AlanC, or "Damn. I shoulda had a V8."

AlanC, so nicknamed because his profile picture looked like a silver foxy version of Alan Cummings, turned out to be decent looking, but in a standard JustAGuy way.  You know how I feel about JustAGuys, Dear Readers, so right away I was ready to run.  He wore non brandwhore jeans and a navy polo, untucked, having apparently missed two memos:  1) This is our FIRST DATE, make a fucking effort; and 2) I dress people for a living.  He was also incredibly socially awkward, in a way that brought me back to my Accounting major days.  Perfect encapsulation of his conversation skills as follows...

Alan: "I manage the portfolios of high net worth individuals." 
Mischa:  What the fuck?  Did you memorize the rest of the brochure, too?

Having said all that, he was a good pool player (I'm a fan of boys who are good at stuff) and skinny.  So, since I'd decided that I didn't like him and wasn't interested in seeing him again, obvs I decided to fuck him.  Might as well get laid, right?

We went to his apartment, conveniently right across the street from the bar.  I'll spare you all the details (just this once), but in short?  47 seconds later, I was quoting Waiting to Exhale, as in the post title.  I threw my clothes on and got the hell out of there, nearly leaving a Mischa-shaped hole in the wall in my haste to get the fuck out before any other ridiculousness ensued.

I got a text from him the next day:  "Do you feel bad about how far we went?"

Internal monologue:  I...  you...  WHAT?  Are you TWELVE?  Only on the grounds that it was a total waste of my time, and forty seven seconds of my life that I'll never get back.  Jesus, Mary, Joseph, and the fucking camel, dude.
Actual response: Um, no.

NEXT.