The Virgin makes a move

#26 Never Have I Ever: Approached/hit on a guy

Foreplay: So although I've had some mild success in dating recently, they've all resulted in lukewarm results. I don't necessarily mind jumping through proverbial social hoops because I always find it fun to talk to strangers (save for psychos, perverts, and outright skeezy motherfuckers). But there's just something disheartening when things don't work out and you find yourself wondering about the rate of his receding hairline on a date.

However, as much as it terrifies, I think putting myself out there helps build my confidence -- or at least forces to me ignore my anxiety in place of the adrenaline pounding through my veins.

The Down and Dirty: A bunch of us are celebrating a friend's birthday in Old Town Pasadena. We started off the night dancing at a club but now we've settled in at a kitschy-bordering-on-ghastly-tacky gastropub.

I was laughing with my table when my eyes swept across the bar and met with someone else's. Scruffily cute brunette with some indie rock influence. Oh, hello...

Flanked by two friends, he was making his way through the bar when we made eye contact -- the sort of silent connection that practically vibrates with the electricity pulsing between you two. Wow. He looked away but, fueled by unabashed curiosity and unfounded courage, I maintained my gaze. A second later he glanced back up at me and we engaged in what I could only eloquently describe as "eye fucking" before walking out of sight.

My hand shot out and ripped Kamikaze from her seat. "We're going for a drink. Now."

I snagged a Hoegaarden and we made a lap around the place when Eye Sex and friends came in from the other direction. Kamikaze and I stalled at the end of the bar, pretending to not so obviously be on the prowl. Eye Sex quickly looked over and loitered close by. Every now and then I'd glance over but that familiar heart-pounding, stutter-inducing, train wreck-causing anxiety was slowly seeping in. I was losing my nerve and had to turn away.

Kamikaze offered to take the lead but after Daywalker stole my thunder with Blackjacket, I wanted -- no, needed -- to prove that I had the gusto to make the first move, if only to myself. I wanted to be that girl.

Kamikaze: Okay. You need to make a move soon because he keeps looking over here and I have to awkwardly look away.

I had no idea what to say but I was positive that dawdling would only fluster me more. I convinced myself that my sharp tongue and lightening-speed wits would spring to action in this situation. Kamikaze sashayed past the group. I followed but stopped short next to Eye Sex.

Daily Virgin: Hi. What's your name?

That was the best I could come up with. Ugh...

BUT! It worked! He smiled and we started talking. Kamikaze and Eye Sex's friends all bowed out to leave us to our own devices. And you know what? I haven't had such an easy initial conversation in a loooooong time. Electricity like whoa.

Daily Virgin: I'm sorry, I'm usually not so bold but I thought you looked like an interesting person to talk to.
Eye Sex: Yeah, I noticed you earlier. And just right now my friends were trying to get me to leave but I kept telling them to wait a little bit longer.

He flashed a smile and nodded towards the end of the bar where Kamikaze and I loitered earlier. Um. SCORE. I seriously love it when two people feel the same connection and are sort of unashamed about it in that fuck-high-school-politics kind of way.

Eventually the last call lights were thrown on and Kamikaze ran over to tell me that our party was leaving but Eye Sex made no real move to say goodbye. After stalling for as long as I could, I told him I had to go lest I wanted a drunk, angry mob of friends dragging me out of here. At this, he whipped out his iPhone and I gave him my digits. He leaned in for a hug, saying how it was great to meet me, and I was more than happy to oblige.

The Afterglow: I may or may not have high-fived a friend when I met my party outside (Answer: I did). I was feeling like a freakin' baller from the adrenaline rush of it all.

While we stood on the corner waiting for the pedestrian light, Daywalker fastened herself to my side to grill me on Eye Sex. What's his name? What does he do? Jumping his bones any time soon?

I answered honestly yet offhandedly as I was absorbed in texting but couldn't wipe the smug smirk off my face. After all, there was totally something electric happening. As we swaggered across the street, some dude bumped into my other side.

