I'd been messaging this guy for about two weeks. Let's call him Hans. Not because that was his name. Because by the end of this story, Hans will feel disturbingly appropriate.
He was into comic books, emo music, and good food. Same. He lived about an hour away in the opposite direction of where most of my dates were, but we settled on a diner about halfway. Thirty minutes for him, forty for me. I figured, hey, I've driven further for worse.
When we got to the diner, I ordered a burger and fries. He ordered the exact same thing. Which, okay… a little odd, but maybe he was just feeling the vibe. Or maybe he was trying to mirror me. Either way, not a crime.
Conversation-wise? He was charming enough. Successful. Tall. Cute little baby face and the kind of shy grin that makes you think he's harmless.
And he was tall-tall, like 6'5". A rare win, considering most of my dates topped out at "slouchy 5'9" with a dream." We talked about long-term goals. I told him I was living with my parents while saving for a house. He nodded, said, "Yeah, you said you had kids."
I confirmed it, not going into too much detail. I don't really dive into my kids on a first date. It's a safety thing. He asked about their dad, and I kept it short: "They see him about every other weekend. He's… not a very nice person. Narcissist."
That should've been the end of it.
Instead, Hans launched into a monologue about how he didn't have kids, but wanted them. Lots of them. Showed me pictures of his nieces and nephews, talked about how he'd be a great dad. "Someday soon," he said. "Just need to find the right woman."
At this point, the conversation was less cute future daydream and more baby trap manifesto. There was a weird intensity behind his eyes, like he was trying to figure out if I ovulated on the full moon.
Then he asked to see a picture of my kids.
Now, I don't show photos of my kids to strangers. But I'm also painfully Midwestern polite, so I said sure and pulled up a sweet little picture of them together. They were three and five at the time. Big grins, blonde hair, blue eyes.
He stared at the picture for a little too long.
"They're beautiful," he said.
I agreed. Obviously.
He smiled again. "I always wanted a big family."
"Me too," I replied casually. "At one point I thought I wanted six kids."
His eyes lit up.
"I've always wanted at least six. That's perfect."
I laughed awkwardly. "Not many people want big families anymore."
He nodded. "I'm glad you already have two. That's less we'll have to make."
I blinked.
"Yeah," he continued, dead serious. "Then you'd only have to have four more. To make six. For us."
Sir. What.
US?!
Then, like he was the lead in some weird Hallmark cult romance, he said, "Your kids look like they could be mine."
I forced a smile. "Oh, that's not necessary…"
But he wasn't done.
"I wouldn't treat them any different, you know. Than if they were mine. I'd love them the same. You'd be a great mom to all our kids."
My brain completely short-circuited. I could see the mental image: barefoot in a farmhouse kitchen, pregnant with Baby #7 while Hans grills chicken and talks about "preserving our bloodline."
He kept going.
"We'd have such beautiful children. Tall. Blonde. Blue-eyed. Just like us."
And that's when it hit me.
This man is trying to breed the Fourth Reich.
The whole thing started sounding less like a date and more like a eugenics brochure. And the worst part? I just… sat there. Stunned. Trapped in a diner booth with the ghost of Aryan fantasies past.
He went on a weird tangent about "good genes" and how "strong stock" runs in his family. At one point, I think he complimented my bone structure.
To be fair, he wasn't wrong, we probably would've had gigantic, genetically gifted babies. But all I could picture were 15-pound Viking children tearing through my uterus like it was drywall.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the check came. He paid. I smiled politely, said goodbye, and walked out like a lady with a plan.
Then I ran.
Not metaphorically. I literally drove two blocks away, parked behind a gas station, and just sat there, catching my breath, asking myself what the hell just happened.
Hans never got a second date.
Turns out, much like the Disney movie that came out that year, this Hans was also the villain. Just with fewer musical numbers and more reproductive plans.
He did get the honor of being the reason I now mentally screen for future family cult leaders before agreeing to meet for burgers.
You're welcome.