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My wife was not the first undergrad I illegally dated at Notre Dame. See, we weren't supposed to date any of the undergraduate population because they might have a friend who could potentially be a friend of one of our potential students, potentially. Being that my hormones were more of a driving force than my hunger for a higher degree (which is why I have only a MASTER's degree), I decided to spit right in the eye of this law. What a rebel am I.
To further push the boundaries, I engaged in some illicit tutoring. See, I had this student, Sheridan, who was awesome. She had two room mates who were also in the organic chemistry class that I taught. When they were preparing for the finals for the first semester, they asked if I could come over and help them study and have me there as a valuable resource. Since Sheridan was awesome (and, yes, rather attractive), I was going to say yes, anyway, but then she bribed me with Taco Bell. Taking any payment from the students--monetary, culinary or sexually--was expressly forbidden in the TA charter. Also expressly forbidden? Tutoring in a student's dorm room.
I was off to do both.
To avoid a long and boring part of the story, nothing happened in the room, other than studying and chemistry and shit like that. Oh, and I met this girl named Margaret.
Margaret was pretty, with dark hair and dark eyes. She was shorter, but she was very nice. I crushed on her right away. She lived across the hall from the girls I was tutoring. She would pop in and out of the room from time to time, because she was friends, and six girls shared a couple of rooms, so they shared a lot of stuff. Consider her the Kramer to my friends' Jerry. Except, you know, a lot less crazy.
Anyway, as I was leaving the dorm, I passed her, and I actually manned up (figuring I wouldn't be back there any time soon, should I fail to execute) and asked her if she'd like to go out whenever she was done with finals. To my surprise, she blushed, smiled, and said yes.
Elated, I went back to my apartment and waited until the next day. I called her (I had a university directory that I stole from one of the libraries on campus) and we set things up: we'd go to dinner. Since I had wrapped up my first semester of grad school and I had just scored a date with a very cute undergrad, I planned for some steak. I wasn't shooting for romantic so much as celebratory: the semester was over, Christmas was looming, it was time to celebrate.
On the night we planned--it was a Thursday, after all her finals were done, and mine too, and before we both planned on going to our respective homes for the Christmas break--I arrived at the dorm, showered, shaved, smelling nice, and dressed for the occasion. I called up to her room, and a few minutes later, she came down. She looked beautiful. We weren't formally dressed up, but we both looked nice, she moreso than I.
Dinner was great. The food was delicious, the conversation was loose and easy, and I had a good time. When we were done, we drove back to campus and walked around south quad for a little bit. It was chilly, as Decembers in northern Indiana tend to be. So, we cut our walk short and I returned her to her dorm, fully expecting the date to be over. I was going to be smooth--I had just eaten steak and a salad with onions!--and I wasn't going to try and kiss her or anything.
But then, as I was preparing to say good-bye, she said, "Do you want to come up to my room. We could watch a movie or something."
Fuck and yes.
So, up to her room we went. The dorm itself was spooky quiet--a lot of people had gone home. Margaret, who lived near Chicago, was heading home the next day. Incidentally, my friends and I were having a party the next day, and then Saturday I was heading home. Anyway, we got to her room, took off our coats, and then settled on a movie. It was Never Been Kissed and though I'm not a huge romantic comedy fan, I went with it. It was her room, and, remember, I look like fat Tom Green, so the Drew Barrymore connection was too good to pass up. Well, basically I kind of shrugged and said, "Yeah, that's fine" when she asked.
I think it's at this point that I should write that, when I read about some of the awful dates that many of the fine women of the blogosphere recount in their blogs almost daily, I take solace in the fact that I had never been on a date as terrible as the ones they tell of.
Except for this one.
Things were going great. A few minutes in, she apparently thought I wasn't the raping and killing type, so she put her head on my shoulder. Feeling brave, I held her hand. She didn't back away. Things were going better than I ever could have imagined.
And then because I was feeling good and happy, fate decided to intervene and fuck me over.