"Oh, I'm sorry," facetiously chimed a familiar voice.

Oh no. No no no. A slow, agonizing turn of my head revealed Eye Sex nonchalantly sauntering next to me with an amused smile playing on his lips, "Oh hey, funny running into you out here," he jested.

So um, if he doesn't think I'm some sort of weird, gushing, name-demanding gawker of a girl, I'd be pretty content with a text or call from him. I didn't ask for his number so the ball is in his court.

Just when I think I'm mastering the art of seduction, the universe always finds a way to make me figuratively fall flat on my face. Note taken, asshole.

The Virgin meets a MANTHER

#20 Never Have I Ever: Gone a date with an [much] older man

Foreplay: Our society is so obsessed with gender roles and taboos in dating that the English language has 3 different terms for older women who pursue younger men. A puma is a late 20s to mid 30s woman. Cougar is from mid 30s to 40s. Arctic fox is for any woman past menopause.

But what about older men who date younger women? They’re so much more prevalent! Sugar daddy implies that he’s rich and silver fox is more common with the gay community. What about men who are middle class heterosexuals. Well, imagine my utter elation when I discovered the term manther:

The male version of a cougar; an older man who preys on younger women.

Would Blackjacket fit the criteria of a manter? According to the mathematical formula (x/2)+7=y where x represents your age, y yields the youngest age you can date that will be socially acceptable. I applied this formula to Blackjacket’s age and realized that I was a half year too young for his limit. By that right, our date was -- gasp! -- socially unacceptable. On a scale of Lolita to Woody Allen, I’d say we hit the Brangelina mark.

A bonafied manther!

The Down and Dirty: Alright, so I’ll be completely honest. Although I just knew Blackjacket was good looking, I didn’t quite remember certain aspects of him like, oh say, his face.

I made sure to arrive at the restaurant early and helped myself to a glass of red wine at the bar. I texted to let him know I was here and then busted out a book to occupy my attention -- ‘cause then he would have to get my attention when he arrives. And success! He spots me -- and he’s definitely not a troll! Double success!

Dinner conversation ambled along awkwardly as most do on first dates. He grew up in the South (which may explain his etiquette) but lived in New York for a stint. He pursued theater which is the most useless degree ever (his words, not mine). He’s currently a writer, actor, and stand-up comedian.

“Then why aren’t I laughing right now?” would’ve been my reply had I not been sober and in check of my verbal diarrhea.

Although the conversation ebbed and flowed without much trouble, I can’t say that there was anything special to it. I felt like I carried most of the discussion -- asking questions, commenting on current media, poorly attempting jokes during the occasional lulls. I don’t know if he was nervous and closed off or just one big unfunny snorefest . I didn’t feel like myself either; I was some excessively perky alter ego who spoke in a tinkling voice -- just to compensate for his lack of zeal.

While waiting in line at the improv theater, I reached into my purse in search of a mint but came out with the Magic Date Ball. At his amused curiosity, I explained how I let the toy become my own personal Rasputin for a day. He laughed but in that oh-my-god-you’re-actually-serious sort of way. Judgment aplenty!

The show was entertaining. We laughed accordingly. I may have snorted at one point. Usually after, I head straight to Birds with my companion(s) in tow for a nightcap but I recalled his sobriety the night we met and his lack of alcohol during dinner. It’d be a lost cause and wasted boozin’.

Just shy of 3 hours into our date, we decided to call it a night and he asked to walk me home. Maybe he got more comfortable or maybe it was because time was running out, but our conversation took an upbeat turn as we sauntered down the street. I argued that The Knife’s live version of “Heartbeats” was better than Jose Gonzalez’s cover. He made fun of my love of The Smiths and Depeche Mode.

When we reached my apartment complex, we talked for a while more as I stood on the steps. Finally, he announced the standard, “I had a great time. We should do it again,” tag line. I struggled to keep my eyes from rolling but politely agreed.

