Hurry Up and Date

It was seven o’clock on a Wednesday night, and I was crouching alone in the corner of an unknown bar with a glass of vodka. The scene would have been familiar if not for the 11 middle-aged men patiently waiting for their chance to date me.

“There’s a slight problem…” my host Joe had begun. Joe works for HurryDate, which represents the pinnacle of serial-dating technology, combining the convenience of internet dating with the rush of speed dating. But as Joe informed me, five women in our group were MIA, leaving only five of us gals to “entertain the troops.” “It makes your company even more sought after,” said Joe.

There is nothing sexier than being thrust sober into a pack of divorcés and told that if nothing else, you are desirable by default. “Can I get you another drink before we begin?” Joe asked.

“Please.”

According to the company’s website, HurryDate Cuts to the Chase™ by bypassing all of the preliminary get-to-know-you bullshit that cripples most first dates. Instead HurryDaters begin by filling out online profiles advertising their assets, then pay $35 to mingle in a bar. Thanks to the personal profiles, by the time you sit down for your five-minute dates, your partners know that your eyes are green, you make $40,000 dollars a year, and you only smoke when you’re on fire.

So I joined the HurryDate family and began harvesting my profile. Because I am new to the industry, I relied heavily on the guidance of other women’s profiles to create my own. As I learned from TrixyVixen, NiceGurl, and Girlpimp8484, it is impossible to push your flesh on the virtual meat market without the appropriate screen name. This name must reveal something about your True Self that future soul mates can’t infer from your photos or profile alone. It’s more than a name; it’s a formula. Destined4gr8ness might look as if she chews gum to hold her head together, but obviously she’s got some hidden talent (possibly involving numbers?) that her professed passion for Hello Kitty does not immediately convey.

I became “Nakedanddamned” because I have problems with intimacy and yet, ironically, look really good without my clothes on. Joe returned with my drink, then stepped before our gathered crowd to outline the rules for the evening. I would have five minutes with each man, and just like in real life, I could ask them anything I wanted—only this time I’d be paying $35 dollars to do so. When our time together was up, I would turn to my scorecard, circling a “yes” or “no” next to each man’s number, depending on whether or not I wanted to see him again. “If two people choose ‘yes,’ then we have a match, and you’ll each be notified,” said Joe. “Now let’s get dating!” For the first and probably last time in my life, men began lining up to claim their turn with me.

My first date was with #26 (Roger or something). I was curious to see how five minutes felt in terms of a “first date.” Five minutes isn’t a full conversation, it’s not even the span of most commercial breaks. How can you possibly assess another person in a mere five minutes?

“Hello #26,” I started out gentle, “What do you do for a living?”

“I work for a radio station. I’m a news writer. What about you?”

“What a coincidence! I freelance for The Stranger.” I noticed that Erik was staring at my scorecard.

“Have you already circled ‘yes’ next to everyone’s number?”

“I’m an optimist. And a Virgo. How about you?”

Our conversation lasted approximately 43 seconds. The date dragged on for another four minutes.

Next I dated the drummer in a Dave Matthews cover band. “What kind of music are you interested in?” I asked.

“Dave Matthews,” he reiterated. “Why do you have a cheese grater in your purse?”

“I left it at work one day. And it’s more effective than a rape horn.”

Know what? Rape jokes don’t work on first dates. Live and learn.

“It’s really not for rape, it’s for cheese.”

On that note, our date came to an end.

It was while I was dating a Christian divorcé that I realized my dates weren’t just closer to my father’s age than my own—they were my father’s age. Worse, most of them possessed the oratory skills of my teenage brother.

“What is your favorite flavor of ice cream and why?” #33 asked me.

“First tell me this,” I answered. “When was the last time you really cried?”

Fifty minutes later I was considering taking my cheese grater to my nipples rather than suffer through another date. A man slid into the chair next to me. His name was #35, and he was my last date of the evening. “You’re young,” he said immediately. “I like that.” Then he flexed. I asked him how many pushups he could do in under a minute. “Probably 50,” he said. “Hey, I like you. I’m going to put a star next to you so I remember you when I’m sober.”

I watched as he opened his scorecard and scrawled a big star next to my number. It looked like there was a picture of cock and balls next to the woman above me.

“Sorry,” he continued. “I’ve had a little to drink. My office Christmas party was tonight, but I left it to come here. Everyone was like, ‘Have fun with the fatties,’ but you know something? You’re not fat.”

I think I might have blushed.

“What a pretty smile,” he muttered. “A pretty smile for a pretty gal. Hey, do you want to arm wrestle?”

Joe blew the whistle and the evening was finally over. I left the party and trotted home. As I’d given a “yes” to everyone at the start of the evening, my side of the deal was done. To my surprise, 5 out of 11 men expressed interest in seeing me again—the Christian divorcé, a writer, a software engineer and his boss, and Mr. Cock and Balls.

In order to test their devotion to me and our union, I have invited a few of these men to accompany me on my next Our Worst Enemy™ assignment—a night at the Seattle Men’s Chorus Christmas concert. It is guaranteed to be the gayest event of the season. Love hurts. Will these men suffer? Stay tuned.