are you, you fucked-up mess reading advice about first dates?
If the date has gone well, and there’s sexual chemistry and an emotional connection and you’ve not ruined all that by revealing any unattractive human traits, then the big question is, do you kiss? Clearly sex is a no-no, you slut. Kissing is OK though. Sort of. As long as you follow some simple tips, sorry, I meant rules: Let him kiss you. Do not kiss him first. Even if it’s clear he wants to kiss you, don’t lean in. Ideally don’t kiss until dates two or three anyway. Let there be build-up. Oh, and afterwards, wait for them to contact you. Don’t do it first, because: men. Anyway, you’re too busy being awesome and high-value and not needing them very much to even be worrying about messaging him, right?
It only works if you know there are plenty of men out there that you can spark with and you never worry about dying alone. You can’t go out dating with the fear that you may die alone. I mean, that’s essentially the sole reason of dating – to meet someone so you don’t die alone – but you’re not allowed to think that. You have to accidentally find love on the date you’re going on to try and find the love of your life. Otherwise you’re just desperate and I can smell that from here – jeez.
* * *
I’m weirdly calm as I get ready in the cramped office bathroom. No matter how many first dates I’ve been on in my life (clue: a lot), they’ve never lost their nerve-wrackingness. I’ve never been able to overcome the sheer weirdness of sitting with a stranger, both of you trying to figure out if you’re capable of falling in love with one another. The instant judgements you both make, telling the same stories that you know go down well, but clearly not too well otherwise you wouldn’t still be going on dates. I’m not wearing my usual first-date outfit but instead what Gretel would wear to a first date.
He would want Gretel to look effortlessly amazing, which, of course, takes a shit load of effort. If Gretel was real, she’d just tumble into the date straight from work, her face glowing, and hair piled up – looking just as extraordinarily beautiful as she does when she wakes up next to you in the morning, probably with a blowjob or something. In man world, Gretel takes no longer than five minutes getting ready to look so pretty. But Gretel isn’t real. I am just playing her part. I’m pretty enough. I’ve been told by a few men, without asking, that objectively I’m beautiful (I refer to these compliments as ‘unforced errors’). But I’m not a model, and so it takes quite a lot of make-upping to achieve the desired Gretel look.
There’s a banging at the door just as I’m wiggling a mascara brush through my eyelashes. ‘Are you dead?’ Mike calls. ‘It would be a terrible shame if you were, especially as I really need the loo.’
I smirk. ‘Sorry, I’ll be right out.’ I scoop up the contents of my make-up bag and stuff it all back in. I’ve ‘only’ got on primer, light-reflecting foundation, eyelid brightener, mascara, a tiny smudge of eyeliner, blusher, highlighter, and a red lip stain to achieve Gretel’s natural beauty. I pull my jeans down, kicking off my Converse so I can yank them off over my feet. Then I shake off my blouse and bra, sniff my armpits to see how they’re holding up, and step into a strappy maxi dress. I lean on the door, because you can only unlock it if you get the angle completely right, and stumble out into the raised eyebrows of Mike.
‘You look nice,’ he comments, but not in a pervy way. He’s one of those extraordinary men who manage to exude absolutely no weird sex-vibes whatsoever. We were all surprised to learn he was, a) heterosexual, and b) married with children.
‘Thanks. How late you working?’
He pinches the top of his nose, while letting out a small sigh of exhaustion. ‘Hopefully not much longer. Though I’ve missed putting the children to bed. Again. Anyway, have a good night, I really do need to pee.’
I make my way back to my desk to collect my things. Still no nerves. I stuff what I can into my bag, and leave the bulk of my crap under my desk to take home tomorrow. I doubt