And then he reached in for a hug. Or what I thought was a hug. Until his face was like RIGHT THERE but it was already too late -- my face was aiming for the welcoming crook of his neck and he ended up planting a kiss on my cheek. In my embarrassed haste, I pulled back from his shoulder and brushed my lips against his stubble like a sloppy Italian mother.

It was a mess. I’ve never kissed on a first date before and didn’t expect to this time judging from the lukewarm interaction. We parted ways after saying goodbye, he to his car parked a mile away and me scampering to my door all the while stifling a groan.

The Afterglow: Okay, it wasn’t outright awful but I was probably expecting too much -- like, when you say you’re a comedian, I expect to laugh. Yeah, definitely set the bars too high there, buddy.

I'm left feeling somewhat unfulfilled after the date. Don't get me wrong, it wasn't bad -- it just wasn't anything special either. I didn't come away thinking he was a great conversationalist or appreciating his humor. I didn't even get a blog-worthy make out session out of it! He's 31 -- there should be NO room for error when you have a decade of practice on me!

There really isn’t much of a difference between going out with a 31 year old than a 21 year old as far as I can tell. I mean, your average 21 year old would probably know what Yelp is and wouldn’t proclaim that they’re past prime for Coachella. Who knows if age factored into his unnecessary stoicism. I’ve met some rather depressing 20-somethings in my life.

Every now and then I would wonder, “What kind of 31 year old is okay dating a 22 year old?” But then again -- age is just a number (until it can get your ass put in the slammer).

Who knows if he was serious about going out again. To be quite honest, I wouldn’t be too upset if I never heard from him after this. Sure, he was total eye candy but my brain is pretty pissed off at the lack of stimulation right now. If he wants to see me again, he’s more than welcomed to contact me.

Otherwise, I’ll release him back to the wild and hunt me down another manther.

P.S. Manther is now officially injected into my everyday vocabulary. I may have to start non sequitur discussions just to throw out that word.

The Virgin is a smooth operator

#19 Never Have I Ever: Asked a guy out on a date

Foreplay: If you haven't gotten the memo already, I'm a coward. A chicken, a scaredy cat, a dastardly recreant -- you name it and I'll meekly nod and peep, "Can I have more, sir?"

I'm so terrified of rejection and criticism that I'd rather not try at all. I tremble just thinking about being in the spotlight or in front of an audience. I have such severe secondhand embarrassment that I've walked out of the room while watching Friends on multiple occasions.

The Down and Dirty: I fretted all day just thinking about texting Blackjacket. Eventually I consulted a tribal council of 3 male coworkers on the perfect message. But first, they had to reassure me that yes, he was interested; and yes, I should make a move; and yes, you might as well call me Jacque Lacan by the way was over analyzing the situation.

So before leaving the office to go grocery shopping, I sent one sentence referencing our prior Oscar conversation. Less than 10 minutes later he sent a cheerful reply and question.

Now, I probably shouldn't have even been reading my texts while driving in the first place so I thought it better to reply when I parked. But with it being Hollywood and all, I didn't get to the grocery store that was 2 miles down the street until 20 minutes later. I sent a riposte. Nothing. Oh no... self doubt started to set in.

It'd been 45 minutes since my last text and I decided it was now or never. I sent a message asking him to a show at the Upright Citizens Brigade. And waited. FOR 14 HOURS. Do you know what kind of aneurysm that gives a girl?!

I kept checking my phone for some sort of response -- whether it was high-five inducing or a flat out rejection. One hour passed. Then two. Four... It was now almost 1:00am and I highly doubted I'd get anything. Sigh.

I'd be lying if I said I wasn't totally bummed out. Perhaps this was just karma coming to bite me in the ass for all the times I've ignored text messages from blitzed encounters from the night before and labeled them in my phone as "So-and-so - IGNORE" or "What'shisface - DO NOT ANSWER".

