Sometimes you just gotta say, "What The Fuck...?"

I am not an easily flustered person. Case in point – my mother and I have an ongoing argument about autofellatio. If you're unfamiliar with the subject I would suggest looking it up on Wikipedia, but it's not work appropriate material. You've been warned. Our conversations revolve around whether it’s physically possible, what the ramifications for one’s sexuality would be, how relationships would change because of it, etc. It takes a pretty darn unflappable person to talk with her own mother, even hypothetically, about whether or not sucking one’s own penis made one gay. Her latest thoughts on the subject, “I’m not sure what it would mean in the grand scheme of things, but I’m sure all men would be pretty damn happy about it.”

Even with acquaintances, I rarely get nervous when people cross the usual social boundaries. I once sat next to a sixty-year-old, twice-divorced woman on an airplane who insisted on sharing every detail of her sex life with me. Kudos for still getting it on at that age, I say. It’s not exactly my go-to topic of conversation with complete strangers, but if she wants to grab my iPhone off the tray table, look at the Cosmo Kama Sutra app and give me her personal feedback on each of the listed positions… well, there’s not a whole lot I can do to dam up that river of overshare. I figured it was karmic retribution for cutting the boarding line. So instead of shying away from the inherent awkwardness that is discussing reverse cowgirl with someone old enough to be my grandmother, I rolled with it.

Embrace the awkward. In the world of online dating it’s a necessity. After perusing the buffet of profiles, exchanging a few witty emails, and agreeing to meet, the two parties have come to a tacit understanding. If you find the other person attractive enough and relatively sane, you’ll date. It is nice to have clear expectations – there’s no question if “hanging out” or “grabbing dinner” is a platonic or romantic suggestion. They’re all dates. But when a first date with someone is also a first meeting, the stage is set for Awkward to make an appearance. Even for someone who finds humor in the uncomfortable, there have been times when all I could do was sit back and say, “What the fuck…?”

Derek* was a private investigator I met for a low-key Indian dinner one Thursday night. He was decent looking – tall, broad shoulders, good smile – and could carry on a conversation. I thought he might be one of the elusive Normal People on the site. I could not have been more wrong.

Somewhere between the Naan and my spicy Chicken Tikka, the creep-o-meter started to edge upward. We were swapping stories about childhood and he took this as an opportunity to explain what type of parent he wants to be when he has little ones of his own.

He said, and I shit you not, “Well if I have a daughter, I think I’m going to sell her virginity on eBay. She’s going to be a whore anyway. I might as well make some money off of it.”

WHAT. THE. FUCK.

This is not 1940s Japan and we are not, to the best of my knowledge, in an episode of “True Life: Memoirs of a Geisha.” In what universe is that an appropriate thing to say, especially on a first date?

Things I learned from this WTF moment, brought to you by Derek:

1. People who talk about selling their daughters’ bodies in any capacity most likely have a deep seeded, yet barely concealed hatred of all women.
2. Be careful while sipping beer. My involuntary gasp sent bubbles straight up my nose. I ended up sneezing Sam Adams for a full day afterward.

One of my other dates, Victor, blindsided me with a triple WTF. Since I actually read the profiles of people I’m going to meet, it became abundantly clear that he lied through his teeth about, well, everything.

“So my ex-wife…”

WHAT.

“… we broke up because as you get older… I don’t know. People change. I mean I’m almost 43….”

THE.

“… and you’re beautiful and young. Women of a certain age, you know like 30-year-olds, are just not appealing anymore."

FUCK.

So you dumped your poor ex-wife because of some sad mid-life crisis, and now you’re saying that even if we do go the distance you’ll dump me when the clock strikes 30? Buy a fucking Ferrari instead. It’ll last a lot longer than this date will.

Things I learned from this triple-whammy WTF, brought to you by Victor:

1. People lie, even on (or especially on) match.com
2. Try to die before I’m 30 and apparently become repulsive to the opposite sex
3. Maybe I should invest in mace. Or a Taser. Nothing says “I’m outta here” like 50,000 volts and making a guy lose bladder control

People like Derek and Victor make conversations with my dear ‘ole mum seem downright normal. Autofellatio? The sexual escapades on Jersey Shore? Sure. Bring it on mother.

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