Tag Archives: dating

Ms. Motel Beach Love

When my brazilian friends learned about my blog, they all immediately insisted that I write up the brazilian motel as a man-shopping topic about which my readers should be informed.  At first I was confused.  Motel?  What could possibly be so culturally significant about motels, I thought to myself.

As it turns out, understanding the motel is key.  Ladies and gentlemen, according to what I am told, don’t even thinking about man-shopping or lady-shopping in Brazil without knowing your motel options.

Apparently, everybody lives with their families and/or parental units, including adult singletons.  When privacy is needed for amorous activities, it’s obviously uncomfortable of the couple when families are living on top of each other, so brazilians need a neutral location where they can cavort freely.

Hence… the motel.

They are geared specifically for sex and are not meant to be stand-alone accommodations like hotels.  Rooms are rented only by the hour, and depending on the establishment, customers usually choose from rental options ranging from two-hour to four-hour chunks, although overnight and lunchtime deals including meals can also be found.  You can order room service, you can order whatever you want, apparently.  What really tickled me pink was the fact that, in addition to the minibar, sex toys are made available for purchase, and porn is often provided for free.  How convenient!

In Brazil, everybody uses motels.  They are not roadside lodgings that are found exclusively off desolate stretches of highway, as I, as an American, tend to think of them.  They are a way of life in Brazil.

While there are, of course, seedier love motels, I was also told tales about fancy multi-level love motel rooms, about expansive skylights, plush velvet wonderlands…

Whether you opt for a dilapidated little establishment on the side of the road or whether you decide to splurge for the Disneyland of love motels, there is apparently something for everybody here in this sexually liberated country.

What is this strange world?  A bizarre alternate reality in which puritanical values do not demand that people hide their need and desire for sex?

Oh, this would never happen in America…

Thank you, Marina, Marta, Milena, Camila, Nicole, Wagner, Mario, Elliot, and Gabu for enlightening me about your wondrous country.  Next time I promise to actually visit a love motel instead of just being lame and writing about it months afterward…

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Mr. Class Ring

“I’m a woman, Mary.  I can be as contrary as I choose.”

~ Dowager Countess of Grantham, played by the illustrious Maggie Smith

I actually don’t believe in dealbreakers.  This may surprise you, since I can be pretty brutal on this blog, but, let’s face it, in reality, when I truly fancy someone, he can do no wrong.  He could sleep in a bunny suit and worship a clay statue of a muppet as the one true god, and it’s highly likely that I’d find it endearing if I like the guy enough.

What can I say?  I’m a big softy at heart.

However, that being said, if I DON’T fancy the poor hapless thing, there’s no saving him from my ridicule and scorn.

And unfortunately for you unlucky many, whom I don’t fancy in the least, there are is a long list of things that would preclude you from seeing me naked — no matter how much alcohol you pour into me.

This list includes but is not limited to the following:

  • Class ring – This is speaks to a unique form of bro-douchery.  Just… don’t.
  • Puka shell necklace – Do I really need to explain this one?
  • Big diamondy balls of bling in the ears – This is a girl’s domain.  Back the eff off.
  • Longer nails than me – That’s just icky.
  • Higher heels than me – Yes, this has happened to me before.  I’d rather not talk about it.
  • He tells me that I’m fat – You’d be surprised how often this happens.
  • Matching tracksuit – This is doubly repulsive if the tracksuit is white.  (Yes, Joey, I’m talking to YOU.)
  • Gold chain necklaces – I shudder at the thought.
  • Flat-bill baseball caps – I’m a bit of a baseball cap snob.  I once dated a guy just because I liked his perfectly worn, fitted baseball cap.  I never let him take it off.  Ever.
  • The deep V-neck – Call me old-fashioned, but I find it more than a little disconcerting when a man sports more cleavage and a more plunging neckline than myself.  My barely-there-boobies really take it personally.

