It's a Wednesday night. My date has what I refer to as a "real job," and will be off at 5:00pm. I have the day bar shift, so I will be off then too. I assume we can meet around 6:00pm, somewhere downtown, but he pushes the date to 9:00pm. He wants a nap before we go out. Yikes. What does he need energy for? We make a plan to meet at Bar Volo at 9:30. It's close to his place. Double yikes. Why do we need to meet so close to his place, and rather late on a weeknight? I decide to overlook these red flags, because I know Bar Volo has a great selection of craft beers. Yummy!
As I walk towards Yonge St., I get a sudden rush of excitement. I'm going on my fifth date in five days! A different dude each day! I can see why guys like being players. This is facking awesome. I suddenly have the confidence of a person with a symmetrical face.
According to his three profile pics, (two of which I like -- the third is "meh,") he may or may not look like Tom Cruise in Top Gun. I walk into Bar Volo. It's a good spot for this hood. I'm definitely glad he didn't suggest the Duke of Gloucester. That place owes me a shitload in failed jukebox plays. I walk up to the bar, grab a beer and check-in on Foursquare. (It's always good to let your friends know where you are when you're on a blind date bender.) No matter how tempting it is, I make sure not to open my Tinder app. How tacky would that be if he walked it, and I was busy searching for more dudes online?
I turn around, and come face to face with my Tinder. He doesn't really look like Maverick, but he's definitely cute. Oh, and I should mention this is my first date wearing my glasses. Hope that's not a buzz kill, since I only wear them in one of my profile pics. He asks if I need another beer, but I don't. I do, however have to eat. I order a grilled cheese sandwich. I'm not sure if that's a cool thing to order on a date, but go fack yourself if you don't appreciate a good grilled cheese sandwich.
"So, how's Tinder going for you?" I ask.
"Well... I've only been out with one girl, and she was pretty shy. The date didn't last long. What about you?"
I could lie here, and scale back my racetrack of dates this week, but what's the point? I'd rather just be honest.
"I've been on four dates in the past four days. The first one was so shy, he pounded three beers for every one I had. The second guy was too young, so I gave him to my friend. The third was high on coke and/or Adderall, and the fourth had to drop off money at Pizza Pizza on King St. at midnight. And now you."
He lets out a big laugh, and then drops his own bomb.
"My name's not really Tom. I made it up. I also made up a fake gmail account, so I could open a fake Facebook account, so I could open a fake Tinder account. I was about to delete the app, then you popped up."
(This is the exact moment I realize I should be writing about these Tinder dates. The universe is pretty much smacking the writer's block right out of my brain.)
I burst out laughing. I LOVE the honesty -- well, slightly delayed honesty, but I still like it. The conversation starts to flow freely. He tells me his real name (what an honour!) which is Jewish. I love Jewish guys. It's probably a side effect of living at 3rd and LaBrea in L.A. for multiple years. My excitement is plentiful.
"I love Jews! Woody Allen is my hero!"
It's one of those stupid things that flies out of my mouth every time I meet a Jewish guy. Kind of like those people you meet in the States, who say, "Oh My God! You're from Canada?! I'm from Michigan!!!!"
I enjoy my grilled cheese sandwich, which comes with a big giant pickle (which I'm careful NOT to eat in a pervy way), and I slyly figure out he's a Libra. Bonus. I always like Libras.
"Let's go over to Ossington," he suggests.
We settle the tab. (Did I say "we?" I meant "He.") He organizes a cab, which is out front promptly. Inside the cab, he's quite instructional to take Harbord. It's like the Fountain Ave of Toronto. When the cab pulls over, I reach for my wallet. As you probably know by now, that's my move. Paying for the cab.
"It's already paid," he says. Huh? Oh, wow! He's one of those super savvy people with that Uber app. I gotta get with the times.
We end up doing a solid bar hop. Red Light, Get Well, The Thompson Hotel, and The Wheat Sheaf. Not bad for a Wednesday night, eh? Good thing he took that nap. The first kiss happens at Get Well. It's completely random. We're leaving the bar, and he suddenly stops me. He kisses me, then we resume walking. No talk, no cheesy lines. Just a kiss, then a continuation of life. Hipster neighbourhood, hipster kiss.
I get a little nervous going to the Thompson. The roof top bar there is deluxe. As usual, I'm dressed casual. I pretty much look like a Reitman's ad. There's a dress code. I explain to the doorman that it's really hard to find Toms in this colour. I get in. (FEWF!) Then I brag to some guys in the elevator that my shirt only cost $3.00. I also indulge in some Instagramming on the patio over looking the CN Tower, which tells everyone in the bar I'm a loser who never comes here.
Last call approaches fast. What do I do? I'm not ready to lose my Tinder virginity, but I am enjoying his company. Since he has to wake up at 7:30am, and I have no intention on leaving any bed at that hour, I make a deal that he can sleep over, but nothing's going to happen. (This is where all you people who have heard/said that, burst out into a roar of "BAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!")
My apartment is FAR from being ready to have a guy over. I'm not even sure I flushed the toilet last time I peed. Plus, I'm not impressing anybody by still having Christmas decorations up. Especially a Jewish guy. And I don't really have any snacks to offer. All I have is a big package of sour soothers I got at Giant Tiger recently. Of course, I do have beer. I crack one open for each of us, and we sit on my couch.
"I like your apartment," he says. Wow. I guess he hasn't noticed my couch is missing a leg and is being propped up by three phone books. Nor has he taken in my enormous, framed Ke$ha poster.
I need sleep. We've been drinking a lot. This would actually be a terrible time to have sex. Not just because I'm exhausted, but because I just finished Bloody Kitty, and haven't had time to wax. I know guys don't really care about that stuff. I built a comedy act around it. But what I will admit is, I feel 100 times more confident when that thing in my pants doesn't look like it just fell off a garden center wheelbarrow. I like sex as much as guys, but I don't want to sleep with a guy when my Bing Bang looks like an SOS pad. And even though we are now in my bed together, it becomes painfully obvious I'm not putting out, nor am I getting naked.
He finally says, "I should leave."
"Ya, you should," I reply.
It's awkward, and yes, I might be a giant cock tease, but that's just me.
In the morning, I notice he didn't even touch his beer. What a waste! Beer doesn't grow on trees, buddy. This might be the biggest deal breaker ever. The only good thing about inviting over a guy and making him keep his pants on in your bed? Money falls out of his pocket.
I woke up next to $2.75.
Tomorrow I try out a High Park guy. Stay tuned.
Keep Calm, and Tinder On...
P.S. Sorry I constantly use the word "Fack" instead of the proper form of the swear word. I just find the word "Fuck" too harsh. I'm not even religious.
P.P.S. If you want, download the Uber app and use passcode xmc3. You'll get $15 off your first cab ride. If you spend as much on cabs as I do, you'll appreciate it. And I hope I don't need to say "Don't Drink and Drive," because I'm assuming you're not a facking moron.