My stomach rumbled. Not a hungry rumble. No, it was more of a "Hmmm...we don't like what you've put in here, chief." I paid it little mind. I smiled away the rumble. She smiled back. I decided to--awkwardly, admittedly--try and kiss her. She didn't pull away. Our lips touched.
My stomach rumbled again. This time, however, it twisted itself in knots. Things were suddenly not going swimmingly.
"Are you okay?" she asked.
"Yeah," I said, hesitantly. I really didn't know what to do. This was back when I still had a gall bladder, so it wasn't like I was about to shit myself from here to kingdom come. At the same time, I've never really had a history of indigestion like this. Heart burn, yes. Acid reflux, sure. Rumbly tummy that didn't involve hunger pangs? New to me.
My stomach settled down and we went back to watching the movie. About fifteen minutes later, it really went to town. It sounded like some kind of gutter echoing with flood waters. I was immediately embarrassed.
"I'm so sorry, Margaret," I said. She looked confused.
"It's okay?" It was more of a question than a consolation.
This is when my dumbass decided to try and kiss her again. I leaned in, closed my eyes, felt my lips touch hers...
...and my stomach pushed it's contents up my esophagus. 
Okay, the bad news first, this date was ruined. My chances with Margaret were gone. Kaput. Over. Finished. I knew this when the vomit hit the back of my throat.
The good news? I was able to hold the puke in my mouth as I dove for her trash can (which, thank God, had a liner and was made of plastic). I emptied my guts into her trash can. What this poor girl was thinking while the guy who had been smooching her a moment before was emptying the contents of his stomach, I shudder to think.
Did I ever mention I'm a loud puker? Especially when I'm sober? I tend to retch before bringing it up. A lot. Kind of like a cat does when puking. You know, that whole body contortion, contraction, and then the loud KAFF and puke? Yeah, that's me. Cat Puke Man in my secret identity.
The smell? Terrible. Again, like the night me and Mr. Wodka got cozy, it came out my nose. I could feel it dribbling from my nostrils.
"I'm sorry, I think I should go," I said weakly when I had control of myself.
"Are you going to be okay?" Margaret asked.
"Yeah," I said, partially laughing. I was trying to make it look like I was laughing to cover up the fact that I was crying. I was crying because I nearly puked on this really sweet, really nice girl that I really liked, I had ruined the date, I had stunk up her room, I had filled her garbage can with bile, ichor, vomit and a whole host of other digestive juices, and I was crying because I hurt. Plus, I just puked steak. Do you know how that shit clings to your throat when you puke it up? Like a fucking tentacled sea monster. It was horrible.
I gathered up the bag o' vomit and grabbed my coat. I walked to the door and she followed. She asked again if I was going to be okay.
"I think so, now," I said. "I'm going to take this" holding up the bag o' vomit, its contents sloshing in the sack "out to the dumpster." I heaved a sigh. "I had a really good time, Margaret," I tacked on hastily at the end.
"I had a good time, too," she said, then, somewhat timidly, "until...you know." She offered a pained smile.
"Merry Christmas," I offered.
"Merry Christmas. Oh, and happy birthday!" I smiled back at her.
"I won't even bother asking if you want to go out again," I said. "I pretty much ruined that chance." I hefted the bag o' vomit again. It sloshed. Again.
"No, no," she tried to reassure me. I could see the fear in her eyes that I would believe her. I could sense her fear, smell her longing to scream "EWWWWWW!" and run to the shower. "Maybe...you know...sometime...after we get back."
"I'd like that." I offered a half smile. Puke still was dribbling out of my nose. "Good night. Thank you, again." I turned, trudged down the hallway, and out into the night. I tossed the bag o' vomit in the dumpster behind the dining hall on my way by. The splattering sound it made when it hit the cold, hard interior metal was reassuring and cathartic.
I returned to my car, still weepy, weakened and sore. I went home, cleaned up, and went to bed.
I never called her back.
2 weeks ago
