Dateline: "I don't like fellatio tutorials on a first date..."

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Female, 21, talent agent
with
Male, 28, medical resident

7:30 p.m. - I furiously ruffle through my drawers to find a pair of clean underwear. I haven't done laundry in weeks, and today's outfit of jeans and an old knit sweater with a small hole in the armpit is a testament to my desperation to find the only clean outfit I have. Tonight is my first date in months.

7: 45 - My phone vibrates violently. I shriek out loud to no one in particular. "Hey, so lets meet at Death and Co in East Village. Be there by 8:15," he texts.

8:10 - I've finally managed to detangle my mane into a respectable ponytail. I furiously race out the door, buttoning my coat as I wait for the elevator. I met this guy one week ago waiting for the bus. His credentials read like a resume that my mother would be extremely proud of: tall, Indian, med student, comes from a wealthy family.

8:30 - "I'm so sorry I'm late, I just got out of work late!" I exclaim nervously as I lean in for an awkward-ass hug.

"No problem," he says."I put our names down, but the wait is at least forty-five minutes. Want to walk down the street and just pop into another bar?" He shoves his hands into his coat pockets; it's so cold his breath lingers in the air even after he is done speaking. I nod and we begin walking down Avenue A.

8:38 - "Let's just pop in here," he says, holding the door to an unmarked bar.

8:45 - I step inside to see only men sitting at the bar, some on each others' laps. I look up to the TV behind the bar; it's broadcasting a man giving another man a blowjob. We're in a gay bar.

8:46 - "Can we choose a different bar?" I ask, visibly perturbed.

"Why, are you homophobic?" He raises an eyebrow, cocking his head slightly.

"Absolutely not, I just don't like fellatio tutorials on a first date." I grunt, annoyed at his accusation.

8:48 - "Aw, you are so innocent," he coos, putting his arm around me and guiding me out of the bar.We walk in silence for a few minutes until I see a mixology bar I had visited in the past and immediately race inside to break the cloud of awkwardness around us.

9:00 - We are seated at a corner table looking through menus built around Christmas cocktails, and the conversation turns to typical date topics: backgrounds, future plans, and the like.

9:15 - "I'm fascinated by infectious diseases, but more so in animals than humans," he explains, sipping some frothy drink. "I'm really passionate about animal rights. In fact, when I finish my residency, I don't even want to practice medicine. I want to work for animal rights organizations."

9:20 - He continues to explain his disdain for treating people, and how his heart really beats for the forgotten animals, like lizards and cockroaches. I switch to vodka, opting out of any more fruity cocktails.

9:26 - He continues: "I'm also a strict vegetarian and I don't believe in animal products."

9:28 - "I think chickens are on Earth for the sole purpose of being eaten," I proclaim, tipsily. I place my leather bag on the table and stroke it gently. This date is not going well.

9:30 - Finally, we steer away from scary topics like the future and amphibians. We order some food — I make sure mine is chicken to avoid sharing.

10:00 - We exchange stories, and he regales me with the time a stripper gave him a lap dance and got her period simultaneously, as evidenced by a dark spot on his jeans.

10:45 - I'm sufficiently drunk, and realizing that this is the last time I want to see Lizard Boy again. I slur something about a dire need to go home, citing a lot of work tomorrow. Tomorrow happens to be Sunday.

11:00 - He attempts to pay the bill, but the feminist in me adamantly wants to split it.

"My mother says if a man pays the bill he usually wants something in return," I stupidly admit. "Plus, you didn't even eat the chicken," I follow up, trying to temper my that statement.

11:01 - He smirks, and acquiesces.

11:30 - I sit in my bed, still surrounded by clothing from earlier. I dial Dominos.

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