Blinding Brazilian

Right, let’s talk about the teeth. The teeth that could guide aircraft in a storm. The teeth that stole the spotlight. But let’s not get ahead of ourselves…

It all started the usual way — a Hinge match. Cute face, promising chat, slight whiff of overconfidence in his bio, but hey, we swipe with hope, don’t we? He was Brazilian, which I’d usually count as a tick in the pros column. I mean, passion, rhythm, a sexy accent — what’s not to love? Famous last words.

We decided to meet at my local. He messaged just as I was heading out: “I’ve got a sofa in the back.” Cosy. Safe. Promising. I imagined a chilled pint, a relaxed chat, maybe a cheeky flirt over crisps.

I was ready.

I walked in, eyes scanning the back of the pub. And there he was. From a distance, he looked alright — the usual basics ticked. But then… he smiled. And sweet Mary, Mother of LED lighting, I was momentarily blinded. Honestly, think Ross from Friends in that teeth-whitening episode. If you don’t know the reference, pause now and look it up. I’ll wait. See what I mean?

The man’s teeth were so white I swear I could hear them hum with electricity. I blinked. Was this a dental miracle or had he borrowed a cartoon rabbit’s chompers?

Still, I sat down. I’m not a complete savage. We chatted. He was nice-ish. Polite. Slightly too enthusiastic about Batman. But I couldn’t focus. Those teeth were loud. Like, louder than his actual voice.

Eventually, I caved, and I’m direct — especially after half a pint. So I asked:“Why are your teeth so white?”

He looked mildly sheepish. “Is it that obvious?”Mate. As obvious as a lightning bolt in a blackout.

He explained he used to grind his teeth in his sleep. Ground them down to nubs. Then, for the big fix, he flew to Brazil (of course he did) and got veneers. “I went for the least white option,” he said, with genuine sincerity.

Excuse me? If this is least white, what’s the brightest shade? Nuclear Snowstorm? Lighthouse Mode? Could the brightest ones defibrillate a dying pigeon?

Then, to top it all off — he whipped out before photos. I won’t describe them in too much detail, but let’s just say the mood did not survive. The photos were grim. Proper tooth horror. Any spark that might’ve flickered was officially snuffed out by the time I saw the third close-up. Massive mojo deflator.

And while we’re here — he was wearing a comic book T-shirt. I need to address this epidemic. Grown men in their 30s: please stop dressing like you’re about to queue for a midnight Marvel premiere. One graphic tee is forgivable. Two is a pattern. Three is a cry for help.

So yes. I called it. Polite goodbye, no lingering glances. We never saw each other again.

But the teeth? Oh, I’ll see those in my nightmares for years to come.

Moral of the story? Never trust a sofa in the back. Never underestimate a Brazilian smile. And always, always carry sunglasses to a first date.

Ready for another dating misadventure? I’ve got plenty. Some with less dental trauma. Some with more. Stay tuned.