24 March, 2011

The Writer

It's a little known fact about me that in my youth, I starred in a horror movie.  One would think that might be good training for the story I'm about to tell you.  Especially since the director was both smitten and hideous.  Alas, nothing prepared me for The Writer.

You might remember a few posts ago I mentioned that I was courting a charming young author.
I met him on the dating site where diaper boy got in touch, and he seemed, well dishy. His photos were hot. They were his publicity shots. His eyes were intelligent. He was a fucking author for god's sake. Articulate, clever, with a turn-of-phrase that made me swoon. We parlayed by email, flirted like mad. I was half in love with him before I even met him. And then I met him.

I have to tell you, I could hardly wait. I wore my best cowboy boots. I got to the restaurant exactly on time. I'm always exactly on time. He was a little late. Then he arrived and...

I nearly fucking died.

He was a giant goth. A towering six foot something, with long, thin, stringy black hair, and a pallor so white he looked blue. Like an Antarctic ice shelf. He practically glowed in the dark he was so white. He was clad in black on black which only served to highlight his ghostly achromia.

And his teeth. God almighty. They pointed in all directions, grey as tombstones, jutting from his gums like a creepy Victorian cemetery. Which was appropriate given he looked like a fricken vampire. And not a sexy True Blood vampire, but a Nosferatu vampire. There's a lesson there, a lesson I'd learned before. Way before. When people have their mouth closed in their photos, it's probably because they've got ghastly teeth.

What I expected.

What I got (but with long hair).
I knew it wouldn't work. It wasn't even Halloween for christ's sake.

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