(continued from Part Two: Bottoms Up!)
A fastidious proctor entered the room and explained the itinerary for the evening. Rather than proceed with traditional speed dating protocol, the Gay Center had devised a new mechanism that would surely assist us all in finding suitable matches based on shared interests [read No Gay Left Behind]. Each participant received a number tag - not to be confused with a name tag - and a blank Scantron sheet. The procedure was simple: each man was to stand up with a microphone for one minute and essentially "sell himself" to the crowd. After all 60 participants made their pitch, a mingling session would follow where we - the cattle - could follow up with anyone that had piqued our interest. Finally, we were to fill in the Scantron sheet and run it through the magical match machine. If your picks were also interested in you, a match was recorded on a ticker and a date was to be scheduled after the event. Needless to say, I was simultaneously mortified and humiliated. Not only was I reduced to a number, but the drafting process did not ensure one decent conversation. Flashbacks of being picked last (or not at all) during elementary school gym class hurtled out of my subconscious - the only difference being now I have better shoes and cherish being skinny.
As part and parcel to my New York luck thus far, the proctor randomly chose the man next to me to begin the evening. He nervously revealed a premeditated sales pitch from his pocket which read as follows:
"Um, hi. I'm number 108. I've been taking care of my sick mom for, like, two years. She's dead now. I think it's time for me to get back into the real world again and start dating. Thanks."
Then it was my turn, and I was stumped. I'm not afraid of public speaking, but I had envisioned myself attempting to deliver a funny story or two. After the aforementioned eulogy the room had turned both somber and fidgety. I clutched the microphone and proceeded onward.
"Hi guys. I'm lot number 0-2-7. [minimal laughter] I just survived my first year in New York which included a tornado, bedbugs, an assault on the subway, a boss that gave me an orange for a Christmas bonus and a cancer scare. [silence] Also, a man in my neighborhood mistook me for a laundromat attendant and tried to get me to make change for a dollar while I was drying my clothes. [random gasps] I suppose if I can survive that I can survive a few more shi**y dates with you guys. Because, ultimately, that's why we are here, right? To have some more shi**y dates. Thanks."
After a bit of hoopin' and hollerin' (not to mention a scattering of "You go girl!") order resumed.
The mingling session proved to be as forced as everything else in the evening, and finally, the moment of truth came. I made my draft picks, and four matches were returned. In sum:
Match #1: A 37 year old chiropractor who, on our first date, told me that most of my personality and life's trajectory could be explained through astrology.
Match #2: A 27 year old English teacher who, after our second date, stated that we we both wanted the same things, he was very attracted, and he couldn't wait to see me again. He never returned any of my phone calls after that date.
Match #3: A 39 year old interior decorator who, after my follow up phone call two days after the mixer said, "Jonah? Hmmm....wait, tell me again where we met?" I replied, "It's not important," and hung up.
Match #4: A 33 year old lawyer who was kind and very thoughtful. We just didn't click romantically.
I suppose it could have been worse; about half of the room did not end up with any matches that evening. Although it does raise the question: which is worse - 4 fruitless dates or none?
Coming Soon...
The Love for Three Oranges
The Shirt Off My Back
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