The next day I went about my morning before work as usual, determined to push this ego-wrecking experience behind me, when suddenly -- beep-beep -- a text! Apparently his phone had died the night before while out but yes, he'd love to catch a show! My deflated ego had huffed and puffed and grew to Grinch-heart proportions; I asked if he'd like to grab dinner beforehand. Of course! He'd call me later tonight.

Um. Come again? ...Call...?! What ever happened to the comfortable safety net of text messaging we had going on?! What about that?!

But you know... maybe it's because he's from an older generation or because he's a gentleman, but I was actually alarmingly charmed that he'd rather call to set up our date rather than text. Absolutely pee-a-little-in-my-pants petrified, but charmed nonetheless.

That night he called as he said he would. The conversation went as well as any awkward date arrangement could go. But uh... perhaps my memory is lacking but I guess I didn't realize how much... rustic... he sounded before.

The Afterglow: I would love to say that I'm so super confident now that I have it in mind to march into a room in crusty sweatpants and demand a drink from the most eligible bachelor there. But unfortunately (or fortunately considering that scenario), my self-esteem is still humbly low for the most part.

While settling on a restaurant, I felt the need to blurt out that I was vegetarian this week -- for my blog. He paused and then chuckled. I continued to ramble about being vegan the week after -- also for my blog. He laughed less enthusiastically. I'm seriously praying that he thinks I'm cute and quirky rather than full-fledged bat-shit insane because dude, that's a really thin line.

I'm still a coward but now I'm a coward with a date! So hah!

The Virgin grows a ball

#18 Never Have I Ever: Let a Magic 8 Ball make my decisions

Foreplay: I wasn't expecting to do this particular D.V. task today but it was apparent when I found myself badgering Whiskey Sour about Blackjacket.

I had texted Blackjacket a noncommittal message the day after thanking him for helping me cross something off my list, not expecting a response. But less than 5 minutes later he answered: Of course! We'll have to work on some other things on that list. Dude, he used an exclamation point! Just like this one! My god, just look at it!

I responded with something aggressively witty. He dorkily LOLed. The conversation eventually died off soon after he suggested we get together another time to discuss the Oscars. But OMG!

I told myself I'd hold out until Wednesday to contact him again but I've never been one for patience. And if I was going to concede, I might as well go all in and ask him out, right? I incessantly pestered Whiskey Sour all morning. Is it too soon to text him today? What time should I do it? What's a good date idea? Oh god, am I putting too much thought behind this? Will he think I'm crazy?!

"Alright," Whiskey Sour sighed, "Now I understand why guys do the asking. Girls are way too analytical."

The Down and Dirty: In my time of need, I turned to the Magic 8 Ball. Alright, so it isn't an official Magic 8 Ball if you want to get technical about it.

I'm sort of embarrassed to use it, not because I'm letting a toy make my decisions, but because it's a Magic Date Ball. I'm not even fucking kidding. It's pink with "Date Ball" swirled across the top and comes equipped with valley-girl accented answers. It'll do only because I found it at work and am not willing to shell out money for this experiment.

As I gave it a hearty shake, I asked the appropriately named Date Ball, "Should I ask Blackjacket out today?"

It coyly responded with: I'm cool with that! ♥

Yes, with heart and all. Oh Jesus. It was like asking for words of wisdom from a Hooter's waitress. Maybe trusting a pink ball filled with glitter wasn't the best idea after all.

But then my coworker asked what I was doing shaking the ball so violently. I explained and he said I shouldn't base my life off of an inanimate object. I reminded him that he was the one who inspired this D.V. task.

"Why did I do that?" he asked while giving the ball a good rattle.

"That wasn't a yes or no question."

"I know. I just wanted to show you how -- Whoa!" I peered into the dark abyss of answers: No question! ♥

"Dude! It knew that wasn't a question! This Magic 8 Ball is omnipotent!"