A significant portion of my dealbreakers consists of items related to man-jewelry.  I can safely say that I am generally opposed to almost all forms of man-jewelry.  Accessorize cautiously, lads.  Very very cautiously.

Merci buckets to Julia, who is the inspiration for this post/rant.  She is a phenomenal lady who manages to bring all the boys to the yard while dressed in a fabulous shiny flame-retardant lizard suit, and I admire her greatly.

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Ms. American Whore

France has always had a reputation for being somewhat more overt in the kind of sexuality that it allows to be portrayed in its advertising, media and entertainment.  One would think that this would lead to a more desensitized sex culture — a sexually open culture that is based on instant gratification.

I thought that too when I first arrived here in Paris years ago.

I couldn’t have been more wrong.

Well, actually, I suppose I could have been wronger, but that means that I’d have thought that Notre Dame Cathedral was made of pineapple.

Wouldn’t that be delightful?

Anyway, when it comes to sex, in general, I’ve found that people here are so repressed that the tension in the air is palpable.  Walk up to any parisian man, and you’ll find that he is strung so tightly that any woman with a pulse could pluck his strings with just a look.

Sure, he’ll walk by a perfume advertisement featuring a naked woman the size of a bus, and he’ll be unfazed.  But show him a bit of leg on a real, breathing woman, and he’ll likely walk into a lamppost or into oncoming traffic as his eyes follow her down the street.  (I’ve definitely seen this happen.)

Here’s my theory…  I think that this media-diffused sexual imagery has been embraced by women in some countries; they’ve emulated what they see in the media, so you see women wearing suggestive clothing fashions and being more open with the way the speak and express their views about sex and relationships.

But here, I think that women have gone the opposite direction.  They try to disassociate themselves with these highly sexualized women that they see in advertisements and in films.  Women here go out of their way to associate appropriate comportment with LESS openness, LESS skin, LESS provocativeness.  If there were to be a motto, it’d be “WITHHOLD, WITHHOLD, AND WITHHOLD”.  Obviously, slut-shaming is off the charts here.

French fashion is the antithesis of daring and individualist.  Cover up.  Hide your curves.  Conceal your cleavage.  Your bare legs do not see the light of day.  Do not smile at a man.  Do not speak about sex or anything provocative.  Because, above all, YOU MUST NOT BE PERCEIVED AS A WHORE.

All this withholding and repression on the frenchwoman’s part means that frenchmen follow their lead.  A woman wearing a suggestive outfit must be “the kind of woman” who will give it up at the least provocation and is not deserving of your respect.  A woman dressed in a black potato sack, she’s a proper lady — a quality lady — that you court properly and take home to mum.

And while I don’t think that I dress particularly provocatively, I like to feel pretty and to wear clothes that flatter my figure — whether it’s a simple black dress or a bright red blouse.  In my book, it’s a matter of self-respect.  Yet I suspect that this is why I get harassed in the street but why I’m otherwise ignored by the general date-able populace.  And I suspect that this is why frenchwomen often treat me with a certain amount of disdain or otherwise just categorically dismiss me.  Both men and women here seem to be working with the same paradigms.

The men seem to get their instant gratification not from their own wives and girlfriends, who are withholding and therefore sacred, but instead from other, “easy” women, easier targets — the ones that look like what they see in the media… the ones whose legs they ogle in the cafes, the ones whose hips that they see swaying in the streets, and the ones in plunging necklines that they pick up in bars.

I’ve been told that American women dress like whores.  American women are easy.  American women aren’t classy; they are crass because they say whatever they damn well please, when they damn well please.

Compared to the alternative, I think that I’d rather be a crass American whore than what passes for the feminine ideal here.

I like to smile and laugh and wear a skirt that makes my butt look great.

So sue me.

But that doesn’t necessarily mean that I’m an egg cooked over-easy, thank you.  I’m still a classy lady who deserves some respect and decency, which is not something that I’m accustomed to getting on a daily basis.

