Hot Stuff
My roommate’s girlfriend was a dancer at a club. He and I would go on slow nights, get a couple of drinks, and she and her coworkers would sit and hang out with us when they didn’t feel like being pawed at.
During the course of one of these hangouts, I struck up a conversation with a dancer who turned out to be extremely well-educated and a would-be symphony composer. She was also ridiculously hot, and we just clicked. It took a while since we met at the club, but I eventually got a date with her.
We started our evening at a local coffee shop that was famous for having little s’mores platters with flaming cans to toast your marshmallows. We got a couple of lattes and a s’mores platter and proceeded to flirt. Things were going swimmingly—until total chaos broke loose.
One of the marshmallows I had on a skewer caught fire. I had a mouthful of scalding hot latte at the time, so I panicked and just waved the marshmallow to put it out. It promptly sailed through the air like a sticky, flaming meteor and landed on her lap. She looked down with horror as her velvet pants caught fire.
She shrieked. I wanted to throw a glass of water on her or blot it out with a napkin, but the only napkins I had were paper, and I had no water—just a scalding hot latte. She looked at me, panicked, and said, “Do something”! So, I did what I could. I doused the fire with the scalding hot latte.
She went to the bathroom and returned with scorched pants and burns on her thighs. She said, “Let’s call it a night”. I did not get a second date. Story credit: Reddit / (aghrivaine)