For the rest of the day I got it to perkily answer a medley of questions such as: Is 6:24 a good time to text Blackjacket [sidebar: I'm neurotic with numbers, ok!]? (♥ It's lookin' good!) Should I eat these chips? (Sounds good to me! ♥) Should I go for a run after work? (Yeah, right!)

Man, this ball is good.


The Afterglow: This was actually a really fun experiment. It helped take a load of my mind and showed me that I tend to over-analyze most situations -- or just that I feel more confident making decisions when I can blame something/someone else. But I'll go with the more mature answer in this case.

The Virgin gets yo numba

#17 Never Have I Ever: Asked for a guy's number

Foreplay: Alright, so I'll be honest here. Part of the reason I started this blog was so that I could grow a pair when going out and meeting people. I was in a fantastic relationship for almost 3 years and when we amicably split, I simply forgot how to be single. And by "forgot how to be single" I really mean that I lack any sort of social grace when it comes to engaging with attractive strangers. What, Jesus jokes aren't appropriate?

I was self-deprecatingly ranting to Whiskey Sour on one occasion like I so often do: Why can't I be more confident when I go out? I'd like to be able to walk up to a guy and strike up a conversation. But what if he doesn't think I'm attractive or interesting? How about if I get rejected?! I was practically hyperventilating by this point.

But Whiskey Sour put things in a very blunt perspective as he so often does: Look, if a girl hits on a guy at a bar and she's cute, then that's great. If he doesn't find her attractive, then she's still a cool girl. Either way, he'll think she's awesome for having the balls to do that. 'Cause c'mon -- how often are we hit on?

That makes sense. But then a lot of things sound reasonable before they're put to the test... like girdles and lobotomies.

The Down and Dirty: It's a rain-soaked Saturday night in Hollywood but Kamikaze, Gemini, Daywalker, and I decide to brave the weather for a preposterous version of a girls' night out at my favorite neighborhood bar, The Woods. A table of four ladies seems like an impenetrable fortress of ego bruising so we were determined to take matters into our own hands.

A pair strolled through the door that caught my attention as they took their seats at the bar. My eyes passed right by the young Seth Rogan look alike and landed on his companion in a stylish black jacket. Now, I wouldn't say I have a type -- more like characteristics I favor over others. Tall, brunette, clean cut, a devastatingly defined jaw line... guh -- don't know what his type was but I was favoring it hardcore.

Daywalker relentlessly insisted that I march up to Blackjacket and charm his pants off but he was far too cute to even be talking to me and I wasn't on my game that night. Was this guy out of my league? Yes. Was I going to let that stop me? ...possibly. It wasn't like me to go up and -- hey, uh... where did Daywalker go?

I scanned the bar to find her chatting up Blackjacket. Oh god. A cold prickly sensation washed over me. What is she doing?! Don't tell me she's talking to him on my behalf! Oh god, he's coming over. I pretended to be intensely interested in whatever Kamikaze had to say as I downed the rest of my glass.

"Hi," I peered up with my best please-don't-think-I'm-some-hideous-nervous-wreck half-smile as Blackjacket and friend stood at our table, "I'm Blackjacket."

We all introduced ourselves before Blackjacket slid into the seat next to me and struck up a conversation. I was impressed by his cognizant rejection of religion. He knew his Oscar trivia and favored Katherine Bigelow. AND when I quipped that I loved the song that was playing he responded with, "Oh yeah, 'Crown of Love'. Arcade Fire's great." Um. Swoooooon.

But dudes -- when I said that I wasn't on game that night, I wasn't kidding. He mentioned that he was here for his friend's 31st birthday. I said that was a... respectable age and then asked how old he was.

"A respectable age."

Oh. Damn it.

My embarrassment finally subsided as the alcohol rushed through my veins like adrenaline, making me uh, bolder than usual. I made him list his favorite bands under a time limit. I interrogated him about Portuguese sex talk after learning he had lived in Brazil. I might have even ranted too... passionately about my bout with the psychic. I had finished an entire drink during the course of our initial conversation when I noticed that he not touched his at all. "So what are you having tonight?"

