When I was in college, I never really deviated from textbook first-date protocol: meal, movie, coffee, all followed by a yap fest of your finest qualities—two people bouncin’ to the boogie with only their best feet on the dance floor. This has to continue many more times because everyone knows that only girls with loose morals allow themselves to be kissed on the first date. I learned this in Bullshit 101.
I eventually graduated and got a job, where I one day overheard a woman recounting how her first date one night ended. Details were sketchy but I remember it was with more than a peck on the cheek. I wondered if she was a slut, because she didn’t look like one. So I asked her why she did what she did on that first date. She smiled at me and said, “Because he was Italian, and I have a libido.” Turns out she wasn’t a slut. She was the company vice-president—smart, funny, successful, approachable, with double Master’s in Economics and Modern Literature. And she had become my muse. So the first thing I did with my paycheck was buy myself a backbone, the kind that allowed me not to give a flying fffffft what my reputation would be by the water cooler. And then I discovered a secret still unknown to the nuns in my high school—that even if they confiscate your libido, IT GROWS BACK.
Fair Share Of First Dates
There was the requisite blind date, which, like all blind dates I’ve had, was capped with beso and a solemn silent promise never to see him again.
There was the EB. Back when Friendster was still the number-one online pastime, a guy sent me a witty message about my taste in books. After a few more online repartees, and since he was a friend of a friend (i.e. certified non-serial killer), we met up for a few drinks. Conversation was even better in person. Unfortunately, no stirrings in my loins. I liked talking to him, sure, I just didn’t have the faintest desire for him. Not even after my fourth cocktail. And that was that.
There was the pick-up. My best bud Sab and I were enjoying a quiet night of brewskies at a quaint bar in Mandaluyong. When she went to the little girls’ room, a guy from a gaggle of young laddies one table away came over and asked if he could join. The first thing I asked was, “Is this a friggin’ dare?” He was younger than me: as in fresh out of college when I was receiving my nth paycheck. But I relented and had him take a seat, so Sab and I could pick on him. But he still got my number, still texted when I got home, and still asked me out. I indulged him if only for the fact that he was ballsy beyond his years. But also because he was actually cute and I figured I could use a good lay. The first date came, followed by a few more. We were bonding…but with too many clothes on. He was too nice when all I wanted was a little wham and bam. Besides, I like being called “ma’am.”
Then there was the hook-up. I joined a friend with a few of her surfer buds and came upon a delicious-looking surfer from out of town. Technically, that was our first date, albeit with a group. We hit it off and flirted shamelessly with each other. I ended up bringing him to my place and putting his sun-kissed, six-packed bod to good use.
First date dilemma: to be naughty or nice?
(Models for visual aid only! Me hamming it up with photographer buddy Chino Acosta who was at the Female Network shoot.) What I did notice, though, was that I never quite went the whole nine yards on a first date with guys I eventually got involved with. Oh it wasn’t even about “I like him too much to have sex with him on the first date,” coz that’s just not how the math works in my universe. If I like you, then I will jump you. If you happen to be among the unfortunate breed of guys who only think of girls in terms of sinner or saint, I’d rather leave you mid-dinner than make like a virgin—I’m a girl who likes my remote controls, so posturing takes too much effort for me.
But I digress.
I guess when it comes to guys that I connected with on other levels, I realized the difference between “I like your abs” and “I like your abs and your sense of humor and your impersonation of Robin Williams giving face and how unassuming you are despite being profoundly intelligent and how you’re witty but never sarcastic and how you’re nice to the waiters even when you think I’m not looking.” Too many things get in the way of what could’ve been just a casual roll in the hay.
So, How Far Should You Go On A First Date?
As far as you want to take it and can actually handle, I suppose.
Just a tip: if you want flexibility in choice, get your own place. I mean, really, stranger-banging across the hall from your parents’ bedroom? More effective than a cold shower. Coz if you don’t have your own place, then it’s either the guy’s crib or a motel. In which case, the question should be, “Should You Go To Mariposa On Your First Date?” My personal answer, despite my loose morals, would be a “Hell no.”
And if you put out, put out because you want to or because you’re horny or because your vibrator’s out of batteries—never because you’re window-shopping for a relationship. We’ve all seen this before: it’s the next day, he hasn’t called, and you turn psycho-bitch on him in 0.2 seconds. We’re tired of your kind giving the rest of us a bad name!
One thing’s for sure, though: this is not something one should contemplate if they still believe that jumping up and down after unprotected sex will prevent them from getting pregnant. The female body is NOT like a box of Tic-Tacs—sperm is not gonna tumble out just because you make it alog.
Full text at: I Got the Moon On My Mind (a Femalenetwork Blog)
