You never know how comfortable a girl is with a guy until she throws up in front of him.

Call me crazy, but the sounds of a woman tossing her cookies 10 feet away from me doesn’t exactly do much for my hard-on – especially when it’s only been the third date!

But there I was, sitting alone in her living room like a complete douche, with a glass of wine in my hand as she puked her guts out in the bathroom…all the while the soulful sounds of Erykah Badu serenaded us in the background.

To put things in perspective, I know we’ve all had our share of “WTF!” moments on dates (like the time this one chick kept looking under the table and behind her cause she thought she heard voices), and just like all those other prior awkward moments, I was going to be a gentlemen and play along…

…but then she came back, sat next to me, and leaned in for a kiss.

Her breath smelled like…like…death; there’s really no other way to describe it.

It was rancid and vile. A carton of milk 10 years past its prime might have tasted better.

Just like that, right out of the “Too Good to Be True” department, I had scored a hot date with a hot bulimic.

She never actually came out and said she had an eating disorder but it was pretty obvious, especially when she’d disappear after every meal for a good 20 min. And she didn’t even try to camouflage the truth with a phony digestive disorder—or a mouthwash for that matter.

So the obvious question is: When did puking in front of a guy become ok?

I understand that generations of women have fought their inner demons, trying to muster up the courage to be as open and free with the bathroom activities as their men were, but the 3-Finger rule is meant for evaluating hot women, NOT for shoving down one’s throat so nonchalantly.

Sympathy for the Bulimic?

Alright, NOW you can call me a hypocrite. I never actually confronted her cause, honestly, her body was OFF THE CHARTS—tall, slender, and a waistline you’d think only existed in airbrushed magazine spreads.

So I figured: Why mess with a winning formula?

I had also realized (brilliantly, I might add) that if loaded up on enough “Winter Ice” breath mints just seconds before making contact, I could overlook her penchant for heaving.

What I couldn’t overlook, however, was watching my hard-earned money literally get flushed down the toilet every time we went out to a nice restaurant. The straw that broke the bulimic’s back came when she made a mad dash for the ladies’ room after we just finished eating at one of Montreal’s premier steak houses.

Puking, on its own, is not grounds for a break-up. But puking out an $80 filet mignon most definitely IS!

So I dropped her, just shy of our first month (hey, with my record, was bound to happen regardless, right?).

Oh yeah baby, that’s so fucking hot…

Can’t talk about puking without giving a shout-out to that disgusting ex-friend of mine who had a severe, and equally disturbing fetish for getting thrown up on. Luckily, this one’s self-explanatory. But if any of you ever get audited in the Greater Toronto Area by a balding, 35-year-old Italian, you may want to remember this little tidbit.

The Verdict is In!

So there you have it folks: The relationship waters just got a little murkier thanks to a pile of puke. Maybe, just maybe, when you factor in the wasted meals and money, the road to love should be paved with anorexics.

“Food” for thought…