A man who is where I was 15 years ago (entering singledom) gave me some insights around his dating experiences. Once I admit my career as a writer, stories like these start flowing. I’m all ears — big fucking sprouting-hair-where-they-should-not ears. I cut to the chase.
“How often do you get laid on your first date?”
“Shit, man, all the time.”
“Yep. I had five first dates last week and banged three of them.”
“Where do you find these women? I thought Sluts ‘R’ Us closed.”
“Man, you know. Usually Bumble. You ain’t gettin’ laid on first dates?”
“Um, no. Since I rarely make it to the second date, let alone third date, I’m usually left cuddling my wine glass.”
Granted, back in my forties, vagina access was more frequently granted. Could have been my fancy car and condo. Might have been my tighter skin and smaller nose and belly. Maybe I wasn’t as salty back then. Maybe I was more confident. Chicks dig confident. Fuck if I know.
Perhaps by picking this young buck’s brain, I could find my way out of the drought. I pressed him.
“So, where are you banging these first dates? Do you take them back to your place?”
“Sometimes. I usually try to go to theirs, in case they turn out psycho. Two of them last week I did in the truck.”
“You had sex in the truck. Where?”
“Well, not in the bed. It’s fucking cold, and I keep my work shit there.”
“I mean ‘where’ as in where your truck is when you have sex.”
“Oh. Usually right there in the parking lot outside the bar where we met.”
“You are my hero. Explain to me, if you will, how you get them from that first sip of Chard to straddling you in the passenger seat.”
“Well, the alcohol helps. I just make sure I make eye contact, listen, and tell her how pretty she is.”
“… and you play some Barry White.”
“Nevermind. Dating myself. Fuck. That should be my next book title, Dating Myself. Goddamn it.”
I admit this was a good looking fellow — trucker hat, a little scruff, and had all his teeth. It was a little like visiting the ghost of Phil’s fruitful dating days past. Even back then, though, the sex on the first date thing was rare for me. Basically, my thought was, if she was someone I connected with, I couldn’t have sex on the first date because that would mean she is loose, like me. There certainly could be all sorts of kissing and groping, but no penetration.
“Do you respect these women who have sex with you on the first date, or is that it? Aren’t you worried they do it with every first date?”
“Nah. Practice makes perfect, right?”
“It also spreads chlamydia.”
“You’re too uptight, dude. Chicks expect you to try to have sex with them right away. If you don’t do that, they think you’re not into them. Then, you just wasted twenty bucks on dinner and drinks.”
“First, whatever happened to courtship? Second, where the fuck do you get dinner and drinks around here for twenty bucks?”
“I ain’t taking them to any high-class joint until I know they’re worth it. Dinner and drinks are courtship.”
“More like foreplay.”
This little convo has convinced me to adjust my approach. I shall be more aggressive, make my desires known, and humbly accept any first-date vaginas tossed my way. Don’t hold your breath.
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