Brought to you by the Penn Group

First, let me put a little disclaimer on the title; I’m not the sorry embodiment of why one should not drink and date, in fact, lucky me, it was my date who did the drinking. If I was the culprit, I don’t think I’d be able to recount the experience to you in lucid terms. (end of disclaimer)

I had been going through somewhat of a “dry spell” (no pun intended) and I hadn’t been on a date in quite some time. My girlfriends tried to boost my ego, saying that guys must be intimidated by me. “Wonderful!” I thought, “I scare them away! That’s so much better than them just not being interested...” Oh well, my friends do their best. I went home for Christmas for a much needed respite. Home was a place where dating was a non-issue. I could simply lounge in scruffy, comfortable clothes in peace, eating chocolate and not worry one little morsel about my dating difficulties. It was a neutral zone. When the time came to return to school, I felt refreshed, and excited about the prospect of beginning anew, so to speak. New classes meant new people, and therefore new potential dates.

On the first day of one of my new classes, I made my best effort to look as spiffy as possible, but that very moderate, subtle zone, so as not to give the impression of desperation. Trust me, people can smell desperation a mile away. The stench is worse than B.O. in the subway. But I digress... I scanned the relatively small classroom for any potential, and then BAM! Emeril Lagasse-style, I was hit in the face with the visage of one of the most attractive, well-groomed guys I had ever beheld in my college career, in my life for that matter. He was lanky, tall, and was actually wearing a button down shirt with slacks, a definite rarity. He had sleek, tortoise-shell glasses perched on the bridge of his nose, and looked like quite the studious young man. Just my type. At the beginning of class, we all went around and introduced ourselves; his name... was Damon. What a name! It fit so perfectly with his preened but just-funky-enough appearance. When it came time to introduce myself, I noticed Damon smiling at me, shyly, and I smiled right back. Someone had to do something at the end of the inevitably-interminable two hours.!

And Damon did. After class, he walked up to me, and introduced himself again. He, of course, had remembered my name. We chatted a bit, which only confirmed my infantile crush, and the chat was wrapped up perfectly with a non-awkward, smooth exchange of numbers.

Damon must have been quite eager, because he rang my cellphone about two hours later, and asked me if I wanted to go to a bar near his place. I had nothing else to do (and even if I did, it would probably be canceled...) so I agreed enthusiastically.

We met in front of the bar around 10:30 pm. Damon looked wonderful, and I’d like to think that I did as well... we headed into the bar, and Damon asked me what I would like to drink, like a gentleman does. I ordered a glass of wine, being the prude that I am, and Damon proceeded to order a whiskey, straight up. I was impressed. He looked like a lightweight to me, but this guy apparently knew what he was doing. Our conversation began as a pleasant one about politics, art, culture; thank god we didn’t have to talk about football. Damon was a political science major, and obviously knew what he was talking about.

As the night drew on, and several whiskies-straight up for Damon, the conversation became less and less interesting. Damon seemed far more interested in my chest area than in politics, and he began to do a Jeykll to Hyde transformation right in front of my eyes. Suddenly, the witty, intelligent Damon began to turn in to a slurring, unkempt, incomprehensible mess. I persisted, hoping it was only a phase of drunkenness, and that it would later turn into a proclivity for existentialist drivel, or something that I was more capable of handling. An hour went by, and Damon suddenly didn’t look so good. I asked him if he was all right, and of course, he said he was absolutely fine, but that he wanted to take me outside. I thought fresh air would be good for him, but apparently, it wasn’t. As soon as we stepped over the door’s threshold, Damon released all his drinks and probably all his meals on to the sidewalk, and proceeded to pass out, knocking me over backwards into the bar.

Needless to say, I didn’t call Damon again.

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