while we were still in it. What does one do in that circumstance? Both circumstances, really.
Erick continued, “She’s the server, it’s her job to serve us- there’s no need to talk to her. Especially compliment her ridiculous hair and say ‘thank you’ so much.” He then started to deconstruct what kind of person I am- what clique I probably belonged to in high school- how I probably manipulate men to buy me things (like it’s a bad thing?)- How he scrolled through my Instagram and think I’m just as basic and fake as every other girl.
…I couldn’t take another insult. So, I stood up, threw my napkin on the table and yelled, “You wait until I am 5 months pregnant to tell me you’re divorcing me for our transvestite housekeeper?!?”…
Or at least I would have, if I could go back in time. I am a total drama queen who gets spicy as all hell when insulted. But, guys this was my very first formal Online date since the whole calling off my wedding thing a month prior, I really wasn’t prepared for this kind of verbal abuse. So I just sat there and took it. I nodded in silence, while insecure thoughts flooded my head, “Do I come off fake and insincere? Maybe I am not as sociable as I fancy myself…” I didn’t argue with him; I was dumbfounded- which I bet is a superkwute look for me: slightly parted mouth, tilted head, big Bratz doll eyes, glossy with tears. I can only imagine.
But then Erick, aka Patrick Bateman, said one of the cruelest things I’ve ever heard: “I see from your Instagram you were dating a guy named Evan for a while. Tell me about him, I want to know about him.“ Weird request. “Why?” I retorted. “Well, dear, I just want to hear more about what kinda man can put up with you for so long.” My eyes filled up with humiliation and fury.
Not a breath later, the young hostess stormed to our table, dropped off the bill, darted a very sharp look at me, and said, “Honey, do you need to use the restroom? Let me walk you to the restroom.“ I guess. I needed to cool off, rinse my face, and wipe the one tear welling up in my right eye. As she escorted me she said, “When you walked in with that guy, I thought you were way out of his league. Now I’ve sat here for 45 minutes listening to all his bullshit, and I can tell this is a first date. He can pay the bill. This is our back exit. Just go.” Here a 18/19 year old is rescuing and lecturing me. I will never forget her final words:
“You should have walked away sooner; you’re too pretty to not have self-respect.”
Talk about Wake up Call! And with that, I went out the back exit, ordered an Uber, never heard from him again. I have no idea why he wanted dinner with me. My guess is sadistic chauvinism? It was fucking bizarre, and in retrospect I bet he was rubbing one out under the table the whole time.
Silver lining: Our server’s bright, beautiful red hair inspired my Halloween costume: Poison Ivy. I looked bangin’. Plus that Lychee martini was pink heaven in my mouth. So the evening wasn’t a total loss.