WELCOME TO INTUITIONS Speed Date Night. I've read the sign a thousand times while debating on whether I’ll be walking inside. Like an ass, I'm sitting in my parked truck wondering why I agreed to come to this joke of a night. The owner’s wallets are full of green; there's no doubt about it. At least a hundred cars are parked here that belong to chumps like me who paid the two-hundred-dollar fee.
I keep asking myself, “Why am I doing this?”
For Jade. After I gave it some thought and looked at the price of this shindig, I called her to say hell no, I’m not going, but she once again convinced me that this is a good idea. She said, “You have to come. It will be so much fun. And maybe you’ll actually pick someone to go on a date with instead of ignoring all your matches.”
My response was, “Because your date with Linc went so well?”
She shocks me when she says, “Well, you were right. He wasn’t my match, and I need some spice in my life desperately. That’s why I need you with me but not with me, with me.”
After one week, she has all the guys at the job site eating out of her palm. Each one of them will eat dirt if she asks, and her eyes get big and her lips turn into a pout. It made me imagine all the guys at the speed date doing the same and I don’t like the thought of it. Then I remember how her big green doe eyes looked at me and pleaded earlier, I caved. Again.
Even though she wants me here, she said there are rules. One being, we would not drive here together. Or walk through the door together. In fact, she told me we aren't supposed to talk to one another or make eye contact until we are put at the little table with one another.
Later that night, she texted me the link to the actual rules to read over—the ones that Intuitions had on their signup sheet. Women are not allowed to wear pants, but casual dresses and skirts are fine. For us men, jeans are fine as long as they are dressy, and we must wear a jacket. Ties are not required, thank fuck. At first, we will be corralled into a waiting area and separated by sex, which makes us sound like cattle. I laughed at that because it basically is … a male and female meat market. After that, we will be corralled into rooms according to age. It looks like I’ll be prime grade in the twenty-five to thirty-five group. Okay, maybe that is a good thing. I’m right around that time of my life when clubbing is not cool, but I’m not quite in the zone of having game night with the neighbors.
Everyone will choose a number from the bowl, and that table is our first stop. At each table is a list of prepared questions that are supposed to help break the ice. That’s the most fucking ridiculous thing I’ve heard of. Dating is not prepared notes; it’s spontaneity. Unless the world has decided boring is all the rage.
Each couple will get seven minutes to answer those questions. At the beginning and end of those minutes, a bell will ring, letting us know when to move to the next table. What they are basically telling me is that some pathetic fuck—that’s me—gets to sit with a woman for seven minutes, thinking he might have a chance at taking her home, only to have a buzzer tell us to move along. What the actual fuck? There must be something in this document that states after this you may need therapy because your self-esteem is about to take a nosedive.
It just keeps getting better. If at any time you and the person you are partnered with decide you are interested in one another, the man is to offer a flower to the woman and move to the party room upstairs. How will that work? In less than seven minutes, I’m supposed to decide that this chick is “the one”?
The last rule is to have a good time. I doubt it, but I’ll try really hard to. Sarcasm is going to be loud tonight because I did the math. For four hours, I would meet thirty to thirty-four women, one less than that for me if I didn’t count Jade. Instead of thinking I have the potential of meeting all these beautiful women, I’m wondering how many terrible first dates I will go on. It’s my fault, though. I was dumb enough to agree, pay, and then read the fine print. If I could have, I would have demanded a refund for both of us. But the little asterisk at the bottom nixed that thought. *All sales are final.
Then I get the text from her. I’m inside.
It’s now or never. I head toward the hotel where this “event” is being held, and the whole cattle thing comes into play. The dating service took the no peeking at the merchandise very seriously. Men go down a separate hallway from the women. I get my fancy name tag and my number, five. At least it’s my lucky number. I still have ten minutes until go time, and we are allowed one drink, so I pick whiskey straight up. My phone buzzes once again just as I’m about to down my drink.
Jade: This is going to be so much fun.
Me: I thought we weren’t supposed to talk to one another.
Jade: We’re texting not talking.
Me: I think rule ten clearly stated no cell phones.
Jade: Sometimes it’s fun to live on the wild side.
I chuckle. If this is her rebelling, she needs to get out more.
Me: My middle name is Rebel.
Jade: No, it’s not.
Me: How do you know?
Jade: It’s on your profile.
Damn. I didn’t bother to read anyone’s profile. We didn’t give our last names for obvious reasons, but middle names were optional.
Jade: I like Clark. It reminds me of Superman.
She just took my horrible middle name and made me proud of it. My entire life, I hated that name.
“Sir, no phones are allowed.” The chick wearing the Intuitions shirt reminds me.
Me: You just got me in trouble.
Jade: Sorry not sorry. See you soon, Superman.
“In just a moment, we are going to bring you to the dining hall. The tables are all marked with numbers, and you are to head directly over to the number you drew. There will be no asking your question with your match until the bell rings. Remember, this is quick and to the point. Oh, and happy dating.”
Jesus, just get us out of here. Looking around the room, I see a decent mix of men for Jade to pick from. Short, tall, bald, and big. But the amount of cologne in here is starting to drive me crazy.
Me: Bring on the ladies. Are they hot?
Jade: You’re a pig.
Me: Oink oink, Foxy.