text: Everybody’s had a bad date. But my date with Lucy was definitely the worst date of my entire life. We met online, of course. I don’t think people meet any other way anymore. We really hit it off, she laughed at my dumb jokes and honestly, that’s pretty much all it takes for me to fall in love. We decided to meet up for drinks and appetizers at Applebees. I was nervous, so I showed up early, had a drink at the bar and waited for her to arrive. Meeting someone from the internet and finding out they’re significantly less attractive in person brings a uniquely guilty depression. It’s not that the person is necessarily unattractive, but in your mind, you’ve built up the anticipation for how you think the person will look. Expectation ruins reality. Usually this is just a result of normal people trying to look impressive. Which is understandable in the dating world. But that’s the thing, when I saw her walk through the door, Lucy did not look normal. She looked very far from normal. Her face was too thin and her nose was entirely too big. Freakishly such. She probably knew this because the she covered it up with three or five or nine inches of chunky, pasty white makeup. It could have been Plaster of Paris, who’s to say? That shit was out of control. She wore a giant green sweater, which in and of itself is not necessarily a bad thing, but it was almost eighty degrees outside, even after the sun went down. At first, I thought this was to compensate for being overweight, but she didn’t seem overweight. She seemed deformed. Like two or three different skinny people squeezing themselves into the same sweater. She had shredded blonde hair and walked with a wobbly limp, like an ether-sniffing marionette doll at a sobriety checkpoint. Her feet were disproportionally big, as if her shoes were hiding something nasty. Oh, God. I can’t do this, I thought. This is just too much. But I feel bad, because the expectations were built up in MY head, right? I’ll just turn and sneak out the back, text her saying I had car trouble or something. “Seth!?” She squawked. Or barked. It was a bark-squawk that was entirely too loud for the public, very unfortunately public situation at hand. Heads turned. Ah, shit. She saw me. Of course she saw me. I’ve been staring her down slack-jawed and silly. But really, can you blame me? This poor woman looked like a rubber horse mask wearing another rubber mask of Gary Busey’s face. “Seth! It is me. I am Lucy! The woman you speak to.” There’s no way she’s been using this voice her whole life. My voice was too dry so I just nodded. We’re already here, might as well have a few drinks and enjoy the food. How bad could it be? When my mouth finally began producing enough saliva necessary for conversation, we engaged in small-talk. I intentionally kept it awkward and as far from lively as possible. Maybe she’d catch the hint and we could just chalk it up to a lack of chemistry. I started dumping whiskey down my throat like my soul and sanity depended on it. Which, at this point, I was convinced it did. “So, where are you from?” I asked, hoping another unknown cultural origin could explain this catastrophic misstep in acceptable courtship. “Lucy is from Wisconsin. That’s normal, right?” Jesus Christ, whatever they put in that cheese really did a number on this one. Remind me to never drink Budweiser again, either. “I don-uh, I mean, yes, yes that is normal. Right. Have you ever been in like, a car accident or something?” She stared at me with big sickly brown eyes. Eyes that were almost yellow. Maybe she has cancer or something? I’m starting to feel bad for her now. Maybe the whiskey is melting the shock and warming my mind to a temperate state of empathy. She’s alone. She doesn’t get out much. Kinda like me, actually. Don’t be a dick, dude. Get it together. Then she laughs, it’s a coughy sort of laugh. It resonates from a deeper part of the diaphragm and I’m reminded of an alligator. Bet she used to smoke a lot. “You make joke! You funny man!” She swipes her hand across my forearm the way women do when they’re being particularly obvious about their intentions. Her fingernails are long. Monstrously so, and badly painted in flecks of a dark red. Her skin is entirely too rough for a woman. Maybe she works with her hands a lot? Oh. Oh, no. I check the neck. I don’t actually see an Adam’s Apple, but the skin does protrude in a hangy sort of turkey-neck way. I begin to sweat uncontrollably. Look, I don’t hate anyone. I believe everyone should live their lives and be happy. But I’m just not ready for this. I’m afraid. I feel like I’m waiting for the cashier in a gas station and a cop gets behind me in line. I compensate with more whiskey. That’ll help. I have to ask. I can’t just not know. “Look, Lucy. I’m sorry. But are you, like, are you a girl?” There’s that laugh again. “Yes! Lucy is girl. Real girl. Clever girl.” Of course she is. Trans girls are girls, too. It’s just... I’ve already paid for the drinks, she seems very interested in me, persistent even. I just don’t know if I can do this. Maybe just a blowjob? That’s not gay, right? I’m gonna need some cocaine for this. That’s