The kind of imagery that may result in an over-sexed culture that promotes instant gratification… it can also have the opposite effect on cultural norms.  There are two sides to that coin, and here in France, I’m looking at one side of it.

It makes me miss what’s on the other side.

I wonder if the Washington Monument is made of pineapple.

* Today’s topic was brought to you by the Insomnia Club!  See what the other cook cats have to say about sexual tension in the age of instant gratification and sexual imagery bombardment…

AV Flox

The Book of Love Was Written By A Sadist

Confronting Love

Feisty Woman

F*cking in Brooklyn

How Very Lucky To Be A Girl

Jess Downey — Not What I Ordered

KB in NYC

Single Much

Simone Grant

Thank You For Your Sex

Met Another Frog

Miss Taylor Cast

My Pixie Blog

Totally Tyler

The Urban Dater

Women Are From Mars

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Ms. Professor-Student Relations Expert

More lists!  I love lists!  And I’ve had too much caffeine to focus on writing coherent sentences!  I’ve also had too much caffeine to avoid exclamation points!!!

And since caffeine has also impaired my ability to blog on topic about man-shopping in Paris, you’ll have to settle for more lists that I made with Ryan.

Reasons NOT to date your professor

  • you babysit his daughter
  • he’s your hallmate’s dad
  • his name is Chad
  • he slept with your friend
  • he eats hummus for lunch every day, then has a coffee break, and doesn’t seem to know what breath mints are for
  • you were drunk in class once and asked to see his bellybutton
  • he looks like a human male incarnation of Lassie
  • he idolizes Stalin
  • he is in love with your boyfriend

Reasons to go ahead and date the crap out of your professor

  • he told you that he liked your essay response to prompt #8
  • he wears tweed jackets with leather elbow patches
  • his hair defies gravity
  • his argyle socks match your favorite cashmere sweater
  • he’s so sexy when he talks about de Tocqueville
  • his favorite dead white guy is Benjamin Constant

I challenge you to guess which of these are autobiographical, which are biographical, and which are just plain fictional.

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Ms. Date Gone South

When I hang out  with Wandering Menace, we inevitably get up to no good.  But most of the time, we just do silly things for the sake of being silly.  But one thing is constant.  Ryan loves to make lists.

Let me rephrase that.

She likes to make ME make lists.

She once asked me to write down all my thoughts in response to the following question:

“How do you know when your date has taken a bad turn?”

And this is what I came up with:

  • you go to the toilet three times in one hour, and each time you wash your hands both before and after — just so that you can prolong the toilet break
  • you start thinking about how much he looks like your little sister
  • you realize that his name is on your list of top ten names for your future dog
  • upon asking whether you’d like another glass of wine, you ask him to order a bottle
  • your date has a satchel
  • your date tells you that his wife said something similar the other day
  • while your date is in the restroom, you ask your waiter how he came by such marvelous forearms
  • you pretend to pick up an urgent phone call… on your iPod

Dating is so much fun, isn’t it.

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Ms. Fading Failure

Oh boy.  “The Fade.”

The infamous Fade has been a staple of human dating rituals since… gosh, it doesn’t really matter.  You know what I’m talking about.  Boy meets girl.  Boy goes on date(s) with girl.  Boy realizes that he is not into girl.  Boy doesn’t call girl.  Girl may attempt contact with boy.  Boy ignores and fades into nothing.  Girl eats caramels and moves on.  The end.

I’ve been faded many a time in my life.  I’ve even done some fading myself.  The Fade is an established social convention indicating at least one party’s lack of interest in the other.

However, I’m not sure that all Parisian men are as familiar with the Fade as we are in the anglophone dating world.

I have attempted, on multiple occasions, to fade my way out of undesirable entanglements here.  According to past experiences on American soil, this should have gone off without a hitch.

But, of course, upon arrival in Paris, hitches abounded, and the most illustrative example is someone to whom I refer as Mr. Gym Stalker.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Mr. Gym Stalker worked the front desk at my gym.  While I didn’t pay much attention to the front desk staff at the time, my gym buddy, the Irish Parisienne, pointed out to me that Mr. Gym Stalker had developed a little crush on me.

