By Anthony Paull
OK, let’s just call a bitch a bitch and agree dating is a bitch. Yes, I’ve said it. Dating has each of us by our fabulously manicured balls, and sometimes it’s hard not to yelp when love tugs our hearts in all different directions.
Still, admittedly, we secretly enjoy the challenge and the bruises that come with the chase, don’t we? After all, we each come equipped with a seldom-spoken-about masochistic side to our hearts that quickly becomes bored upon being fed plain old vanilla after plain old vanilla.
So we dress our bandages, gather our artillery, and willingly enter the muddy battlefield – even though we know the odds are stacked against us. Still, it’s good to know there is a chance, no matter how small, for a Disney happy ending, isn’t there? So what’s the shame in multiplying your chance at love by multiplying your prospective suitors?
Yes Big-Mac Maniacs, stay with me! I’m talking about three dates at once! Supersizing your super-fat chance at love, love, love! What’s wrong with that? My friend Brandon is testing it out tonight. That’s why I can’t help but love him. He’s always thinking, thinking, thinking. Triple-scoop thinking: that’s Brandon. He’s throwing the biggest ice-sculpture party, the fanciest, dandiest affair on this sweet side of the planet, and tonight, he’s invited three potential love-making matches.
Now allow me to set up the scene. Think holiday party. Picture 50 of the most fabulous people drinking expensive champagne you can’t name and feasting on fragile candy canes while speaking of significant matters like the philosophical stance of Plato. That’s before they get shit-face drunk. When drunk happens, they pee down ice-sculptures and steal the Grey Goose from under the silver-glittered Christmas tree in the hair salon where the party is being held. That’s between you and me, though. Brandon doesn’t know that. He’s busy entertaining guests while his matches show up one by one.
The first guy is a wallflower with a buzzed-head and blue bumble-bee eyes who is staring so hard at the wall that he doesn’t notice the second guy, Mr. Look-At-Me, I’m a Lawyer, has just arrived. Everyone else notices, though. Mr. Lawyer, he makes sure of that, informing us that he’s an important lawyer over and over, like we couldn’t smell that stink on him from a mile away. That’s when the third guy shows up. Now, remember our talk of vanilla? Well, he’s kind of strawberry vanilla. He’s white, white, white with red hair and a white-collar job that affords him his heavily-starched white-collared shirt. My guess is Brandon won’t like him. He prefers his boys a tad dirtier. My conclusion: he’ll want the lawyer.
The problem is Mr. Vanilla wants Mr. Lawyer too. And soon, he begins to follow him around while Brandon is busily hosting the event. Now, the wallflower, he leaves in a maddened state when Mr. Lawyer informs him that he’s here on a date with Brandon, too. (That’s the great thing about lawyers – they’re so honest.) But who will miss the wallflower now that the nutcracker has arrived?
Who is the nutcracker, you ask?
Well, he’s a totally random guy who shows up on a drug-induced cloud and begins twisting everyone’s balls without permission.
“How cute. He’s in the holiday spirit,” someone remarks.
Me, I dodge the mistletoe when he begins dry-humping me from behind, and I slip on a puddle forming around the ice sculpture. That’s when I decide it’s time to leave. Outside, I find Brandon in a frustrated state. “What’s wrong?” I ask.
“Everything!” he spews. “Those two,” he says pointing toward Mr. Lawyer and Mr. Vanilla, “have been talking all night. And my other date left pissed off.”
He’s so upset I don’t have the heart to joke with him about the piss-tainted ice sculpture. So we remain quiet, looking to the inside of the salon as if it were a fishbowl. The nutcracker, he’s bumping into people, attempting a game of pocket ping-pong with every man in the room, and the other folks, though equally drunk, know the party is over and begin to clear out.
So what have we learned this fine evening? Well, we learned that having three dates on one night is kind of like using three condoms for one night of sex. Basically, if one fits, why need the rest? You surely won’t improve your chance at protection. Your heart is equally at risk of being hurt whether you’re dating one, two or three guys. Tonight, instead of improving his odds at finding the right guy, Brandon multiplied his heartbreak by three because he was too busy to focus on one. And who can blame him?
These days, we’re so time-sensitive we can’t help but find innovative ways to multi-task in each facet of our daily lives. We expect our phones to take pictures and grant us Internet access. So why not save time in finding a mate? Well, because like your phone, you should be more concerned if your relationship can stand the test of time rather than worry about the time it will take to find the right match.
And next time, with hope, Brandon will be wise enough to choose quality over quantity, and if not, the nutcrackers of the world will be waiting.