"Camel Toe"
The story of Camel Toe starts out promising and just ends in disaster. He actually started out with the nickname "Hot Six-Pack" and then ends up with the unfortunate moniker Camel Toe.
I was in my home town visiting one labor day weekend and had been downtown at the city's last First Thursday art walk of the year.
As I was waiting on the corner waiting for the valet to bring my car around, I run into a guy that I recognized from an old job. We hugged and caught up for a minute and he introduced me to his friend as "This is Fiona, we went to high school together". I think OK we went to high school together. Although I have no recollection that this is where I actually know him.
We exchanged phone numbers, and as he was entering my number into his phone I noticed that he's wearing one of those work shirts that had a shell gas station patch on one sleeve and was embroidered on the left chest "Raw Dog". Which I'm sure this is supposed to be some sort of reference to his penis, but I have no idea what the reference is.
We proceeded to send sexy/flirty texts for the next month. One night at happy hour, I'm retelling the tale to one of my friends and she asks me if I have a picture...she wants to check out this hot guy that I'm flirting with (and who could blame her?).
So I text him asking him to send me a pic, he texts back "sexy or regular" and I say naively, "you choose". I then get a fully naked pic (well there was a strategically placed towel that wasn't really covering anything). Both of us are now squinting into my phone trying to make out all the details...ALL of the details. This is how he came by the nickname Hot Six Pack.
About a month and a half later I happen to be in the area for a job interview and decide to swing by my home town so I can arrange an actual date with Hot Six Pack.
A friend met me in a near-by city and we partied, met strangers and had a great time. This ended with us being a bit hungover the next day - the day of the big date with Hot Six Pack!
Once we pull into town, I give him a call...the first time I've actually spoken to him live on the phone. For a good sized black man, I'm surprised at how his voice reminds me of Mike Tyson and not Barry White. I shake it off and proceed to finalize our plans for the evening.
He tells me that he has a basketball game that night and he can't skip it otherwise his team won't have enough players and is it possible for us to meet for dinner at 9:00pm? Omg. Not only am I trying to rally from my hangover to go on this date, but now he expects me to stay up for dinner at 9p? Alright I agree, 9:00pm will be fine, I'm visualizing the hot six pack and telling myself it will all be worth it in the end...if only I knew, I would have crawled into bed instead.
We decide to meet at a new Mexican fusion restaurant in the hip downtown neighborhood. I even stop at a great little boutique to buy a new hot shirt for the date, just so I can look better than I'm feeling.
He gets to the restaurant a few minutes before me and has a look at the menu. When I show up, the first thing I notice, he's wearing that same work shirt that I saw him in a month ago...you know the "Raw Dog" shirt? The first thing I think is that maybe it's his favorite/lucky shirt so I let this pass without a witty comment. I know, can you believe I passed up such a perfect opportunity? Anyway, I don't much like the shirt so I decide not to focus on the shirt or even look to see what else is on it...which will haunt me later.
As soon as I walk in, he asks me if we have to eat here and if we could go somewhere else? Sure, I say, was there nothing on the menu that looked good? He replies, "I don't know, I don't speak Spanish". I'm thinking to myself, surely there are translations on the menu, and if not is pollo really hard to understand?
Oh and btw, he tells me that he ended up not playing in that basketball game because his knee is acting up...OK so then why did I have to drag my cute J-Lo booty all the way down here so late?!?
So we leave the new Mexican fusion place and as we are walking down the street we decide to go have sushi...and I know you are asking, does he speak Japanese? The answer would be no, but he's newly into sushi and can't wait for me to order for him so he can try some new things. I'm still a little confused, he wouldn't eat fancy Mexican food but is open to trying new sushi? Alright, I can go with that.
The whole night (which really only entails about 3 hours) his conversation is one sexual innuendo after another. I'm thinking to myself, "I know you want to have sex, and there is a small possibility that might happen (visualizing hot six pack here), but please stop talking about it!". Of course I say nothing and politely smile and fake laugh at each innuendo.
