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I recently went on a date with a gentleman who was outside my usual realm of Brads. At the encouragement of my friends, I’ve recently been trying to break out of my typical pattern where I only go out with men who resemble thumbs since it clearly isn’t working for me. I was swiping through Bumble, forcing myself to step outside my little box of inverse triangle-shaped clean shaven men and I found… let’s call him Chad.
Chad’s profile let me know that he was good looking, my age, very well dressed, worked on the Hill, and sported a full but carefully groomed beard. I’m going to get hate for this and I know it, but I will normally swipe a hard left on anyone working on the Hill or with a beard that extends past what could be described as “scruffy.” Listen, we all have types, don’t @ me. I have my reasons. However, I decided to push past my biases because Chad seemed to have a very nice body and a witty tagline.
After exchanging no meaningful conversation whatsoever (I’m a big fan of skipping the mundane niceties and just getting right to a meetup), we agreed to meet for drinks at my go to Chinatown date bar on a Friday night. I know, Friday first date is a big commitment, but I literally had no other days available. I walked in and was both pleasantly and unpleasantly surprised. Chad was more attractive than his photo implied, but was also even less my type than his photo implied.
At some point between taking his profile photo and meeting with me, he had gotten a fuckboy haircut. You know what a fuckboy haircut is: short on the sides, long and swoopy on the top, and very styled. Here I go garnering more hate for myself, but I am NOT a fan. On top of that, he looked like he had just stolen his outfit off a J Crew mannequin.
I am not against men dressing well or being into fashion. More power to you guys and thank you for not thinking cargo shorts are acceptable attire. The problem is that I personally could not care less about fashion. I find one thing I like that fits me well at Loft, Express, or H&M, and I buy it in four different colors, so when faced with a guy who clearly cares about it more than I do, it’s usually not a match.
However, I squashed my shallow judgmental tendencies yet again and decided to keep an open mind. We talked and he turned out to be less terrible than I anticipated. He was intelligent, courteous, and had great taste in food and booze. I wasn’t really feeling a spark yet, but decided to see if more wine would fix it. However, at about 10 o’clock, the exhaustion of my work week finally started to overtake me and all I wanted to do was go home and sleep. Drunk me decided that I could have the best of both worlds by inviting Chad back home with me to meet my dogs.
Here, dear reader, you may have noticed that I committed a rookie mistake for the second time in as many months. We did not kiss before leaving the bar together. I’ve always regretted this move in the past, so I couldn’t tell you why I thought it would be ok this time. I think I kept hoping that I would start feeling a spark if I got tipsy enough, but by the time we reached my house it still hadn’t happened. Solution: more drinks.
We sat on my couch to feign interest in conversation with each other while watching Archer when he finally leaned over and made a move. I waited expectantly to see if a kiss could finally reveal some sort of spark that would find me attracted to him, or at least enough to get me laid. Our lips finally touched and… boop!
He pecked me on the lips in a way similar to how you kissed your great aunt on the cheek when your parents forced you to at holiday gatherings. It wasn’t just a one-off though. He kept coming back in. It was like he was just repeatedly pecking me on the mouth like a baby bird. I couldn’t see, but I imagine that his lips were puckered like this the entire time, but even smaller:
I don’t think you even need to ask, but no, there was no tongue at all. It was very strange and dry. Eventually, after he felt he had pecked enough times to gain entry, he asked if I wanted to go to bed. This was one of those nights where I sometimes question my career choices and wonder if I should have been an actress, because I pulled off this little gem believably:
“Oh, I’m actually really tired, so we can totally go to bed, but just so you know, I don’t sleep with people on the first date.”
*laugh cry emoji*
We went to bed where I fell asleep immediately and snored like a log without so much as some hand stuff. Upon waking up the next morning, it became clear he was a cuddler and he was trying to stick around. As a girl, this is the shitty part about not being into a guy. Once we decide that we’re just not interested, it’s suddenly perceived that we’re “playing hard to get,” which makes men even more interested in us.
Then we’re faced with the awkward conundrum of how to politely say we’re just not interested, nor will we ever be, without hurting their feelings or enraging them. To be fair, I did take a really long time to finally decide I wasn’t into him, but if I had dismissed him outright based on my earlier impressions and hunches the previous night, I would have been “unfair,” “shallow,” and “not giving him a chance.” What the fuck’s a girl to do?
So I did the nicest thing I could in this situation and gave him the slow fade. He was very nice after all, we just didn’t have any chemistry, and our fate was sealed with his terrible kissing. Would I have felt differently about him had he been a decent kisser? I honestly don’t know. I think I would have given him a second or third date at least. I think the moral of the story here is be a good kisser and don’t be a bad kisser. .