I laughed it off and just continued along my merry little way.

But one day, as I was on my way out, he summoned me over and told me that he needed to ask me about something.

Mr. G.S. : “I noticed that you don’t come here as often as you used to.”

Man-shopper : “Yeah, I moved.  I only work out here if I’m in the neighborhood.  I go to a different location now.”

Mr. G.S. : “Here’s the thing.  I’ve been working here for two years now, and I can’t work out here anymore because people recognize me while I’m working out, assume that I’m on duty, and bother me.”

Man-shopper : “Uhhh, okay….”

Mr. G.S. : “It’s really difficult for me to motivate myself to work out at other locations, so I was wondering if you’d like to work out sometime at the location that you go to now.  Planning to meet up with people motivates me more than if I were to just go by myself.”

Man-shopper : “Oh, ok, gym buddies are cool.  Well, I go to spin class, you’re welcome to join me.”

And I thought that’d be it.  I didn’t think that it would be a big deal, since I didn’t intend on returning to this gym location anymore.  My move was finally official, and it was no longer convenient for me to trek out there.  So, in my mind, this wasn’t a date, and I didn’t give him my number.  This was just a… a nothing.

But then the phone calls started.

I had that gym’s phone number programmed into my phone, and I noticed that the gym would be calling me everyday, but nobody ever left a message.  I didn’t bother call back, as I figured that if the gym had official business with me, they’d leave a message.

After a few weeks of this, I began to get lots of calls from a mobile number that I didn’t recognize, and sometimes from a masked phone number.  Again, I don’t answer or return calls unless I know the number or if I’m expecting a call.  These calls were really starting to concern me, as they would occur at least several times per day, sometimes as late as 11 at night.

I decided to approach this matter as if the caller were an undesirable and clueless suitor.  I figured, the Fade should work eventually, right?  I’ll just sit tight and be unresponsive until he gets the point and goes away.

A couple of months later of these persistent phone calls, I began to think that my phone was possessed.  Who the hell would keep calling me like this without leaving a message??

I lived in fear of my phone.

I turned off its ringer.

One fateful day — my birthday, actually — I get a text message from the mystery mobile number.

“Hi, I just wanted to wish you a happy 27th birthday.  All the best, Mr. G.C.”

So let’s recap the horribleness of this situation:

Mr. G.C. pulled my mobile number from the gym’s client files and proceeded to harass me for months without leaving a voicemail.

Mr. G.C. then pulled MY BIRTHDAY from my file and used the number acquired by inappropriate channels in order to harass me further.

My Fade failed miserably.

It had nothing to do with my technique.  It is physically impossible to botch a Fade.  Non-response is the easiest cop-out thing to do in the world.

But some creeptastic, stalkerish, dodgy Parisian men simply refuse to be Faded.

However, this is not to say that the Fade doesn’t have its uses on the Parisian scene.  Even if the Fade fails miserably as a suitor-ditching technique, it is, however, a great way to determine whether one needs to consider taking out a restraining order.

Don’t Say Hello by Simone Grant
Fade To Black by The Urban Dater
The Fade by Miss Melisa Mae
You Say Fade? I Say Cop-Out by Women Are From Mars
To Fade or Not to Fade by Jess Downey
Eyes Open By Totally Tyler
Fading Into the Shadows by Miss Taylor Cast
50 Ways to Leave Your Lover by F*cking in Brooklyn
Da Fade, Ladies and Gentlemen, by Thank You For Your Sex™

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Ms. Scorned Woman

I have recently teamed up with Alex of the Urban DaterAV FloxFeisty WomanJess DowneyKB in NYCLenaLucky GirlMike MastersMiss Melisa MaeNikki BSimone GrantMiss Taylor CastTotally Tyler, and Jackie Summers in virtual project that has been dubbed the #InsomniaClub.

