Why the fuck did I join a skateboard-centric online dating site rather than just going to a local skate park and hitting on a Dylan Rieder clone? Have you been to a skate park lately? It’s a great place to find young grommets and watch skate dads roll around while their kid texts mom what he wants for dinner. But it isn’t even close to the urethane meat market I remember from my youth.
My family owned a surf and skate shop, and while it was more of a Pac-Sun wannabe in the mall of our smallish town, it’s connected with some of the best memories of my youth. Forever disillusioned by my hopeless romanticism (and singleness), my former days of ramp trampin’ called out to me and said, “Maybe you’ll find true love! Maybe you’ll find a grown-up skater MAN! Maybe all your bowl-troll dreams will come true!” So I created an account on Dateskaters.com.
The website is poorly executed and difficult to navigate, but there is a chat feature I enjoyed. I did not fall for the pay option, which may have eliminated some good prospects for me, although I guess I’ll never know. After a few weeks of innocent flirtations with a couple of users, I decided it would be OK to meet up with a guy called “ToekneeHawt”, hoping his arrogance was just confidence. Besides, he owned his own business and didn’t have any questionable piercings, like most of the rippers who were messaging me.
With the support of my friends and the safety of a public environment, I invited Toeknee out for happy hour drinks. Worst-case scenario was I wouldn’t be into it and I’d just ditch him, right? Sike! HERE is the worst-case scenario, AKA the actual play-by-play.
I won't go much into the physical description, as I’m not that mean, but I will say that he was considerably shorter than advertised. The only thing worse than a guy who is short is a short liar. He showed up wearing those toe-running shoes that I didn’t even know you could skate in. Apparently he gets a “great feel for the board” with them.
Saying Toeknee was unstable is an understatement. He started off being a gentleman, offering to buy the first round of drinks. The sweet gesture of a cheap tequila shot and a shitty beer proved to be the beginning of the end for this poor seven-ply pirate. He was the type of dude who, if he has one, will end up having ten.
This guy was also into prescription pills and wasted no time offering some to me. I appreciated his stash-sharing generosity, and I’d normally be cool with taking most pharmies, but I chose to keep a clear headspace as the worry of date rape crept into my mind. I blame the shoes.
He asked if I liked Xanax, and when I said I did, his response was hall-of-shame calibre: “If pills were cars, Xanax would be a Honda and these I got here are fucking Maseratis, brah!” I took the one he gave me and pretended to eat it as I slipped it in my pocket. This is when he told me we were “entering they highway of love” and I should “buckle up my seat belt because it was going to be a bumpy ride”. When I got home and looked up the pill online, I found out it was for bipolar schizophrenia.
The Xanz of Time, plus a few shots, opened the floodgates for this concrete disciple. He told me what “cum dumpsters” his ex-girlfriends were and wistfully referred to me as his future ex. Soon, his innermost secrets and aspirations sprung from the brain underneath his mesh-cap and straight out of his mouth. He divulged his dream of opening his own strip club so he could “own more pussy than he could shake a stick at!” This is when I entered complete shock mode.
Shit got dark(er) after more beers and shots. He threw up in the corner of the bar and tried to fight the bartender who confronted him. “Have fun cleaning that shit up!” he screamed as he was pushed out the door. I could have followed him and have been more entertained by whatever he did for the rest of that night, but this seemed like a perfect end to my first and last Dateskaters adventure.
I should have known what I was getting myself into by going on a date with a 32-year-old who still lived with his parents, and whose interests included listening to hip-hop, smoking “goodazzweed” and playing Call of Duty. If I were still 19, I might be Mrs. Hawt; instead, I’m just ready to write off skaters and let that guy who always orders a carrot-apple-ginger and shot of wheatgrass at the local café take me to his “favourite wine bar”. Sure, I’m skeptical of the app he’s developing that connects unemployed graphic designers to start-ups seeking cheap logos and web design, but I know his real name and he wears Vans, not those fucking toe-slippers.