Pertinent stats: Pretty good job that’s actually like a man’s career (ooer!), bay area native (and would never leave! that’s what they all say), decent hobbies outside of work, TALL (obvs most important part)
Oh God, so beardy and so good. Decent covering but well maintained, nice mahogany color, YES PLEASE.
Date itinerary: Meet up for drinks at this cool speakeasy place in San Francisco called Tradition. (Note: All of the bars are cool speakeasies in San Francisco. San Francisco secretly lives in a time warp in which only the drinking establishments exist in a Prohibition-era-esque universe. It’s where all the cool cats go to score some hooch, don’t ya know, dollface.)
First impression: Hel-the fuck-lo, tall, cute and beardy, where have you been all my life? And dressed nicely in a blazer no less! Please don’t be a neo-Nazi, please don’t be a neo-Nazi.
Recap and highlights
Bar 1: What’s this? A man that can actually hold a conversation AND asks me questions? Have I found the bearded unicorn? What’s that now, you’re one of 7 kids? Irish, Catholic, or don’t believe in birth control? …This could be a problem at some point…
Bar 2: Jesus Christ, I love it when men talk Doris Kearns Goodwin to me. Panty-dropper! We bond over shared HAIM love, which leads to me feeling slightly cool (generally not an indicator of good things to come). He actually has a pretty great line that I’m going to use on someone some day.
Him: “On a scale of 1-10, how’s this date going?”
Me: “I’d say a 9.”
Him: “Why not a 10?”
Me: “10 makes me sound overeager!”
Him: “I’m buying you another drink, that’s the best answer I’ve ever heard.”
Danceclub: Why sure, I’ll go dancing with you! I’m the spontaneous fun girl you’ve always been looking for! Please be amused by my impression of Elaine from Seinfeld doing the Little Kicks, which isn’t exactly an impression, as these are literally my best moves. That is, until I discover my newfound comfort zone, called The Titty Thrust. It’s kind of where I just circle my arms and aggressively thrust my tits toward my date. (It’s sweeping the nation!) Seems to go over well as he grabs me and we start making out, hard, for the next…three hours or so until the DJ calls us out to please go get a room, no one needs to get pregnant on the dancefloor. (Or anytime on this date! Steer clear of me with that genetically potent wang, 3/7!)
At some point during our epic-as-the-siege-of-Troy makeout session, one of his good friends shows up and literally pries Beardy off my face in order to say hello. Then proceeds to awkwardly stand there watching us dry hump for a while, occasionally coming over to bring Beardy and me shots he’s bought for us. It’s 1am, I’m single, sure, indulge my exhibitionistic streak that I didn’t even know existed until this moment!
Price tag: Err, not even sure I want to contemplate that. Another piece of evidence for the San Francisco is secretly a bootlegger city trapped in time theory is the price tag of each individual cocktail– surely some part of this is illegal at this price! So my whiskey sours…I don’t know… $45? Which, I mean, isn’t dinner, but is a lot for two drinks. (Just kidding! It was three. Three drinks.) Definitely should’ve thrown a beej his way. Vaya con dios, Beardy McFuckMe!
Bottom line: Yeah, great date, definitely never hearing from this guy again because it’s possible that the whole “making out for three hours on the dance floor while I grind on your erection and then deciding at 2am it’s time for me to catch a taxi home– to Oakland, teehee” didn’t play so well. I watch a lot of SVU, ok? I know what happens when you go home with a handsome stranger on the first date! (Actually, I don’t, having never done it.) Sayonara, great beardy white whale, I hardly knew thee but days later I can still taste you in my mouth!