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Truth or Dare:
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Truth: Some people believe hell is a fiery inferno somewhere in the vicinity of … well … I’m not sure where they think it is. For me, it’s dating.
For many heterosexual women, the experience of dating goes something like this: Girl meets Guy, he seems normal, is gainfully employed, and if she’s lucky, doesn’t live with his mom.
Girl and Guy go out on a date which resembles some sort of shady science experiment where Guy wonders how many tequila shots it will take to get Girl to scream, “Spank me Big Daddy … you’re a naughty boy,” in the back of his Love Wagon.
I went on one such date with a man I’ll call “Dungeons and Dragons Boy” (I’m certain if you look under his bed you’d find a blow-up warrior-princess doll, underneath stacks of old dragon posters and Halo figurines).
D and D Boy didn’t reveal his obsession with role playing games on our first date. He sprung it on me on the second. He recommended the Melting Pot for dinner. I gladly accepted. I’d never had fondue before and was eager to sample its silky goodness. Once seated, I turned my attention to the menu to see what delectable treats awaited my salivating taste buds. I’m sure the entire restaurant remembers my reaction.
“Holy hell …” I projected, “I’m going to have to sell a kidney to afford to eat here!”
D and D Boy valiantly replied, “No worries hun, I got this one.”
The conversation in my mind went something like this: “Did he just call me hun? Never mind. I can’t afford this. I should recommend another restaurant. Then again, he did choose this place knowing how expensive it is. And those strawberries on the menu are just dying to be dipped in chocolate and melted in my mouth – I can’t let the strawberries down.”
I hesitantly accepted his offer to pay but only if he let me buy him a cup-of-joe at the Flying M after dinner. He agreed on the condition I let him buy me a glass of my favorite wine. Somehow this sounded like an acceptable compromise.
After my first few sips of Pinot Noir, D and D Boy urged me to order another glass. I politely declined and explained my one-glass rule on dates. (Social drinking is better experienced with close friends I trust, not a man I met a week ago in the library).
I suddenly realized how little I knew about my date, so I asked him how he spent his downtime.
The remainder of the evening is a perfect example of why I hate dating. D and D Boy projectile vomited his extensive knowledge of Dungeons and Dragons on me. He detailed his obsession throughout his entire life (he was 35), going as far as to recall how he drew characters from the game on the backside of his whitey-tighties as a boy, so he could absorb their powers. He only stopped talking to breathe, tell me I was “hot” and ask if I wanted another drink. In fact, the one time D and D Boy inquired about my life was to ask if I’d considered writing an article about RPG.
“No,” I replied, “it’s not really my thing. But perhaps I should … sounds like it’d be a raging success.” (Insert sarcasm here).
“So what do you write about?”
“Well … I have a column, and I’ve written a lot about the war and issues that affect veterans, politics, social issues … lots of things, really.”
D and D Boy looked bored. “Yeah … sometimes I pretend the bad guys in World of Warcraft are Osama Bin Laden. I hate that dude. I don’t really concern myself with politics though.”
Then, for the 600th time that evening, D and D Boy said, “You look really hot tonight. You want another drink? Don’t worry about the cost, you’re worth it.”
I felt my blood boil. First of all, I have friends in the military who are actually in Afghanistan right now really fighting Al Qaeda and trying to find Bin Ladin. His total lack of concern for their wellbeing, much less our country’s, was irritating.
All this dude contributes to the world is an encyclopedic knowledge of D and D and a habit of getting girls drunk on dates so it’s easier to get in their pants. Creepy! My frustration over our incompatibility expressed itself via an impatient tapping of my index finger on my wine glass. D and D Boy picked up the check and proceeded to count (out loud) $120.
“Thank you for dinner,” I said.
“It’s fine sweetheart,” he looked over my body with the same sultry gaze I gave the chocolate covered strawberries at dessert. “I know you’re good for it. Do you want to go back to my place for that drink?”
I thought, “I don’t care how expensive this meal is buddy, it takes a lot more than a boiling pot of broth and a glass of wine to make my panties drop.”
Instead, I replied, “No thank you. It’s time I call it a night.”
“Can I see you next weekend? My friend’s having a house party … they’re going to have a keg.”
“No thanks … honestly, I’m not really feeling a cosmic connection here. And with my schedule being so crazy, it’s probably best I tell you now rather than have you wait for my call. But thank you again for dinner, have a lovely evening.”
I left the restaurant cursing myself for going back on the dating scene again.
Dare: To survive the bad dates and not to lose hope that somewhere out there is someone you will connect with.
Fear not friends, I believe even D and D Boy has a certain someone waiting for his thoughts and perspectives on the world. She’ll just have to have fondue with a couple of frogs, before she finds her level-four Celestial Mage.
If you have a subject relating to relationships or sex you’d like to see Shannon tackle in her column, send your request to
editor@arbiteronline.com or leave a comment on this article at arbiteronline.com
SHANNON MORGAN
Editor-in-Chief