it! Cocaine! I’ll see if she’s down to score some blow, then we’ll just see how it goes. Worst case scenario I get all coked up and can’t get a boner anyhow, sorta solves the whole situation. I can blame the coke, she doesn’t get her feelings hurt. Win-win. “Hey Lucy....” “Hey Seth.” She does the cough/laugh. Maybe the hormones haven’t been balanced yet? “You uh, you wanna score some coke?” “What is ‘score coke’?” “You know, like cocaine?” “Cocaine? If we score cocaine, can I get your meat?” Oh fuck. This is happening. “My...my meat?” “Yes. I want your meat inside me.” Not gonna lie, my dick did a little twitch right then. Jesus. Well, I guess you learn something new every day, don’t ya? “Okay! Um, I’m gonna pay the, uh, pay the tab. Why don’t you? Like, and I’ll then go to the car. Ya know, then we can like, you know. Wanna follow me while-“ “We ‘score coke’ like cocaine!” “Yes.” I said. Fuck, I kinda like her now. I can get past the face. And the limpy, wabble-walk. And the...uh. Whatever else I find. After I pay the bartender, we both walk back to my truck. I guess she took the bus or something because she never mentions a car of her own. I call up my buddy Allen, he usually has decent coke. Allen says to come on over, I open the door for her, she does that little laugh again. It’s kinda growing on me, actually. I can’t believe this is happening. As I’m driving, she starts purring and licking my ear. And I’m actually into it. Like, really into it. Once again, I can’t believe this is happening. We pull up to Allen’s place, he sends me a text saying to come on up. Allen opens the door and jumps back. “Holy fuckin’ shit, Seth. Who the fuck is this? You told me it was just you, bro?” “No I didn’t,” I said, “I told you a had a girl with me, Lucy this is Allen. Allen this is Lucy.” “Hello, Allen.” Said Lucy, “Can I also have your meat inside me?” “What the fuck?” Said Allen. Then he laughed, and I laughed, and Lucy laughed, we all laughed. “You didn’t tell me it was like that. Why don’t you both just come on in?” We all stepped inside and Allen clicked on the light. As he did, Lucy tripped over the doorframe. She didn’t fall all the way to the ground, but she fell just enough to cause her hair to tilt. Like, all of it just shifted to the side. This caught Allen’s attention. “Yo, that’s a fuckin’ wig, bro! The fuck is going on here?” “Allen.” I said sternly, leaning in close to him. “Don’t fuck this up for me, man. I need this.” But Allen wasn’t listening. Allen was recoiling in horror because he saw what I had been too drunk and horny to see all along. While Lucy was fumbling with her wig and sliding around the foyer, her tail had slid out of her floppy green sweater. A tail that was long and scaly. Just as scaly as her scalp beneath the wig. It was now painfully obvious. This was not a foreign woman. This was not a transsexual. This was a sixty-six million year old chicken-lizard stalking it’s prey from beyond the confines of the traditional understanding of time itself. And I, Seth Fox, horny drunkard and idiot extraordinaire, had fallen for it’s schemes. Clever girl. Allen screamed the only sensible thing to be said, “VELOCIRAPTOR!!!” And we both dove behind the sofa for cover. The Velociraptor Formally Known as Lucy shrieked, “MEEEAAAAAT!!!” Why? Why me? Why couldn’t she have just had a penis!? The Lucy-Raptor soars over the sofa with a dancer’s ease because she’s a theropod. An apex predator from the Cretaceous Period and I notice what made her gait so ungainly. Her shoes had been hiding a giant sickle-shaped talon on each foot with which her kinship would disembowel their prey. Unfortunately for Allen, he was this prey. The Lucy-Raptor was on him instantly, she sliced open his belly with her toe-claws and his intestines flopped out like folded ravioli. “Nnnnaaaauuuuuggggghhhh!!!!!” Said Allen as the Lucy Raptor chewed on his neck. I had no patience for this nonsense, so I fled the scene hoping, praying, pleading with any deity merciful enough to hear my cries. I did not want to be eaten by a velociraptor tonight. I just wanted a blowjob. Is that really too much to ask from the universe? One measly fucking blowjob? But the Lucy-Raptor wanted to feast on the flesh of living prey, and I was still fumbling with my keys when Allen had breathed his last. She came bouncing into the parking lot. “CAAAUUUOOGGGHHH, CAAAUUUOOGGGHHH!!” Said Lucy. The truck door clicked open. Lucy reared back on her hind legs ready to pounce. I yanked open the door and hurled myself into the driver’s seat, turned the key and started the engine as Lucy sailed through the air like a shark through calm seas. Her claws barely missed my fender as I sped from my dead drug dealer’s parking lot. I stomped the gas. At 20 mph, there she was, nipping at my window. I turned onto the street. There she was. 30 mph. 35, 40 mph. When I hit 55 mph she slowed down and wailed a roar of defeat. I had bested the Lucy-Raptor. Turns out velociraptors can run at speeds of up to 40 miles an hour. But a ’97 Dodge Ram can go up to like, 120 miles an hour, so FUCK YOU, VELOCIRAPTORS!! Dating is hard, folks. But remember, “Life finds a way.