The guys she dated didn’t look good. I mean, their gums had receded. They were going bald, like bowling balls. They had pockmarks on their faces, yellow teeth, bent backbones, arthritic hands. What did she see in their gene pool?

I saw the monster from the blue lagoon.

Surely, she had options?

But I started to wonder, what was wrong with her?

Visibly, she was perfect. She had a good blend of athletic sex appeal and librarian know-how.

What I mean by that is, she wore adidas stretch pants, that complemented her behind, but rather than going sporty up-above, she wore woolen sweaters with flowers artistically arranged on them.

She smiled at me. Her teeth were white, and they were strait too—not from wearing braces, which always gives the munchers a robotic look, but from perfect genetics.

It’s not fair that women have value because they are born that way, but I didn’t mind.

I met her in the pro shop.

“Hi,” I said.

“Hi, yourself,” she smiled.

“What’s your name?” I asked.


“That’s a nice name. Would you like to go golfing with me?”

“Sure,” she said. And she could play too. She was even par, while I kept getting bogies.

It was more embarrassing, than if I had been picking my nose in public.

We had to wait for the group in front of us, so we sat down on the bench together.

I felt her hand in mine. It was gentle, like a teacup, soft, like cashmere. She got closer. I could smell her lavender. Then she kissed me with her full lips. I tasted her saliva and felt strong.

The green cleared, and I hit my ball within an inch of the hole.

“How did I do that!?” I asked.

“You’re just talented,” she laughed. She knocked her ball on, and we finished our 9 holes together.

“See ya tomorrow.”

“Alright,” I said.

It was no secret that I played golf after work.

In the morning, I looked at myself in the mirror. My eyes were sunken-in, a bit, and my skin was pulled tight.

I checked my weight on the scale.

“I lost five pounds!? But I ate pizza last night.”

At work, all of my paperwork was perfect. There was not a period out-of-place.

“I’m going to recommend you for an award,” my boss said.

“What is it?” I asked.

“It’s the No Screwups Award. We hand it out to government employees who don’t make a single mistake on their paperwork.”

“Boy, I feel special,” I said.

“I don’t identify as a boy.”

“Sorry. It was just a figure of speech.”

“Words are violent,” she said. “My preferred pronoun is Alien.”

She was from a different planet, I thought. Her eyes were magnified 5Xs behind her thick glasses with pink frames. When her hair was dyed, it hurt my eyes to look at her.

I couldn’t wait to get back to the golf course, but I didn’t see Adria there, so I had to play golf alone.

It was getting dark, when I saw it. The Number 6 green opened up, like a portal, and a flying saucer came out. I glanced down at the protein bar I was eating. It was from the health food store.

“My god,” I whispered. “Aliens are real.”

On hole 7, I found a dead golfer. He was practically a skeleton. I didn’t recognize him, but then I noticed his shirt.

“He’s one of the guys Adria dates.”

I called 911, because I didn’t know the number for the morgue.

“Yes, I found a dead body on the golf course. There’s not much left of him.”

“Was it an animal attack?”

“No—it’s like he’s been drained.”

The next day, Adria was working behind the counter at the pro shop. She looked better than ever. Her blond hair was sparkling in the sun.

“Would you like to go for drinks tonight?” I asked.

“Would I!? She said.

At the restaurant, the waiter came by.

Adria was wearing a red dress that perfectly showed-off her tanned chest. There was one suggestive freckle there, as if God put it there.

“Would you like some wine?” The waiter asked.

“Yes,” Adria said through her sharp teeth. He poured, what looked like blood, into her tall wine glass. She drank it down, in one gulp.

“What about you, sir?”

“Just water,” I said soberly.

Back at my apartment, she sucked the life out of me. When I woke up, I was staring at Helen of Troy. Her beauty was unmatched to any woman in history.

It felt like my arms were going to fall off.

“Honey, did you sleep well?” She asked.

“Like the dead.”

She smiled.

At work, my co-workers avoided me. It was as if, they were afraid they might catch my disease. I was addicted to Adria. I couldn’t wait until the next time we got alone together.

I looked into the mirror. I was 60.

“My god, I need to buy some anti-aging products.”

On the way to my government job, I crashed into an ice cream truck. The music was playing, It’s a small world after all.

I woke-up in a hospital bed.

“Mr. Johnson, this paper is for your funeral arrangements. Please check whether or not you would like to be buried or cremated.” Her hand put the pen into my hand, which was a crumpled claw. I signed my life away.

Hopefully, the person who reads this will be more careful about who they choose to date.

Often, monsters aren’t ugly, but some of the most beautiful creatures under the sun.

The End

16 thoughts on “The Beautiful Woman Who Dated the Ugly Men

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