Send us the story of your worst date ever, in 500 words or less. The funniest, most enlighteningly tragic tales will win prizes. We'll post entries on this page regularly, through the contest deadline (Friday, May 25).

FIRST PRIZE
-   Permanent glory on Hooksexup
-   A year's membership to Hooksexup Premium
-   The top ten of Hooksexup's 50 Best Date Movies (see the article posting soon!) on DVD
-   A copy of Hooksexup's forthcoming Bad Sex story collection (to be published later this year by Chronicle Books)

SECOND AND THIRD PRIZE
-   Permanent glory on Hooksexup
-   The top five of Hooksexup's Best Date Movies on DVD
-   A copy of Hooksexup's Bad Sex collection

HONORABLE MENTION
-   Permanent glory on Hooksexup
-   A copy of Hooksexup's Bad Sex collection

"A Bad Date Isn't Always The Other Guy's Fault" by bandanna

Okay: I should have watched my drinking. But it was the heaviest summer evening, and I'd never had sangria before — I assumed it would affect me like wine. Four pitchers of the tangy, refreshing stuff later, I was barely legal to walk down the sidewalk in my second-date slut shoes.

Amal was drunk too, and we cackled wildly when I tripped over a sandwich board listing fifty-dollar specials outside the patio area of the restaurant, taking him down with me. Our waiter stepped over the low topiary wall to help untangle us from the sign and with a patient smile offered to call us a cab (Amal's exorbitant tip may have bought us some tolerance). I wasn't sure I should be in a confined space just yet, so we opted to walk for a few blocks as the first blob of orange pulp rose in my throat and I struggled to swallow it back down.

We trotted past the high-end bowling alley, arms linked. Wouldn't it be wild, my date suggested, if we got a lane? I giggled and agreed: having made peace with the bobbing bits of brandy-soaked fruit in my belly, I was ready for some beers.

On a Saturday at eleven, though, the wait for a lane was hopeless. "It could happen," the bored guy at the reservations desk said, and he handed us a pager. I put on my bowling shoes right away and started soliciting billiards opponents by shouting "I could've made that shot with a blindfold and a dick in my mouth!" and calling them "vaginas". Amal, meanwhile, brought over a second tray of shots and beers, having dropped the first one in a great crash when he was suddenly distracted by the black lights and descending disco balls of "galactic bowling", a three-song, twice-nightly ritual where the waitresses distribute candy-colored afro wigs and encourage everyone to boogie.

I downed two Kamikazes and began to dance wildly, ripping a green wig from the head of a surprised woman doing a watered-down Hustle with a group of work friends. Amal helped me onto a billiards table and shouted for the whole bar to come and see "this hot bitch".

After the management asked us to leave, and I had emptied my churning stomach onto their silly outdoor carpet, Amal made the best suggestion I'd ever heard: go back to his place with a bucket of chicken. We took a cab to the suburbs to find a drive-through KFC. By the time we made it back to his apartment, we were exhausted and starving. To my delight, I found an Absolutely Fabulous DVD and we tore into the chicken with animalistic ferocity.

Later, it was my pleasure to give Amal a drunken blowjob, laying across his lap on the couch with Ab Fab on the screen before us. I threaded my fingers through his ample chest hair and felt several dropped pieces of chicken skin. He was too drunk for my exertions to have much effect, but I could tell he was enjoying it by the agreeable noises he made. I gave up, however, when I pushed the hair out of my face and saw what he was actually enjoying: with one arm around me and another cradling the bucket, he focused intently upon the drumstick at his lips, happily gnawing on a bit of gristle.

Most people would take meeting at a mental hospital as warning enough, but, as a patient there myself, I had no room to judge.

A week after we were released, Danielle picked me up for dinner and a party. At her house Danielle gave a tour — a much-needed icebreaker since we had little in common outside of the hospital. "Those two are thrown away," she mentioned pointing to a knife rack missing two knives. "One was from when I attempted suicide and the other from when my mom attempted."

The mother-daughter suicide knives was freaky, even by mental patient standards, but the remainder of the tour went without incident so I put it out of mind for the moment.

There was a knock at the door — her ex. He let himself in past Danielle. "What are you kids up to?"

"We're going out to dinner, together." Danielle responded.

"Great! I haven't eaten. How about the three of us grab a bite? I'll drive."

Being on enemy grounds without any escape, and unsure that Danielle would agree if I stood up for her, I let her decide our plan. As Danielle's ex chauffeured us around in the back of his Civic, I gave her looks. She responded by turning over her hands in the traditional "I don't know what to do" symbol.

Her ex received a call.

"Hey, whatcha you up to? Me? I'm going to dinner with my girlfriend and her friend."

I shot Danielle a look. "What?!?!?" I mouthed.

"He's not my boyfriend," she whispered, "I swear." Then turning to her ex, "I'm not your girlfriend!"

"Sure you are, baby, whatcha talking about?"

Amazing.

During dinner, Danielle and I ate in awkward silence while her "boyfriend" carried on as if nothing was awry. I had to admire his persistence.

At the party Danielle's ex introduced me as her friend so there would be no confusion. He even offered to be the designated driver to take me home. Had I taken him up on the offer I might have actually enjoyed some of the evening, but I figured I would rather stay sober than risk being stranded with these nuts.

Eventually, Danielle and her ex began arguing outside. I sat inside with six drunk/high strangers.

