You know why I love one-night stands? Well, sure, it gets the poison out. That’s not the main reason. It’s because I HATE job interviews. The one-nighter is typically the shortest path to payday.
I understand, dear. You’ve found your best friend slash soul mate slash partner. (Please pardon me while I slash my wrist.) I’m glad you’re happy. Enjoy it, preferably somewhere out of my line of sight.
Can I get a virtual high-five from my single sisters and brothers? Amen.
“So, do you have children? Want children? Any pets? What do you do for work? How important is travel? Are you religious? Spiritual? How often do you workout? How’s your credit? What do you drive? Where do you live? Any roommates? Do you vote? Health issues?”
You know what’s fun to talk about? Current events and entertainment. I get all I need to know about a potential lover by gauging her reaction to Obama, Breaking Bad, and the dirtiest joke I know. Those other prying questions don’t matter because, much like when on a job interview, your date is going to tell you what you need to hear, if he wants the job.
Sample #1: Subject is a gorgeous Latina twenty years younger.
Question: “So, Pheel, do you want to have children someday?”
Actual Answer: “If it would make my woman happy, and enhance our relationship, absolutely.”
Facts: I’m fixed. I don’t like children. They’re inconvenient, noisy, and smell horrible. I’m horny.
Honest Answer: “Fuck, no.”
That honest answer would have gotten my resume tossed, leaving me un-laid.
Sample #2: More age-appropriate woman who is intelligent and doesn’t want children (not that one implies the other, much).
Question: “Spirituality plays a big role in my life. Are you spiritual or religious?”
Actual Answer: “Not really, but I respect and support people who are. I’m always curious and eager to learn about faith.”
Facts: I’m way atheist.
Honest Answer: “No, and if you believe in angels, demons, and chakras, you’d better keep that shit to yourself, you deluded, hot mess.”
Kicked to the curb again.
I’ve learned from my 40+ years of dating, to give the right answer, which may not be the honest answer. I do this because I want the job. I love enough about women to tolerate the other stuff. And, don’t you wrinkle your nose, dear. You do the same.
Sure, it’s slightly different between the genders. If a woman is sexy enough, there’s nothing short of telling me there’s a meat slicer in her vagina to keep me from wanting in. I guess the biology of a potential nine-month investment makes women consider more than washboard abs as the golden ticket.
It’s just becoming more frustrating and harder to hide behind the right answers. I’d love to simply blurt out the truth, and give zero shits about how it’s received. Maybe I’d find the perfect match then—the one who doesn’t douse me in buttery Chardonnay.
I don’t mind holding doors, lathering on compliments, rubbing feet, and paying the tab. I accept my role. But, telling her what she needs to hear is becoming tougher to do with a straight face. My internal cringe rises to the surface, and it’s hard to hide it with a fake sneeze.
If I had the answer, I’d have my love on my lap instead of this carefree cat.