All told, I’d expected more wookies.
As I glanced around the interior of The Sin Bin, Pale Ale in one hand, brochure in the other, I had to admit, I was disappointed. Where were the women with detached earlobes? Cold sores? Obvious physical retardations? I’d arrived expecting a whole slew of evolutionary disadvantages, and yet there was, I noted with dissatisfaction, not even so much as a cleft palate amongst the lot. In fact, I realized with rising panic, not only were there no wookies, but, in a cruel turn of fate, many of these women were downright attractive.
All the same, I remained alert. I was, after all, at a Speed-Dating night, and I thought it best to be prepared for disappointment
Beside me, DJ StrangeLove took a slug of his 1516.
“Man,” he grinned, “this is gonna be epic.”
He was practically rubbing his hands with glee.
“Now, remember: Speed-Dating is essentially a first-impressions game. It’s an opportunity to practice all the things we’ve been talking about. And with all these men here competing with one another it’ll give us a chance to school you on another important aspect of pickup: as your skills improve, you’ll become more and more likely to experience the Silverback.”
“What’s a Silverback?”
“It’s the lowest form of male behaviour. It comes in many shapes: patting you on the back too hard, making statements that belittle you, or even resorting to outright lies or making fun of you in order to outrank you in front of chicks. It’s all instinctive. We evince behaviour typical of mammals, in that men display and women select. Women are drawn to strength and status, so that display can involve anything from physical prowess to humour to skills in conversation, but if another dude’s display outdoes yours, you’re pretty much evolutionarily bound to challenge it.”
“So, a cock-block,” I offered.
“Exactly. Except, more often than not, it doesn’t work. Chicks see through it, and then they don’t want anything to do with either of you. To really Silverback somebody, you’ve got to be more subtle: Touch him repeatedly to show physical dominance. Get him to repeat himself, even if you heard him, and especially if it’s a joke. Or, better yet, get him on your side. Sometimes, the most emasculating thing you can say to another man is a compliment. It gets him working for your approval, and suddenly, instead of a competitor, you’ve got a sidekick.”
I must have looked worried, because he put a hand on my shoulder.
“You ready?”
“Oh, dude,” I grinned, “don’t you worry about me. Just try and keep up, okay?”
“Ha! Buddy has a one-night stand at a campground, and suddenly he’s Steve McQueen!”
“Damn right.”
“Well, in that case, care to have a little Gentlemen’s Wager?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, we need something to motivate you to do your best. Nothing much. No cash. No consequences. Just whoever happens to get the most phone-numbers is the winner.”
I paused.
“But -”
DJ StrangeLove leaned forward, his face stern.
“I had one condition, Ian.”
“Fine,” I snapped, “you’re on.”
“Don’t worry. Monday nights are usually the easiest.”
“Hold on. You’ve been before?”
“Buddy. I’m here once a week.”
“What? Why?”
He shrugged.
“Gotta keep the skills sharp.”
A moment later, we were corralled into a back room where Craig, our host, a tall fellow with model good-looks, explained the rules. The men remained standing while the women sat at tables, each behind a sign that corresponded to a letter of the alphabet.
“You have five minutes each,” Model Craig instructed, “and, once you hear the sound of the gong, the gentlemen must move to the next lady in line. You each have a checklist in front of you with one another’s names on it. At the end of each date, tick ‘Yes’ or ‘No’. If there’s a spark, we’ll forward your contact info.”
“Jesus,” DJ StrangeLove whispered, nudging me in the ribs, “so much for male competition.”
And he was right.
As we stood, packed together in the tiny back room, it quickly became apparent that while the women seemed, for the most part, attractive and confident, my male competition was a wee bit flaccid.
Simply put, these guys made me look like Don fucking Juan.
There was the quiet half-Mexican fellow who seemed physically incapable of eye-contact with anything other than the floor; the duo of Persian men sporting too much cologne and polyester shirts open to the sternum; and the shifty chap standing alone in the corner who looked, despite his rather prominent brow, an awful lot like an Indo-Canadian Eric Bana. It was as though The Roxy had spontaneously collided with a comic-book convention.
Confidence soaring, I glanced down at the tacky handout I’d received (as well as, I noted with satisfaction, a free drink and appetizer), which bore the words “Dater’s Survival Guide” in block letters, and below it, a quote:
I fought the urge to gag.
Then, Model Craig instructed us to sit, struck a small gong, and off we went.
I don’t remember much about Letter A, except that the minute I tried to sit, I immediately tripped over -then spent the next sixty seconds locked in mortal combat with a chair that had spontaneously thrown itself into my path. It was one of those falls that seemed to go on forever: feet kicking, limbs flailing like I was some kind of grotesque, fleshy windmill. By the time I’d fixed it with a sound drubbing and seated myself, our five minutes was up.
Letter B’s name was Anne, and she had unusually small teeth.
“Hey,” I said, shaking her hand, “this is already much better than my last introduction.”
Letter C was named Natalia.
“I’m from Russia,” she explained.
Unfortunately, due to the noise level in the room, coupled with the near-total retardation I experience when confronted with attractive women, I misheard her country of origin.
“Brushia?” I asked, “where is that, exactly?”
She raised an eyebrow.
Two seats away, I saw DJ StrangeLove giving Letter A a hug.
“I came down to support my buddy Ian,” I heard him say, “he was pretty nervous about going alone.”
“Aw,” Letter A grinned, “that’s so cute. Yeah, he seems totally nervous.”
They laughed.
I couldn’t believe it.
So much for a Gentlemen’s Wager.
