My Blind Date with the Pirate

It had been about three months since my last date. My roommates said it was actually five, because to them, getting 2 a.m. Pita Pit with a freshman and a bottle of Soco doesn’t count, even if he did pay. So, I did what any girl in Isla Vista would do to find men her age: I signed up for a dating site.

Within 12 hours I received messages from several possible suitors.  I sifted through their pictures, disinterested, until one caught my eye.  He was rugged.  He had a long red beard, pale skin, and age-lines…so many age lines. However, his interests hinted that he was still youthful; exploring, fine jewelry (At least if things didn’t work out between us I might be able to squeeze an expensive bracelet out of him), and sailing.  I decided to reply to this man’s message, and we began chatting. He was the most entrancing man I’ve ever spoken to, like an intoxicated Ernest Hemingway. We spoke for 6 hours. At the end of our conversation, the man asked, “So how about dinner?  My treat.” I agreed, and we set a date: seven o’ clock, the next Friday night at Beachside.

I arrived about ten minutes early to see how punctual my beau would be. Half an hour later, a man in a ragged sailor outfit approached me. Like a clueless puppy, he stopped to shake himself off and spoke to me.

“You Michelle?”

I replied that I was, and he told me his name was Raymond. His voice was deep and musky, like a bronchitis afflicted toad. We went inside and got a table quickly. Our waiter asked if we were ready to order, and I told him I needed a bit more time. Raymond knew exactly what he wanted right away.

“Give me a bunch of oyster shells, just the shells, and a piece of chicken, raw. Also some Ruffles. Arghh. And a glass of pickle juice.”

Decisive, assertive; so far so good, I thought. I ended up ordering some pasta dish and tried to learn more about my date.

“So, do you come here often?” I asked him.

“Argh. Back in the 80’s I took girls to the back dock now and then.”

“Is there a nice view of the sun set from there?”

“Probly.” He began pouring sugar packets into his glass. After about ten, he downed the entire drink in one long swig. “You look like my mom,” he said.

“Thank you,” I replied, “Is she Swedish?”

“Urghh, no. She used to be blonde when she had more hair. Still got most of her teeth though.”

Our food arrived shortly afterward, at which point Raymond stopped talking and began to devour his meal. I have never witnessed a man eat so many oyster shells so quickly, nor have I ever seen one use his steel-wool facial hair as “extra whale teeth”, in his words. Raymond fascinated me in every respect; he was exotic, fearless, and best of all, extremely tan.

“I need to piss,” he said after finishing his meal. He left the table right as the waiter brought us our check. I waited to pay for nearly forty-five minutes, when I realized that I had just been ditched. I should have called it. Nobody as handsome, sophisticated, and gentle as Raymond would ever want a bloated, bipolar, six-out-of-ten-at-best such as me.

I left the restaurant in tears and headed for my beach cruiser when I heard a strange whimpering sound from the back dock. Being an SBCC student, my immense curiosity and thirst for knowledge drove me to the source of the sound. There, sitting against a crate of tomato sauce and furiously masturbating, was Raymond. He noticed me as I came around the corner, acknowledging my presence by leaning slightly in my direction and ostensibly aiming his erection toward me. He continued to whimper and grunt like a choking baby walrus as I stood there, empathizing. Though we were vastly different people; he, a hardened, wise sailor and me, a basket case with daddy issues; I knew his current position well. Just days ago, my roommates caught me watching “Joey” reruns on Netflix with a vibrator between my legs, making similar whimpering sounds, albeit with more discretion. I took a deep breath, strode over to my date and took a seat next to him, placing my head on his shoulder while he undulated from the waist down. We stared out at the horizon as the last rays of the brilliant sun struck our faces with warm, cosmic pity. When darkness finally fell, I turned and said:

“Raymond, are you a pirate?”

He turned as well, locking his soulful basset hound eyes with my blondie blues.

“Arrghh,” he replied, and ejaculated.

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