That Speed Date With A Twist

I’ve always been a fan of speed dating because it epitomizes everything about relationships and life. You’re constantly moving, you meet multiple people, you’ll probably lie and everyone is bound to a time limit.

When I was told that there was going to be a speed date with a twist at The Butter Factory, I saw this as brilliant mid-week anecdote to dust off some ring rust from all the docile nights I’ve diligently controlled myself.

Not that I was expecting this to be an antecedent affair that was going to climax into anything more than mere handshakes, or maybe the boys were hoping for some happy ending to this, but I made very clear on what our objectives for the night were; trash talking and lying – lots of it.

If there was any college course on this, I would have been inducted into the educational ranks as a professor. So I spent the afternoon running through some simple introductory and conversational cues with them.

Me: “I believe for a relationship to succeed, there needs to be trust, commitment and anal sex.”

Me: “Do you believe in God? How about ass rims?”

Me: “I think people need to see beyond the superficial and get to know people more personally. On a scale of one to ten, how good is your blowjob?”

The plan for us was simple. To go there, get drunk and be a total asshole. The guys came up with some lines of their own and for a brief moment, I saw how brightly they shone – maybe it was the afternoon sun-, and knew tonight was going to be something really special.

When we got there, we did 4 quick rounds of Absolut Mandarin shots with Red Bull for courage and to ease things into gear. Then a quick brief followed over cigarettes and I soon assumed the role of inventor of speed pourers, Poca’s family created tongs, Nana was the heir of a family rock glass fortune, HY sold ice buckets and D2 peddles tables.

Back at our table, I greeted the first two girls that came over then introduced them – wrongly by name, how silly of me – to the rest of them. Then I stuffed two flutes of champagne to them.

Me: “Have a drink. And I think it’s only appropriate that you know that I’m a child sex offender.”

Her face cringed like it was soaked in salt water since Christmas and silence. I had one less friend for the night.

The guys tried their hands with a group of girls who were killing all erections with their dancing on the dance floor.

D2: “Are you girls from Ngee Ann Poly?”
Girl: “We are from RJC.”
RotiPrata: “So are you the type that thinks you’re smarter than everyone else?”
Girl: “Yes.”

I shook my head in disappointment. Maybe the boys are new at this. Maybe there isn’t enough champagne or vodka in them yet, but this isn’t the way to talk to women –not for this night at least.

I waved for that same girl to come over,

Me: “I just need you to know that we are former sex offenders.”
Girl: “From where?”
Me: “Go away.”

Then there was that one Whale that walked by holding a beer.

Me: “Stay away from carbohydrates!”
She: “FUCK YOU!” [middle finger]

Then there was the one with the mole on her arm.

Me: “I LOVE YOUR TATTOO!!”

She turned to me, smiled then came over.

She: “But I don‘t have a tattoo.”
Me: “Don’t lie! You have the whole world on your arm!”

I pointed to the roundish mole on the arm.

Me: “It’s like looking at us from NASA’s point.”
She: “It’s not a tattoo, it’s a birthmark.”

Okay, so is this what they call it these days? A birthmark?

I was having a ball of a time because I was lying through my teeth about inventing speed pourers and being a writer for a pornographic magazine and the girls stopped believing things that were coming out of me.

Then at the end, one of them came up to me and said,

“I don’t think any of my friends want to talk to you anymore.”