I was living in a dorm in college and I was sort of friends with this hippie who lived in my hall (well, in truth almost everyone in my dorm was a hippie).
We went out to the movies and got drunk on Fresca and vodka while watching John Waters' Serial Mom, a movie that had been protested by a crazy woman on campus who decried it as anti-feminist because everyone knows men are far more likely to be serial killers. Now I'm a feminist, but I am one with a sense of humor, and that woman gave feminists a crazy bad name. After the movie we went to the cemetery and continued drinking on Emily Dickinson's grave, behind the fence under the tree.
Was this a date? If I wasn't dating someone else and if I wasn't totally against dating hippies and if I had ever looked at this particular hippie with anything resembling lust, I might have thought so. We went back to our dorm and parted amicably and both lived through the night, probably regretting it the next day.
Shortly after this (date?) my boyfriend broke up with me for about the millionth time.
I vowed to drink that night until I couldn't see, a state of extreme drunkenness I had not yet achieved in my short life. My hippie friend secured the bottle, and before long I was fighting him in the hallway, howling like a banshee, unable to see.
Somehow I survived this night, too, went to bed alone, didn't even consider making out with the hippie. Probably puked my guts out at some point. At least I hope I did, considering I had poisoned myself with vodka or something.
Next day I was hating life and the hippie was covered in scratches and bruises from my violent blind drunkenness. I apologized sincerely, but he was a good sport.
Years later I was in that college town visiting with an old professor, and we ran into the hippie. Much to my horror, he told her I had both satisfied his curiosity of and turned him off S&M!
I guess if the result is making up someone's mind about sado-masochism, then it's a date, accidental or not.