We are sitting at the sushi bar and the top comment in this theme is when he says to me, "I wish this (refrigerator) case was bigger". The sushi lover in me asks naively, "Why?" and I'm thinking maybe so they could fit in more/bigger/better fish in the case? He replies "because I would put rice on my stuff, lay in there and you could order me up."
No, I'm thinking as I throw up in my mouth, I would not order that.
After some more polite conversation and innuendos, an older, white, conservative looking couple walk by. They seriously were school teachers in a near-by suburb I'm sure.
The husband says, "look honey, it's Raw Dog!" and precedes to tell us that him and his friend (I'm sure another really white-conservativesuburbanite) have these joke nicknames between them where his friend calls him Raw Dog and he calls his friend Sick Puppy.
I'm sitting to the left of Hot Six Pack, nearest the side of the shirt that is embroidered "Raw Dog". Hot Six pack then leans over and shows us the right side of his shirt and says "Did you read this side?!"
As I read the patch on the right side of the shirt, the blood drains from my body, my muscles go slack, the bile returns and I am speechless. I have no words.
You can't even guess what the patch said.
The patch reads "Official Camel Toe Inspector".
OMG.
I don't think the couple knew what that meant and there was awkward silence for what seemed like 5 minutes when the husband says "Well, I hope you don't get a toe jam" and preceded to run him and his wife out of the restaurant.
The best part of the whole evening was me telling Hot Six Pack that I was hungover from the night before, and this quickly became my escape route. I fained illness, asked for the bill (which he let me pay btw), and quickly left the restaurant.
Seriously, if you are on a date and want to charm the pants off someone (literally and figuratively) would you wear an offensive shirt like that? No wonder he's 37 and still single!
I still get a few texts from him now and then...I will never text him back and I should let him know how offensive that shirt is, but I don't have the energy for that.
The moral to this story? Always judge a book by it's cover!
p.s. So the shirt does beg the question, is there training? or a certification process to be an inspector? Did he buy the shirt from somewhere? or did he have it specially made?
Good god I hope not.
I was in my home town visiting one labor day weekend and had been downtown at the city's last First Thursday art walk of the year.
As I was waiting on the corner waiting for the valet to bring my car around, I run into a guy that I recognized from an old job. We hugged and caught up for a minute and he introduced me to his friend as "This is Fiona, we went to high school together". I think OK we went to high school together. Although I have no recollection that this is where I actually know him.
We exchanged phone numbers, and as he was entering my number into his phone I noticed that he's wearing one of those work shirts that had a shell gas station patch on one sleeve and was embroidered on the left chest "Raw Dog". Which I'm sure this is supposed to be some sort of reference to his penis, but I have no idea what the reference is.
We proceeded to send sexy/flirty texts for the next month. One night at happy hour, I'm retelling the tale to one of my friends and she asks me if I have a picture...she wants to check out this hot guy that I'm flirting with (and who could blame her?).
So I text him asking him to send me a pic, he texts back "sexy or regular" and I say naively, "you choose". I then get a fully naked pic (well there was a strategically placed towel that wasn't really covering anything). Both of us are now squinting into my phone trying to make out all the details...ALL of the details. This is how he came by the nickname Hot Six Pack.
About a month and a half later I happen to be in the area for a job interview and decide to swing by my home town so I can arrange an actual date with Hot Six Pack.
A friend met me in a near-by city and we partied, met strangers and had a great time. This ended with us being a bit hungover the next day - the day of the big date with Hot Six Pack!
Once we pull into town, I give him a call...the first time I've actually spoken to him live on the phone. For a good sized black man, I'm surprised at how his voice reminds me of Mike Tyson and not Barry White. I shake it off and proceed to finalize our plans for the evening.