From now on, once a month, we will take one question, theme or prompt and post our thoughts on it.  Follow the hashtag on twitter to get different points of view, receive some advice, join in the debate, or just for chuckles.

I’ll be honest with you, you’re very unlikely to find much useful insight from me, but I can guarantee some rambling, some borderline-offensive generalizations about parisians, some self-deprecation, some ranting, and maybe some original drawings if I fancy it.

You know, my usual stuff.

But for those of you who stumble upon my blog but are looking for some substance, I am happy to say that I can now refer you to the club members above!

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

This month’s topic is a hypothetical situation in which one discovers that one’s significant other keeps an active profile on an online dating site.

Well, if I were seeing him casually, I’d probably let it go.  If I were in a serious relationship, I’d take it as a sign that I should get out of said relationship.  Anything in between, I can’t say that I’ve even the foggiest idea about my reaction.  If he were French, I’d…  HAHAHA… Man-shopper?  Dating a Frenchman?  <insert cynical laughter here>

In any case, these responses contribute nothing to the debate on the topic.

Frankly, I don’t really know what I would do, but I have a few thoughts about what I could do, which is ultimately much more interesting.

  • I could punch him in the nuts.

  • I could put dog poop in his shoes.
  • I could dognap his dog.  I love dogs.
  • I could drug him and tattoo RAT BASTARD on his ass.
  • I could call his mother and tell on him.
  • I could smash up his computer and then leave the “X” key in his bed in true Godfather style.

The possibilities are endless.

What do you think of the following series of events?

  1. I call up a computer geek friend.
  2. Geekster and I hack into his account.
  3. I replace his profile with something of my own creation.

What would I put in his dating profile?  Obviously, it would have to be something to sabotage his chances of success.

This is when I pull out…

… THE LIST.

The list of things that my friend, Ryan (the Wandering Menace), has forbidden me from talking about on a first date — the things that she assures me will likely cause the guy to back away slowly or, in the extreme case, to run for the hills.

Of course, I will share this list with you because I have no shame.

  • schrodinger’s equations
  • my dad’s gun collection
  • vintage video games
  • vintage computer games
  • star trek
  • vomiting
  • sock monogamy
  • crosswording
  • scrabble
  • the 3 M’s: menstruation, mucus, and Mythbusters

Ryan may have a point.

P.S.   I told you so.  See?  Rambling.  About nothing in particular.

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Mr. Normal

Bueller?…  Bueller?… Bueller?

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Ms. Self-Help Junkie

What do the French all do in August?  They go on holiday.

This is perfect for me actually.  I can feel less guilty about taking a holiday from dating Frenchmen.  I can tell myself that there aren’t any in Paris for me to date.

I am obviously full of shit, of course.  The truth of it is, I’m just burnt out.  So many first dates, so many idiot Parisian pansies, I’m just fed up.

But the numbers don’t lie, people.  There must be something wrong here.  It’s obviously not me, since I am clearly a shitfuckton of awesome.  So it must be a cultural thing, right?  Therefore, my new project for the coming months is to get to the bottom of this.

For the time being, I will no longer be reporting from the dating trenches.  I am confining myself to a desk for now.  I will be hitting the books, conducting written research and reporting back to you all about my findings.  I need to formulate new, better-informed strategies before relaunching Operation Date A Frenchman.

I must answer the following question: how do Parisians date?

My theory is that they just don’t.

Therein lies the problem.

As an American, I cherish structure and ritual.  First date.  Second date.  Third date.  General courtship.  Pragmatism.  EFFICIENCY.

…None of which seem to have any presence in Parisian dating culture.

In other words, as an American dating in Paris, I am essentially up shit creek without a paddle.  So as any desperate determined single lady would do in America, I get my ass into a bookstore and scour the self-help section.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Now, I remember what the self-help section of Borders in the USA looks like.  It’s enormous.  It’s a shrine to the American work ethic and our desire to better ourselves, even if it fucking kills us.  It is a kind of testament to our obsession with pulling ourselves up by our bootstraps.  It is, in a word, daunting.

