Nate B.
Yelp
Most of my dates end successfully. I don't say this to brag. It's the truth. An excruciatingly stylish, painfully handsome, impossibly classy gent like me has a hard time failing in seduction. It's my art. It's my burden, too, I know. We all have one to bear. Yours is probably something else.
One key tactic - aside from nice teeth and well-groomed sideburns - to unlocking an incessantly-winning track record like mine is selecting the right joint to work the craft on a date. I frequently tell my disciples to pick a relaxed atmosphere, an upscale experience, something not flashy. Divulge your refined sense of taste but don't flaunt it, I say.
Time and time again, I lure a dame to the Richardson, a relaxed, upscale, but not flashy bar with good house drinks and a small but well-developed menu. Because it's the only game I have, I ask, "have you ever heard about Yelp"? And they say "Yeah." And I say "I occasionally write reviews on Yelp."
"Are you a writer?" she typically asks. "Like a Chaucer of chow, Balzac of bites, the Rabelais of regional restaurant reviews," I respond, regardless of what she actually asked. Chicks dig guys who can read books or reference lyrics from the Broadway hit The Music Man, which I just did.
Doe-eyed and already breathless from impending mental exhaustion, the date inevitably asks for recommendations. "One word for you, sister," I say. "Gravlax Platter."
Soon we're ordering deviled eggs and pickles. I try to eat only 3 of the 4 eggs on the plate. We alternate turns stabbing briny cucumbers with our toothpicks. Things really heat up and it's on to cheeses. Maybe cured meats too, if she's not said something about not eating animals because of "ethical principles", a common Williamsburg type. Who has time for principles? Neither one of us has breath to be shared in polite company after these small plates. All standards are out the door. Game on.
I think I'm pacing myself over a few Big Red One cocktails but really, you can't. They're too potent. I'm using the smoothest conversational skills. I escalate, going for the kill.
"I have a bicycle," I say.
"Oh," she says. "That's... nice."
"I work in the arts industry and often with non-profits, trying to do good for the disadvantaged rather than profit purely by gaming the financial system."
She checks her phone to look for that bail-out call or text from her friends.
I continue on, ask about her family, where she's from, what her most traumatic childhood memory is, what she would do if the zombie apocalypse happened tomorrow, and how many times she's seen Scarface.
Having completely worn her down, I make my move. She rejects it. I accept the new challenge.
"Can I call you?"
"No," she says.
"What if I email you?"
"No, not that either."
"How about Facebook? Can I..."
"No."
"Right. You find me," I say, "Let me give you my name." And I spell out my 11 character, unfortunately too-Polish last name. She's stopped paying attention at the "szew" part. I don't know why it's not a considered a sexy ethnic group to the average American, like the Bulgarians are, in spite of radiant counterexamples such as myself.
In the case that she's not sneaked out the bathroom window or alternate exit by now, she gets up at this point. Holding back tears as she reflects on that childhood memory I dredged up before, as she walks for the door and leaves me to pay the check, violently, aimlessly, swatting at the air in a way I read as an aroused goodbye wave, I think about how I'm going to cyberstalk her tomorrow.
Broseph, let me tell you, I am so good at this.
