I was hanging out at a friend's birthday party on a Sunday afternoon. I was pleasantly surprised when a hunky older guy approached me and asked for my phone number. His name was Carl, and he was a construction worker. A few days later, he called and we made a date to see a punk band at a local club. The night of our date, we met at an Italian restaurant for dinner before the show. As we walked to the club, Carl slipped his muscular arm around my waist. I was enjoying our date so far. Inside the club, we ordered a couple of drinks. As I slowly sipped my vodka gimlet drink, Carl gulped down one cocktail after another at an alarming rate. Feeling loosened up, he told me that he loved fast cars, but couldn't drive at the moment because of a DUI arrest. As the band started playing loud music, a mosh pit formed in front of the stage. Suddenly, Carl announced, "I'm goin' in!" as he dove into the crowd. I was horrified to witness his pathetic attempt at moshing, as he was nearly trampled by younger guys in their 20s. I moved to a dark corner, hoping that no one would notice I was with the drunken dinosaur. After the show, I offered to drive him home, as he was now covered with cuts and bruises. After several minutes of driving in silence, Carl said, "I don't feel so good," as he upchucked his dinner and cocktails onto the upholstery of my car. Needless to say, we didn't have a second date.
— Joan, 23