Two More Things NOT To Do When Picking Up a Guy

Lovelies:

Yesterday, I was telling you about all the things I did wrong whilst picking up a dude on Halloween.

If you'll recall:

1) I invited a complete and total stranger to hop into my car. (Not safe.)

2) I invited a complete and total stranger to come along with my friends and me to a party. (Not exactly safe, either--and certainly not a primo example of playing hard to get.)

3) I chatted up another stranger at a bar while the first stranger bought me a drink. (Not cool. Not polite. Not gracious.)

Despite all of my idiotic behavior, however ... The Painter (from Portland) whom I'd picked up on the side of the road was still with me many hours later, acting as my co-pilot as he and I headed over to Party #3.

Oh, but I wasn't done yet! En route, I committed another error ... which brings me to the FOURTH thing you shouldn't do if you're trying to pick a dude up.

4) DO *NOT* TELL HIM ABOUT OTHER PEOPLE YOU'RE SORT OF DATING.

(ESPECIALLY NOT IF THEY ARE IN ANY WAY RESPONSIBLE FOR THE SAFETY OF THE NEW YORK CITY POPULACE.)

As The Painter and I were heading over to the third blow-out (listening to Staring at the Sea on the way), he asked me about my writing. I told him that in addition to having recently finished a first novel, I write a

blog. I went on to inform him that if he ever read the thing, he'd find out

that (a) I have a somewhat romantic friendship percolating (with one Barnaby Jepperboom) and (b) that I have also been idiotically preoccupied with a guy who is clearly just not that into me (one Baby Fireman).

Perhaps I don't have to tell you that it's quite stupid to tell any guy you're even halfway interested in about your other (not-quite) lovers.

Wouldn't you agree?

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Finally, one last thing NOT to do if you're hitting on a dude ...

5) DO *NOT* MAKE HIM FEEL LIKE YOU'RE A CRADDLE-ROBBER.

The third party was a bust. Many people were floating around in good

costumes: one woman was dressed as a mime, with a tear painted on her

white face, a striped shirt and funny pantaloons; and there was also a

disturbing Papa Smurf, sporting a gratuitous enormous blue erection. But despite the festiveness, there weren't many people left, and everyone who remained was

totally wasted.

The Painter and I took off almost immediately. I drove

him home, and when we got to his place, we sat in the car on the corner

for a few minutes, wrapping up. Hoping I

hadn't committed any statutory crimes that night, I asked him how old he was. He made me guess.

"I have no idea," I said. "Tell me this: Are you breaking your curfew by being out this late?"

He groaned.

"25?" I guessed.

He groaned louder.

"What? ... 27?"

He didn't like

that answer either.

"23?" I asked. He grabbed his heart like

someone had stabbed him. "Do I really seem that young?" he asked.

I told him he didn't, not really, but since he'd

mentioned college more than once, it made me think he might have

graduated recently.

He told me he was 28. And I admitted I was

... older than that.

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Despite all my missteps, however, before he got out of the car,

he asked what the deal was. Like, were we going to hang out again? I

shrugged and said I didn't see why not. So The Painter got my number

and ... that's that.

Think I'll ever hear from him?

xxx!

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-Lyonaria: Ha, ha! I was only teasing. But thank you. (xxx) Sounds like I should check out the Bloggess.

-Topaz: You might be right ...

-Chessenia, hermanita: gracias, mami! (Can you call any woman mami, btw? Or do they have be a certain age?)

-Paris: Good! I'm glad you're getting some flirting study time in. (Any thoughts on what kind of worked, what didn't?) Keep us posted. (Also, to be fair, the Painter didn't really throw a tantrum as much as he just walked calmly away ... I just felt like I'd been wildly impolite.)