However, here, I found myself staring at a small corner of the store next to the emergency exit.  And the light bulb was out.

And you know how there seem to be a plethora of books on dating and relationships in America?  Books on everything… first date etiquette, flirting, ‘The Game’, how to find your sugar-daddy, ‘The Rules’, etc.

Well, here I had to crane my neck to see the selection of a couple dozen titles on the top shelf.

That’s right, folks.

ONE SHELF.

And this is where it truly gets interesting…

The dating books can be divided into only two categories:

  1. books about how to find your dream mate
  2. books about how to prevent the relationship/marriage from utterly falling to bits.

There are NO titles that advertise advice about dating etiquette, about flirting, about online dating, texting, sexting, or anything specific about the nuts and bolts of dating as we Americans perceive it.  I’m looking at titles like:

  • What Men Really Think: Know Them and Land Them
  • How to Find the Man of Your Dreams
  • Where to Look for the Man of Your Dreams
  • Your Husband, He’s Out There!
  • How To Find Love
  • What You Need to Do to Attract your Ideal Man
  • Women Are Crazy
  • Divorce: How to Avoid It
  • Easy Ways To Maintain Your Relationship

This is what these titles seem to be saying to me:

  1. Hey, you single women, there is something seriously wrong with you.  Get a man already.  We’re gonna tell you how not to be a pathetic, sad sop.
  2. Men, it’s not that hard to land a women; they’re all desperate to have a boyfriend ASAP.  But relationships are hard, so here’s how you put up with her.

Awesome.

I thought to myself, how am I going learn to date à la française??  These books tell me how to get that first date but then skip immediately to how to deal with the relationship you got yourself into after that first date.  What the hell do they do in between?

I’ve never felt more… American.

But I said to myself, “Suck it up, Man-shopper.  You have a blog project.  And you’re a researcher, dammit.  Put those skills to good use.  And you know what they say… When in Rome…”

So I chose the book that seemed to offer the most comprehensive information about the dating process.  It is entitled, “How to Find the Man of Your Dreams.”  (Shut up.)

I admit that I was a little ashamed of being seen with this book, so I tried to be surreptitious about slipping off the top shelf.  But as I am petite and was off balance on my tippytoes, this embarrassing little book fell off the shelf and landed on my face.

This was not an auspicious start to my cultural education.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

I slid the book under my arm and scurried to the till.  I was greeted by a disgruntled-looking woman in her fifties.  She glanced at my neon pink book (yes, of course, it had to be neon pink), and she raised her eyebrows.

Disgruntled FNAC employee: “Oh, I have this book too!”

Man-shopper: “Really?  What did you think?  Will it help me find a man?”

Disgruntled FNAC employee: “You’re buying it for YOURSELF?”  She looked me up and down.  “You’re pretty.  Shouldn’t you already have a boyfriend?  Is there something wrong with you?”

Man-shopper: “Euhhh…”

Disgruntled FNAC employee: “Did you used to be fat?  Did you have a gastric bypass?  You look great!  Don’t worry, you’ll find a man now.”

Dear readers, this man-shopper has officially fallen down the Parisian rabbit hole.

God help me.

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Ms. Top Five

A couple of weeks ago, the illustrious and infamous Fishy of Plenty More Fish Out of Water published a brilliant little piece about the top five things that he looks out for on his first dates.  It was positively inspiring.

So in honor of Fishy’s work, I’ve decided to compile my own list.

After almost five months of countless first dates and one second date, I’m finally able to pinpoint five major issues that I look out for on a parisian first date…

(1)  Are my arms bigger than his legs?

Another variation of this question is: Can I bench-press him?

It wasn’t until I moved to Paris that this was ever an issue.

I don’t know what it is about the life here that it makes the men so… slight.  Could it be the diet?  Could it be that the women here are so tyrannically bitchy that they literally reduce their men into tiny little slivers of manhood leftovers?