He tells me that he has a basketball game that night and he can't skip it otherwise his team won't have enough players and is it possible for us to meet for dinner at 9:00pm? Omg. Not only am I trying to rally from my hangover to go on this date, but now he expects me to stay up for dinner at 9p? Alright I agree, 9:00pm will be fine, I'm visualizing the hot six pack and telling myself it will all be worth it in the end...if only I knew, I would have crawled into bed instead.
We decide to meet at a new Mexican fusion restaurant in the hip downtown neighborhood. I even stop at a great little boutique to buy a new hot shirt for the date, just so I can look better than I'm feeling.
He gets to the restaurant a few minutes before me and has a look at the menu. When I show up, the first thing I notice, he's wearing that same work shirt that I saw him in a month ago...you know the "Raw Dog" shirt? The first thing I think is that maybe it's his favorite/lucky shirt so I let this pass without a witty comment. I know, can you believe I passed up such a perfect opportunity? Anyway, I don't much like the shirt so I decide not to focus on the shirt or even look to see what else is on it...which will haunt me later.
As soon as I walk in, he asks me if we have to eat here and if we could go somewhere else? Sure, I say, was there nothing on the menu that looked good? He replies, "I don't know, I don't speak Spanish". I'm thinking to myself, surely there are translations on the menu, and if not is pollo really hard to understand?
Oh and btw, he tells me that he ended up not playing in that basketball game because his knee is acting up...OK so then why did I have to drag my cute J-Lo booty all the way down here so late?!?
So we leave the new Mexican fusion place and as we are walking down the street we decide to go have sushi...and I know you are asking, does he speak Japanese? The answer would be no, but he's newly into sushi and can't wait for me to order for him so he can try some new things. I'm still a little confused, he wouldn't eat fancy Mexican food but is open to trying new sushi? Alright, I can go with that.
The whole night (which really only entails about 3 hours) his conversation is one sexual innuendo after another. I'm thinking to myself, "I know you want to have sex, and there is a small possibility that might happen (visualizing hot six pack here), but please stop talking about it!". Of course I say nothing and politely smile and fake laugh at each innuendo.
We are sitting at the sushi bar and the top comment in this theme is when he says to me, "I wish this (refrigerator) case was bigger". The sushi lover in me asks naively, "Why?" and I'm thinking maybe so they could fit in more/bigger/better fish in the case? He replies "because I would put rice on my stuff, lay in there and you could order me up."
No, I'm thinking as I throw up in my mouth, I would not order that.
After some more polite conversation and innuendos, an older, white, conservative looking couple walk by. They seriously were school teachers in a near-by suburb I'm sure.
The husband says, "look honey, it's Raw Dog!" and precedes to tell us that him and his friend (I'm sure another really white-conservativesuburbanite) have these joke nicknames between them where his friend calls him Raw Dog and he calls his friend Sick Puppy.
I'm sitting to the left of Hot Six Pack, nearest the side of the shirt that is embroidered "Raw Dog". Hot Six pack then leans over and shows us the right side of his shirt and says "Did you read this side?!"
As I read the patch on the right side of the shirt, the blood drains from my body, my muscles go slack, the bile returns and I am speechless. I have no words.
You can't even guess what the patch said.
The patch reads "Official Camel Toe Inspector".
OMG.
I don't think the couple knew what that meant and there was awkward silence for what seemed like 5 minutes when the husband says "Well, I hope you don't get a toe jam" and preceded to run him and his wife out of the restaurant.
The best part of the whole evening was me telling Hot Six Pack that I was hungover from the night before, and this quickly became my escape route. I fained illness, asked for the bill (which he let me pay btw), and quickly left the restaurant.
Seriously, if you are on a date and want to charm the pants off someone (literally and figuratively) would you wear an offensive shirt like that? No wonder he's 37 and still single!
I still get a few texts from him now and then...I will never text him back and I should let him know how offensive that shirt is, but I don't have the energy for that.
The moral to this story? Always judge a book by it's cover!
p.s. So the shirt does beg the question, is there training? or a certification process to be an inspector? Did he buy the shirt from somewhere? or did he have it specially made?
Good god I hope not.
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