The guy had everything – good looks and charm, a brand new BMW, a great job. I knew instantly, my mother would be happy with this one.

On our first date, he took me to a pricey, trendy restaurant in the Valley. I’d been there before but for the sake of keeping things fresh, I told I hadn’t. I definitely didn’t want to tell him that just last week, I went there on another first date with another Internet prospect that turned out to be a total dud.

This time, unlike last week with the guy I now refer to as “Penny Pincher”  I could order anything. There was no suggestion for splitting a main dish. This new guy didn’t scrutinize me for wanting a second martini on a Wednesday. In fact, he had two too.

At the end of the date, he said to me, “I usually don’t do this but since we really hit it off, I have a black tie event tomorrow night and wonder if you’d like to go with me?” Would I like to? Was he kidding? I’d love to! It would be my first ever Hollywood black tie event and with a gorgeous, Jewish guy my mother would love too. I told him maybe. A girl has to play hard to get. I told him I had an exam the following day at school and wanted to make sure I got enough studying in. This of course was a lie but fed into the scheme of making myself seem only somewhat available.

I called him first thing the next morning and said, “Yes, I’d love to go.” And it was everything I thought it would be. A multiple course set dinner, an elegant crowd inside a posh hotel.

Now I normally hold off sleeping with a guy for at least three dates but after this Cinderella-type affair, I figured why not. We went to his place afterwards and got to it, kissing while getting each other undressed. But alas, the sex was way below par. I’ve had bad sex before but this was inexcusable. No passion. Nowhere near making any sort of impact on the Richter scale. It was bland at best and I wish we’d never done it.

So we tried it again, a few nights later. This time was even worse. The guy couldn’t get it up for more than a few seconds. I tried to be nice and pretend like it was me and not him but I knew it wasn’t. I’d never had this experience before. Ex-boyfriends still tell me how they’re attracted to me. I know I’m  not the problem. But this was Mr. Perfect minus one point for bad sex.  At the very least, he deserved another chance. Who knows? This could have been a fluke strike out.

The shock I was about to encounter with this “other chance” however is something I’ll regret until the day I die. The visual image still haunts me. On attempt number three, when Mr. Perfect took off his boxers, what was I about to see? There’s no way to prepare oneself for something like this.

Right there, above his penis, a perfectly shaped piece of hair known in porn vernacular as a “landing strip”. In my opinion, he may as well have gotten a Brazilian. That would be way less offensive than a heavily manicured hair patch that he’d obviously spent considerable time attending to hours before meeting me. Why did he think I would like such a thing? It was a perpendicular Hitler mustache and I definitely wasn’t going to go anywhere near it. At least, not with the lights on.

Much to my chagrin, even in the dark, Hitler couldn’t stand on his own. On my way home that night, I took a detour and took the scenic route because I do my best thinking in the car. I weighed the pros and cons of continuing to try to date this guy.

Pro: he was handsome and successful. Con: his penis was flaccid and incompetent. Pro: he took me to nice restaurants and complimented me. Con: I got drunk and horny at all of these restaurants and couldn’t look at his poor penis when it came down to it. Pro: maybe things will get better. Con: things never get better.

I knew what I had to do. Ignore his calls, emails, messages on Facebook. How could I tell him the reason I didn’t want to date him is because his penis just wasn’t working? There’s no nice way to relay this to any guy. So I made sure that conversation would never have to happen.

That is, until one lonely night at midnight, I was on the computer and he showed up on instant messenger asking me how I’ve been. The question seemed innocent enough so I replied, “Busy. Very busy. School is whipping my ass.” He asked if that’s why I never returned his calls and so I said, “Exactly. It has nothing to do with you. I’m just focusing on school and stuff.”

He asked me to go out for dinner with him that week and since I had no other prospective dates lined up over the next few days, I agreed. We went out for Mexican food to a restaurant I’d been to but again, for his sake, so he could feel unique and interesting, I told him I’d never been. After dinner and two margaritas later, I guess he wanted to assert his manhood or his humble penis was finally ready to prove itself, we had some relatively good sex. Not amazing, but good. And most surprisingly, Hitler Dick was gone. He was cleanly trimmed, just the way I like it.

Were we back on track? I skipped back to my apartment after seeing him to the front door. Minutes later, he sent me a text message from his car asking me out the following evening for dinner again.

This time we went to a new restaurant I’d never been to. But after dinner, we were about to go to a place we’ve both been to several times before. Impotency land. And even worse: Hitler Dick was back. And I wondered. Was there some kind of connection between Hitler Dick and impotency? And was this something I cared to philosophize about even further? When he called the following day, I didn’t pick up the phone. I didn’t want to get into any conversation about it. There was just too much to say and no right way to say it. So I ignored him and we’ve never seen each other again or spoken since.

Every now and then, the image of Hitler Dick pops into my mind though – just the penis and its mustache. I struggle to force it out and sometimes it’s hard and damn near impossible. It’s a lot more difficult to forget a morbid visual like that than it is to forget an entire person. Forgetting a person is easy if they’ve made no real mark of making a difference in your life for better or worse, personality-wise.

But images last a lifetime and it’s something you have no control over. Nobody can forget having seen Hitler Dick up close after having seen it. Which brings me to a final thought and I hope to never think of it again. Maybe the reason Hitler Dick did that to his dick is because even though his personality wasn’t out of the ordinary or truly stand-alone memorable, at least after having met him and attempted to forget him, his existence lingers in their memory of those women he’s met through his penis, for better or for worse. For me, it was for the worse. But hey, somewhere, some women might dig a nice penis mustache.

Do you think I was overreacting?