I have no idea.

All I do know is that this size differential is unacceptable.

I simply can’t date someone who looks like an anorexic baby giraffe.  Case in point: Mr. Pretty Woman, whose upper arms were the size of my wrist.

(2)  Is he tall enough to go on the adult rides at Disneyland?

At a whopping 5’3″, I’ve never had a problem finding a guy who is taller than me.

But it’s shocking how difficult this is in Paris.

Shameful.

Comical even.

I’ve discovered that no amount of first-date drunkenness is enough for me to find a munchkin attractive.

And while Mr. Almost There was the closest I’ve ever come to a decent first date, he was a victim of severe munchkinosis, which could be to blame for his insecurities and for the patronizing asstardedness that he displayed on our second date.

Yes, I went on two dates with him.  I had to prove to myself that height wasn’t a deal-breaker for me.

As it turns out, it is a dealbreaker.  At least in Paris, anyway.

Am I superficial and utterly without substance?

Abso-fucking-lutely.

(3)  Is his COCKtail actually a COOCHtail?

Just because “cocktail” has the word “cock” in it, by no means does that make it acceptable for a grown man to order one on a date.

For the same reason that a lady shouldn’t break out her big buckets of crazy all at once, a man shouldn’t sabotage his chances of seeing a lady’s naked woman-bits by ordering glow-in-the-dark girly drinks.

Obvious, right?

Not in Paris.

ALL my dates, including all my speed-dates, have ordered ridiculous frilly concoctions.  (There was even a drink whose glass was fitted with a tiny light fixture that changed the color of the drink every ten seconds.)  Mr. Love-You-Long-Time really blew it when he ordered his Hello Kitty coochtail and belittled my beer-drinking ways.

Asstard.

(4)  Is he capable of talking about something OTHER than my asian-ness?

Yes.  I’m Asian.

Of all people, I’m the last person who needs to be reminded of this fact.

I especially don’t want to be reminded by some pasty creep who doesn’t know his asian from his arse.

As I’ve discussed before, I have nothing against the Asian fetish.  It’s something that I can use to my advantage in today’s cutthroat dating marketplace.

But please.

I don’t want to be called a geisha (see Mr. Metro Casanova), and I don’t want to receive pictures of a guy and his dim sum (see “the deal-breaker“).

And guys, if you happen to have a penchant for the slanty-eyed ladies such as myself, don’t screw it up by saying the shite that some of my parisian idiot-dates have come up with.

(5)  Do I have the urge to either vomit or to run away screaming?

Mr. Icky almost made me vomit… in his mouth.

And I’ve run away from not one, but THREE dates.

By “run away,” I don’t mean that I made my polite excuses and parted ways amicably but quickly.

I literally ran away.

Mr. Cheshire Cat was the incarnation of all my most terrifying childhood nightmares, and I bolted after drinking only a quarter of my pint.  Mr. Ten Minute Wonder was the shortest date in my entire dating history (and no, it wasn’t a speed date!); I backed out so quickly that I lost a glove, which I’m still very upset about.  And Mr. Crazy had me sprinting through metro doors as they closed, at which point I got stuck and had to get pulled through by the other passengers.

As far as I’m concerned, as long as a guy doesn’t make my digestive system run in reverse, and as long as he doesn’t force me to run in heels, it’s a good start to our relationship.

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So as far as standards go, mine have plummeted since I started this dating experiment.

On a first date, I’ve stopped prioritizing substantive things like intelligence, wit, ambition, generosity, openness, etc.

Apparently, to get a pass on a first date with me, a parisian guy just needs to do two things:

  • Fill out a suit that comes from the men’s clothing department — not the boy’s section
  • NOT FUCK IT UP

According to my data, this is next to impossible.

Who would’ve thought?

So as I finalize my social calendar for this coming weekend, I fully anticipate coming home empty-handed yet again and falling asleep alone to choruses of…

… next, next, next, next, next…

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