"Oh, I'm the DD. I'm not drinking."

Wait. So he's been stone cold sober this whole time that I've practically been making an ass of myself? Fueled by what was left of my liquid courage and my desperation to save face, I tried bullying him into getting a drink and even offered to buy him one. No dice. Ouch, my poor ego.

Blackjacket excused himself to answer a call and I went to grab another drink but when I returned to the table, he was talking to a friend at the bar. Bummer. I sighed and resigned myself to the fact that the intoxicated girl who asked how to correctly say, "I'm coming" in Portuguese probably wasn't his type. By the way, I just cringed hardcore while typing that sentence. 'scuse me while I go die a little in the corner.

Just as Gemini handed me another drink, I heard a familiar voice ask, "So what's that you're drinking now?"

Blackjacket had sauntered back and we resumed talking as if we had never stopped. Conversation was in full swing when I pulled the biggest blogging taboo ever: I told him the premise of my blog and showed him my D.V. task list on my Droid. As we strolled through my list I innocently asked, "Hmm... so what can you help me cross off tonight?"

After scanning the page for a few moments, he silently and deliberately pointed to my screen:

• Ask for a guy's number

I nervously scoffed. He didn't laugh. I snorted back the rest of my Screwdriver. "Alright. So what's your number?"

The Afterglow: Holy shit, I did it! I asked for a guy's number! And not just any guy but a devastatingly cute guy.

I'm still petrified of rejection and am currently trying to convince myself that he wouldn't have given me his number if he wasn't interested. But this is what this blog is partly about: to not fear failure or rejection and to take action. If I text him and he doesn't respond, it's okay. He was nice enough to hang out with me for a good portion of the night and helped me cross something off my list. And if he does... I'm probably going to burst with giddiness.

The night ended up being a complete success for our intrepid group. Daywalker, the only one of us with a significant other, managed to attract a steady stream of admirers despite announcing her relationship status. A friendly fellow offered to buy Gemini a drink but she asked him if she could buy him one; his mind was totally blown.

Kamikaze, my favorite partner in crime, eyed a spectacular specimen but two girls engaged him before she could get a chance to make a move. She stewed in regret until she saw the girls walking away. She immediately sashayed over to him, "Hey, do you come here often?"

They immediately hit it off. Kamikaze admitted five minutes later, "Actually, I just wanted an excuse to talk to you." He laughed and told her he had been hoping she would come over.

I've got to hand it to Whiskey Sour. Ladies, take risks! I'm not saying to go get a girdle or lobotomy rather than to not fear rejection. After all, I'm sure men love to be hit on by women with curves and a brain.

The Virgin will make you her bitch

#16 Never Have I Ever: Been propositioned

Foreplay: First of all, I'd like to make it clear that I have NEVER wanted to be propositioned. Sure, I've joked about it a plethora of times, you know: College tuition is costing a freakin' fortune. Well, time to turn some tricks. Maybe even be a mail order bride (this statement was usually followed by the response of "Uh... we're already in America, dude").

But going with my set parameters, this was just a spontaneous experience I just couldn't not include.

The Down and Dirty: We're gathered at Speed Racer's abode in celebration of Hezekiah's brief visit to L.A. I don't know half the party but the free flowing booze quickly fixed that. A group of Speed Racer's hometown friends were in attendance and they seemed like generally awesome guys. One fed me drinks for most of the night. Another got low with me during a Flo Rida song. There was even a guy who looked exactly like Chris Martin from Coldplay. After a homoerotic dance party, an epic game of King's Cup, and taking shots of Deep Throat sans hands, the 10 or so of us settled down for a movie in Speed Racer's home theater.

