The Blind First Date (poor Melvin)
September 7, 2010 § 1 Comment
Enough with this personal messaging masturbation, my profile and textual whit cannot be that interesting to which all these men are satisfied with volleying sentences back and forth for weeks. I’m at the end of my rope, someone man-up and meet me in the flesh! This online dating thing is boring. After coming to the realization that I was over this and ready for real personal contact, I made a date with the first gentleman caller that inquired. I guess beggars can’t be choosers. I agreed to a date with a man named Melvin.
Yes, that’s right, his name is Melvin, a synonym for an extremely uncomfortable man-wedgie. Melvin. I accepted because after I learned his name, I figured it couldn’t get much worse. Poor Melvin. He was doomed from the womb.
I tried not to contemplate how communist his parents must have been, or why in his adult age he wasn’t going by his middle name, and reaffirmed my acceptance by looking at his profile. He seemed like a normal 27 year-old guy, kind of standard, tall with a nice smile. His instant messages were well crafted, prompt and smart. What could go wrong? Aren’t those the famous last words…
He agreed to meet me on my side of town. Damn right, I am not going out of my way for a Melvin. I picked a bar within walking distance from my house, I was sure to need a cocktail or five. I was late of course, and on my way I received a text message from him: I’m sitting at the bar… with a rose. Really? I almost turned around right there. Great, not only a Melvin, but also Captain Cheese. After swallowing my pride, I resolved to not stand him up. I didn’t want to be rude, his name is Melvin after all, I’m sure he’s been through enough.
Strike one, the hopeless romantic move, automatically putting an extreme amount of pressure on an already uncomfortable situation. Strike two, those must have been glamour shots on his profile, because I almost didn’t recognize him. Things were not going well for Melvin, and we hadn’t even said hello.
Now, I’m not really a hugger or a fan of unnecessary touching in general, especially with strangers. Melvin skipped the handshake and went right in for the hug. Strike three. Poor Melvin. As I sat down to settle in for conversation my eyes darted around for the waitress. Something strong, please.
I was hoping that I could at least get through 60 minutes of conversation without getting smashed, but my fears were confirmed when Melvin made his first Star Trek reference. Thank you, and may I have another, make it a double this time. I don’t know if it was because he was nervous or if he was just stupid, but his replies were delayed, like when you are taking an overseas phone call from a third world country. It was because of this and his too eager smile that I retreated to basically talking the entire time just to fill the negative space. My speech was fueled by the alcohol and I became so distracted by the pressure of being entertaining that I couldn’t properly form a plan to get out of there. The only thing I could do was let it run it’s course.
After nearly drinking an entire bottle of wine to myself, Melvin finally realized I was a lush and he should start thinking about how to get into my pants. Now that I think about it, maybe that was his carefully crafted plan all along. Of course I was not going to go along with that. Even when I’m drunk, you have to have at least an ounce of game to swoon me. Poor Melvin, there is not enough booze in the world to impair my judgment to the extent that I would give up more than an embrace. And even that’s pushing it.
He offered to drive me home, without batting an eye, I declined. The night was bookended with another hug, and I stumbled on my way. What a disappointment, and I wasn’t even expecting that much. Lucky for me, I found a sexy tattoo artist with exactly one ounce of game and spent the rest of the night with him. Poor Melvin.