Letter D was Tonya, a Filipino girl in frumpy jeans and a faded t-shirt, who looked to be greatly pushing the boundaries of the 25-35 age bracket.
“What’s new in your life these days?” I asked.
“Nothing,” she replied, then glanced across the room at a friend of hers, as if I’d just, with nothing more than my presence, made some kind of meaningful point about the whole experience.
Two seats back, DJ StrangeLove and Letter B were engaged in an arm-wrestle.
Letter E’s name was Shannon. She had close-cropped hair and giggled a lot.
Letter F was Jenine. She had taken the time to match her eyeshadow to the exact shade of her grey powersuit and, when I listed gardening among my hobbies, patted me on the shoulder with a consoling, “Awww.”
This marked the first and only occasion I’ve ever been cock-blocked by someone without a penis.
Letter G introduced herself as Linzi. We got along rather well and, for the first time that night, when the gong sounded I felt that it hadn’t been enough time.
Two seats away, DJ StrangeLove and Letter E were having some kind of high-five contest.
I scowled deeply.
What was he going to do next? Pull a rabbit out of his ass?
No doubt about it: there was fuckery afoot.
And, just like that, it was Intermission. I joined the crowd at the bar, hoping in vain that one of the free appetizers might be vegetarian.
“Ian! How’s it hangin’!” DJ StrangeLove bellowed.
“What the fuck, man?” I snarled, “I’m out there just trying to get through this thing without vomiting, and you’re silverbacking me?”
He shrugged.
“When these situations come up in real life, you don’t have time to think. You need to practice it just like anything else. Besides, it’s not like any of these assholes were going to do it.”
Then, he left me to fume while he wandered off in search of Yam Fries.
“So, how are you finding it?”
It was Natalia.
“Great,” I replied. “How’s Brushia?”
This time, she laughed.
Hey, if I was going to screw up, at least I was going to own it.
“It’s so great you came down. Your friend said you were totally nervous.”
I bristled.
“Oh, didhe?” I snorted.
“Yeah. He’s so funny. Are you guys brothers?”
I shook my head emphatically.
“No.”
I went into the second half of the evening with a vendetta. If DJ StrangeLove was going to silverback me, I thought, I’d silverback him right back.
So, I began doing the cruelest thing I could think of: stealing his routines.
“Pound it,” I said to Letter H, then made disparaging remarks about her technique.
“How are you?” she asked, giggling.
“Oh, I’d say about one-and-a-half thumbs up.”
Letter I’s name was Donya, and she was easily the best-looking girl in the room.
“Did you come here with somebody?” she asked.
“Yeah,” I said, pointing at DJ StrangeLove, “he’s a great guy. It took some work to get him out of his parents’ basement for tonight, but I finally convinced him.”
Letters J and K were a pair of demure, immaculately dressed Asian piano teachers from Richmond named Yumi and Lucille, whose outfits matched more than they should have. We had little to say, with the ultimate awkward moment coming from Lucille, who asked, after a lengthy pause in the conversation: “Do you like music?” We exchanged a few recommendations and, as I looked over one shoulder, I noticed with satisfaction that DJ StrangeLove was getting skeptical looks from Donya.
Letter K was Marta, and when we discovered a mutual appreciation for SQL (the database language), we engaged in a geekout of truly epic proportions.
When I looked back, I realized that DJ StrangeLove had brought in an entire basket of yam fries from the bar and now sat casually munching on them with the Asian piano teachers.
My self-esteem plummeted.
Letter L was Starla. She laughed at absolutely everything I said.
Letter M was close to 300 lbs, had a dolphin tattoo, the look of a party-girl who was ten years past her prime, and made a number of outlandish claims — among them that she had once been a tennis champion, and that she was twenty-five.
As I glanced back, I saw DJ StrangeLove and Letter K finishing the tray of yam fries. They caught me looking and both burst into gales of laughter.
Silverbacked.
Letter N was the final stop of the evening. Her name was Jenna, and she had an unusual fascination with the hula-hoop. In fact, it was such a fascination that, by the time the final gong had sounded, she was so deep into her monologue on the subject that I couldn’t leave.
“I can get up to one hundred revolutions no problem,” she grinned, “and that’s not even on a good day. Life is so much simpler when it’s just you and your hoop.”
I nodded helplessly. By now, the others were filing out, and Model Craig was beginning to tidy up. I wanted desperately to escape, to get outside, to have a few follow-up chats with women I’d met who weren’t completely insane, but no matter what I said, she’d managed to completely trap me on the other side of the table.
When DJ StrangeLove finally came and rescued me, close to ten minutes later, everyone was gone. I cursed Jenna and her wretched hula hoop, checked off my dating card (answering “Yes” to every single person) and left the building in total disgrace.
Two days later, I received my matches.
I didn’t dare open the email, for fear of the certain humiliation that was soon to follow, so instead, I left it for close to three days, cringing each time I went through my inbox, swearing I would delete it in a day or two. That is, until I got a call from DJ StrangeLove.
“Ian,” he boomed, “how’d you do?”
“Dude, I haven’t even looked.”
“Well, that’s too bad,” he chuckled. “because I got three matches.”
Suddenly, in a moment of rage, I opened the email, and scanned its contents. And, to my surprise, there were a number of names:
Anne, Linzi, Starla, Marta and, most unusually of all, Lucille.
“Shame,” I replied, “because I got five.”
Then, I hung up the phone.
Silverbacked.
This was one of my favorites…PS: “It was as though The Roxy had spontaneously collided with a comic-book convention”…amazing.
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