During the movie I originally sat next to the makeshift bartender but when he went to grab a drink his seat was quickly swooped by another attendee who I will refer to as Skeezy Motherfucker from here on out -- you'll understand that moniker very soon. Now, Skeezy Motherfucker and I had been distantly cordial all night; he was a dry humor type and I was drawn to his more comical counterparts. So I thought it was odd but not out of bounds for drunk behavior when he started leaning over his seat to show me innocuous text messages he was going to send to his girlfriend during the movie.

That is until he slowly and deliberately typed out a text and glanced at me a few times before leaning over to let me read the screen. Meet me outside

Do you know the saying "to wear your heart of your sleeve"? Well, I wear my emotions on my face. And I'm pretty sure my face conveyed a convincing feeling of ?!

He gave me a pointed look with his bleary eyes and nudged my arm suggestively. All I could do was frantically shake my head and excuse myself to bathroom to collect my thoughts. Who the hell does this guy think he is? Who the hell does he think I am?! Okay, I thought, maybe he's drunker than I thought or maybe this is just a joke.

I washed my hands, flicked off the light, and exited the bathroom. But something didn't feel right. While my eyes were adjusting in the pitch dark hallway, I felt like someone's presence. "Hey," came a deep voice 6 inches to my left.

GAH!! I wanted to tell him that I wasn't interested or to get away from me or to insult his style of seduction but nothing I could say could have stopped the onslaught of what-the-fuckery that was about to spew from his mouth.

"Can I kiss your feet?"

Um. Excuse me? But there was no hesitation in his question.

"You're very beautiful and I just want to kiss your feet."

WHAT. As I stood there dumbstruck by his request, he grabbed my hand and pulled me into the nearest room. At this point, I was ready to scream bloody murder and deliver a swift kick to his manly region but he sat down on the floor and gestured at a nearby seat. I gingerly perched on the edge of the bed, prepared to bolt if necessary.

"Can I please kiss your feet? And could you be mean to me while I do it?" Before I could stammer out an answer or even quirk a judgmental eyebrow, he reached for my foot and placed a chaste kiss on it. GAAAAAHHHHH!!

I recoiled in pure shock and all but ran back to the home theater. I began chugging water in an effort to sober up and get the fuck out of there. This was probably one of the handful of times I've ever regretted my last drink.

Skeezy Motherfucker slinked back to the room. Oh, maybe he's embarrassed and we can pretend that never happened. But no. Dude kept looking at me -- not sly, sideways glances but bonafide lean-over-his-seat-and-into-mine-full-on-stare-for-30-seconds-at-a-time looking. I wondered if it would be a party foul to scream, "Dude, get the fuck away from me!" in the middle of the movie.

He then poked my arm and leaned over to whisper, "Can I pay you to beat me?"

This emoticon best describes my face at the time: o_O

At that point his girlfriend called and after quietly chatting for a minute, he passed it off to my dance partner who happened to be her flatmate. As soon as the phone left his hand, he was back at my side, whispering dirty nonsense in my ear. Skeezy Motherfucker was growing increasingly desperate. Name your price. I just really want you to beat me. Seriously, I'll pay you.

Finally, Speed Racer turned around at all the whispering. I mouthed SAVE ME and he quirked an eyebrow but quickly gestured for me to follow him. He locked us in his bedroom and only then did I let out a strangled scream of horror.

The Afterglow: I cried sanctuary in Speed Racer's bedroom for a good 15 minutes, ranting about my potential career as a dominatrix, before feeling safe enough to venture back outside. We discovered Skeezy Motherfucker passed out on a couch, snoring like a storm was coming. Having sobered up, I hightailed it out of there while I still had a chance.

Part of me wishes I would've handled it differently but I honestly wonder what else could I have said.

Yes, I want to kick you in the balls but I'm afraid you'll like it.

The Virgin apparently does not look like a troll

#10 Never Have I Ever: Joined an online dating site

Foreplay: I'm convinced online dating is suited for: weirdos, pedos, perverts, hermits, freaks, losers, emotional train wrecks, and the occasional attention whore with self-esteem issues.

