Date In The LYF is the new column at LYFSTYL where we share dating escapades, both epic and cringe-worthy from all sexes. Send us your notable stories via Twitter with #DateInTheLYF.

It’s the first date. I’m running an hour behind to meet him at a small bespoke cocktail bar but give ample warning.

“It’s fine!” he says, “take your time, I’m just chilling till you get here.”

Cool, I guess. So I take more time, because it’s already past 11PM on a Friday night and feeling first date anxiety. After heavy sighs and a few minutes pacing around my car, I walk in the bar, flash my ID, and sit down before I notice a loud man yelling, “HEY. YOU’RE FINALLY HERE.”

I turn around and notice my date is already belligerently drunk and loudly berating me over tardiness. “Because you’re late I had to sit at another bar and get wasted. This is your fault.”

Excuse you, sir, I didn’t tell you to get drunk while waiting for me.

“Well, what else was I supposed to do?!”

Not that.

After a painstaking hour of him trying to convince me to get wasted before propositioning himself for the night, I steadfastly declined and told him I was leaving.

“Wait, you can’t leave yet! I don’t have any more money to pay for drinks. And my phone died so I can’t call a car home.”

An arctic blast blew through the room. The bartender gave one glance our way and began fidgeting, noticing my seething irritation. He dropped the check and I paid for our drinks and food he ordered to sober up. I dropped him off at a train station and coldly told him “figure out your way home because I’m not expensing a cab for you.”

I never saw him again.