"This happens all the time" the girl to my right remarked, waving her cigarette in their direction. "They'll be at it all night."

"He's kicking my car!" Danielle screamed, bursting through the door. I didn't care what he did to her car as long as it remained drivable.

While Danielle complained, her ex stole her keys and took off with her jeep. I laid back, resigned to the reality I might never escape.

An hour of bad TV later, Danielle returned. "He" was gone and we could enjoy the party. Eleven p.m. Too late for me, I lied. I wasn't sticking around to see what else might happen.

We kissed goodnight. She promised to call. I smiled politely. — Nicholas Fernandez

Seriously by Adriana E. Ramirez

I went on a date with some guy named Michael, who's a friend of a friend who contacted me via email and who I vaguely remember meeting once, sort of. He decided to take me to a brewery and restaurant where he decided he would "teach me about beer." He was average looking enough, pleasant enough, and polite enough at the beginning. Things seemed to be going well. Until he got comfortable. Really comfortable.

"You know, you look like Salma Hayek. I bet your pussy tastes like candy."

I believe my jaw actually dropped. We had been talking about our careers, the difficulties of moving to a new city, blah blah blah. So, I thought, maybe I misheard, maybe he misspoke. I should not freak out. I should give this guy a chance. Maybe it's a test. "How will she react to me saying that her pussy tastes like candy?"

"So. You're Mexican? You ever been to Tia-juana? Isn't it pathetic how those kids try to tug your sleeves and sell you Chiclets. Then they swarm if you give one of them money. It's like, whoa kids. No dinero for you. I mean... Chiclets! Can't they sell Orbit or something. Who chews Chiclets anymore? Right? You hearing me? Oh. Were you one of those kids? Jesus, I'm sorry. HA!"

Suddenly I understood. He thought he was being funny. And charming. Great. I pulled out pen and paper, because I needed to write this stuff down.

"You going to write a story about me? That's great. I want to be the handsome love interest."

I just looked at him. "Sure," I muttered, "you're the hero."

Other favorites include:

"Could you drink your beer any slower? Geez. It's taken you forty-five minutes to drink that thing [a pint of the stoutiest stout ever while I was eating]. You want the kiddies menu? Hey, Sergei [the waiter] do you have a kiddie beer menu? Cuz we got a slow one here. She's hot and slow. All over."

"So, I gotta tell you, I'm not a twenty-seven-year-old grad student. I'm a thirty-five-year-old clinical-trial pharmacist. But that's kinda like the same thing. Except I get drugs. But I don't do them, nope to dope!"

"I stopped doing coke because I was afraid of getting STDs after my best friend got beat up by a thirty-nine year old he was fucking to get drugs. What a crack whore faggot! Didn't even know it wasn't a bitch he was fucking!"

What about me suggests that this is okay? Is it my candor? Or the fact that I laugh at everything, even when I'm totally uncomfortable, so it allows people to truly be themselves? Just because a man buys me drinks and two orders of pierogies doesn't mean I'll fuck him.

"What do you mean we have to leave? It's not even prisoner's bedtime."

It may not have been "prisoner's bedtime," but it was definitely time to break out.

I was seventeen and still in love with my ex-boyfriend. It was the summer after high school graduation and he was doing acid every weekend with the Bulgarian drummer from his band. I'd never tried it, so I convinced him to let me tag along. It was the Fourth of July. We had a pretty awesome time wandering around downtown, watching the fireworks, but then it got really late. He was too freaked out to drive his car, so with his typical care and consideration for others he persuaded me to do it. I brought the two of us back to his deserted house at twenty miles an hour. Once we got there, he pitched a theatrical screaming fit because one of the keys on his piano was stuck. Then we had sex, which lasted about thirty seconds. Upon ejaculation he leaped out of bed with the condom and stuck it under the bathroom faucet to see it if had any leaks, because he was convinced it was broken. Then he told me he had never loved me, and called the girlfriend before me at five in the morning to tell her he had always loved her. I fell asleep on the living-room floor, and when I woke up, I had missed my shift and was fired from my summer job. But at least my parents never found out.

— Anna_a

My Date with Refund Woman by Robert 4343

Five years ago. She's a Match.com date from New Jersey. She comes into Manhattan, and I take her to a French provincial restaurant. She has an odd, twitchy, borderline-crazy affect, and spends virtually the entire dinner looking down into her plate while we're talking instead of making any eye contact. There's no doubt the date is going nowhere, but hey, those are the risks. So the check comes, and I pick it up (it was about $100). She says she wants to pay her half. I say, "Thank you, but you came into the City, and I picked the restaurant, so I'm happy to treat." No, she insists on paying half. Well, I'm a feminist, so what the heck? I tally it up, we pay, we walk out, I put her in a cab, and we're done — until the next day, when I get the following e-mail and two voice mails to the same effect:

"Robert: Since I didn't chose the restaurant, and it was more expensive than I would have opted for — I was thinking a drink, or at most an appetizer — and your company was not much fun, I would like to get some of my money back. It really was way too expensive for a first date (and not a very good one). You can send the money to my home address [address deleted to protect the guilty]."

I was tempted to write back and say, "Sorry, all sales are final. No returns or refunds allowed." But she was so obviously nuts that I thought I'd better simply not respond. It was the only time I ever worried I might be dealing with a mentally unbalanced stalker. But luckily I never heard from her again.