Sure, there are perfectly decent people out there in cyberland (just like there are perfectly decent people in prison) who simply don't have time to date in the real world but c'mon! Like I commented to my brother on the practice of matchmaking in China: If you can't find a mate in a country with 1.3 billion people, you've got problems, man.

I had met my last two serious boyfriends spontaneously and severely -- the sort of encounter where you just knew that you were meant to know this person in one way or another. In addition, I have great anecdotes to share about the respective original exchanges: I pushed one former flame in front of an oncoming bus but pulled him back to safety in the nick of time; I accidentally grabbed the other's man parts within hours of our initial handshake when he was still a minor at 17 (don't call Chris Hansen just yet; he became legal 5 days later and I was exactly one year older).

I wouldn't trade those memories for all the Warcraft experience points in the whole world wide web. Although I would never label myself a romantic, I'm a firm believer that chemistry is important and if you don't feel butterflies the first time 'round they're not going to come out of left field.

Laden with stories like that, I simply don't do online dating.

The Down and Dirty: So then why the hell did I decide to join an online dating site?! The short answer: Because I'm a glutton for pain.

The long answer: Because I read an article last month about a popular online dating website that had expelled members for holiday weight gain. BeautifulPeople.com is an exclusive community where members of the opposite gender vote whether or not candidates are "beautiful" enough to join the site based on their photos.

The masochist in me was practically writhing for a proper thrashing. I just couldn't not do it. It's like trying to drunkenly break into a zoo -- you know you're in for a world of pain but damn it'd be a blast if you could just make it past the tigers!

I established a profile and uploaded a nice albeit boring photo of myself. Yes, my lips curl skyward but Tyra would chastise me for not smiling with my eyes. I chalk it up to my lack of photogenicness (...that's not a word, is it?). Personally, I prefer quirky pictures of myself, ya know the ones where I'm making faces next to a bust of Bill Cosby or posing romantically with a Harlan's ground sloth.

Then I waited for the 48 grueling rating hours. It was absolutely torturous. Keeping my mind occupied wasn't working as I must have checked on my ratings every few hours. I'm a total coward when it comes to rejection but my crippling case of train wreck syndrome kept me coming back for more. I tried not to take it personally but dayum -- the internet is some serious butthurt business.

But lo and behold...

BeautifulPeople Network is pleased to inform you that the majority of members on BeautifulPeople.com found your application very attractive and granted you membership. Welcome to the BeautifulPeople community!

Well, great! I've been deemed not ugly enough by random dudes from all over the world that joined a site catered to narcissists who feed off approval from the opposite sex. Greeeaaaat.... After all the hoopla I might as well peruse the joint, right? I browsed the profiles on the site as one would poke around a dark, exclusive night club.

Hmm... didn't know receding hairlines were so common. Are ab shots a prerequisite? Wow, those are some bad nose jobs. Oh, well that's an interesting -- DEAR GOD! I guess they don't take their domain name that seriously after all...

The Afterglow: The concept of BeautifulPeople is one big circle jerk. A kinda-sorta-ish pretty one, but a circle jerk nonetheless. So far it's much less offensive than other dating sites but then again I have nothing of which to base it. Most of the comments are about how "nice" or "cute" another member's picture is. Their info sections are rarely referenced in emoticon-charged comments. And some random dude -- who I'm almost positive misspelled his own name -- just "kissed" me. I'll be damned if I know what that's supposed to entail.

This simply cannot be the future of dating. Feeling a warm, tingly sensation in your nether regions when you click on a profile picture does not equate to chemistry. An online profile is an overwrought, hyper-real representation. What good is a false sense of superficial utopia?

Why not log off, go out, and find something real? Yeah, it may be demanding but that's what life and love are -- hard. Life isn't effortless and if it is, then you're not living it.

Also, do you really want to one day relay a budding relationship in terms of, "Oh, it's a funny story! We both rated each other 9.5! Can you believe it? It was totally meant to be!"?

Me neither.