3.5 out of 4 women agree that I’m undatable
In the past few months, I’ve gone out on first dates with four women. Of those four, one vanished into the ether, and two implicitly instructed me never to contact them again. And one, who has since reunited with her true love, has remained in touch with me via the interweb, but I haven’t laid eyes on her since January. Probably because she was recently almost stabbed on the T at Copley Station, and I left an unsympathetic comment on her blog comparing myself to her blade-wielding attacker and mocking her pee-in-pants-worthy ordeal. As if she needed yet another reason to be wary of me.
Without further ado, here’s a closer look in chronological order at my losing streak:
1. THE LAWYER
Location: 1369 coffeehouse in Central Square.
Last words: When I logged into my e-mail the next day, she sent me this message: “I’m sorry if this is overly honest and I really don’t want to be mean. I think you’re pretty cool, just something is telling me no right now.”
Lesson: Although over the course of more than two hours she drank two pots of tea, I learned that thirst cannot be equated with interest. She simply was severely dehydrated. And I heroically and selflessly saved her. You’re welcome, lawyer.
2. WAFFLE WOMAN
Location: Newtowne Grille in Porter Square.
Last words: None. I sent her a follow-up e-mail wishing her a happy New Year. She never responded, then promptly blocked me from Gchat.
Lesson: Someone may send you a (G-rated) picture of herself posing with breakfast food, but a love connection it does not guarantee. Although it should. Because, obviously, breakfast food is awesome.
3. THE POET
Location: Burdick in Harvard Square.
Last words: Non-applicable. We’ve kept in close contact. She tells me the nitty-gritty about the “animal sex” she’s having with her boyfriend, who sent her an orchid the day before she and I met and came back to her by way of Brazil and Calcutta, and I started a blog to impress her. I’m counting her as a fraction of a rejection. As if she were black, circa 1787. But instead of three-fifths of a person, she’s one-half. Because although we’ve made strides in post-racial America, we still have a long way to go. Also, I’m bad at math. Also, I should probably clarify, she’s not black. Please don’t send me hate mail. I’m secure enough in my whiteness to support blacks being counted as 100 percent of a person. You can quote me on that.
Lesson: I didn’t care for orchids when my ultra-masculine brother started tending to them in his tween years, and I extremely dislike them now. Also, I’m not a racist. Unless you’re referring to my unfounded and irrational bias against Asians. And, of course, orchids thrive throughout tropical Asia. Thanks a lot, Asia.
4. THE FARMER
Location: The organic farm where she works and lives.
Last words: After not hearing from her for more than a month, she sent me an e-mail the other day telling me she has reinjured her back. “I think that I have to take a raincheck on any future plans for the next few months,” she wrote. “I hope to touch base with you sometime in the future! But, for now, it was great to meet you, and I hope that your spring is a lovely one.”
Lesson: It’s not the season for love. In addition, try not to let on during a first meeting that you enjoy spine-snapping screwing. That’s more of a second-date discussion. Because when weak-backed laypeople learn of your bedroom acrobatics, they fear they can’t compete with your sexual superiority.
Well, that’s that. It’s unclear at this juncture who will be my unlucky No. 5, but I’m now accepting invitations. Plus, my co-worker Bob just adopted a dog from a lady legal-eagle in Medford, and he shared with me his sneaking suspicion she’s into girls because she “dresses like a homeless person.” Indeed, observant Bob, that is a sure sign of harboring Sapphic desires. And to that I say: bring her on – unless she bears a resemblance to my ex-Filipino friend who was mean to me in high school and turned me against an entire continent, its inhabitants and now, apparently, its flora, too.