Pitfalls of Internet Dating or: How I Didn't Meet Your Mother; Part Three: The Date

Welcome to ShavedGolf StoryTime's first mini-series entitled Pitfalls of Internet Dating or: How I Didn't Meet Your Mother. The three part series is dedicated to the abysmally depressing world of cyber-arranged relationships.

Disclaimer: While I do not consider myself a professional in the sport of eHarmony creeping, I am sexually frustrated enough to blog about it. Keep in mind this mini-series is written by a man - any woman that disagrees with what is written beyond this disclaimer can grow a dick.

Part Three: The Date

Impressive. Most impressive.

Like a spider building a web, you masterfully constructed a cunning profile designed to ensnare all the single ladies (Part One: The Profile).

Like a venus flytrap luring its prey with a sickly sweet scent, you whispered sweet nothings via messages to the defenseless vixen (Part Two: Messaging).

Now, in Part Three, the most delicate of tasks is presented: like a caveman picking a cavewife and dragging her back to his cavehome to make cavelove, you must deceptively convince the saucy wench of your legitimacy face to face, drag her back to your mancave, and make manlove.

The date is not a foreign concept unless you're you. Unfortunately, you are you. Rusty and out of practice. Clueless on what to wear. Baffled by appropriate game time performance and a terrible conversationalist.

Added to the stacked odds is your inability to decide where to put your hands.

If you could just hold your hands down at your side, we'll begin.

Tackling the first obstacle, the rust and recent inexperience on dates, is as easy as stopping in at the neighborhood bodega. Snatch the frostiest forty because you're going to prefunc. Following the chugalug, I recommend some mouthwash...you smell like malt liquor.

There are fine lines between buzzed, tipsy, drunk, and shit-your-pants blackout drunk. If you're anything past buzzed, that suspicious gentlewoman across the table will detect it, be offended that you didn't share, and cut the date short. Don't test her.

Moving on to the inadequacy that is your fashion sense. The attire for the evening will depend on the woman and the venue. When charming a high-maintenance, classy creature at a fancy affair, suit up. When entertaining a gal in her early twenties at a college dive, pop the polo collar. When hanging with a smelly hipster chick at the vegan bar, wear skinny jeans and don't shower for a week.

Game time performance will already be improved with confidence provided by the liquid courage and appropriately chosen threads, but that alone will not do. First dates are interviews. This is a test. An opportunity for the lady to sniff out the lies and pin down the creeps. Don't let her get the chance.

Any interrogation of your interests and hobbies is merely a scan to detect anomalies in your story, so turn the questions on her. With every answer provided, ask another thoughtful query related to the details she gave. This will take plenty of concentration because her details are trivial, she's a terrible story teller, and you're distracted by what appears to be some portion of the appetizer stuck in her teeth.

Rapid fire questions will inevitably lead the girl to gush about herself. Perfect. Now you can zone out for ten to twenty minutes.

Once awake from conversation hibernation, pay the tab, and leave.

Rinse and repeat this formula until you grow a pair and ask her up to the bachelor pad for a Netflix night and cheap bottle of wine. Then make her a woman.

Some thought you'd fail the profile. Many thought you'd flunk the messaging. Most thought you'd flop on the date. But congratulations, because despite all the atrocious qualities and disgusting traits that make you, you, you actually made it through.

Now get out there, message, date, and wrap your tool.

xoxo,
ShavedGolf