First dates are tough. Those first couple minutes of conversation completely shape your opinion of a person. On my first date with Brandon, things started out badly: Brandon was wearing cargo shorts. On a date. With me.
So I did what any reasonable person would: I fucked Brandon just to get him out of those god-forsaken cargo shorts.
Why did I go to such great lengths to save this lost angel?
Sure, Brandon had the body of a Disney prince and his smile could dazzle any girl into a coma. In fact, he was even hotter in person than he was in his Tinder pictures. But, to be very clear, that’s not why I slept with Brandon. I’m not that shallow! I slept with him to know the real Brandon, the Brandon who didn’t don garb he got on sale at Old Navy in 2005.
Why didn’t he tell me up front that he owned cargo shorts? Obviously, he deliberately omitted that from our conversation. Instead, he just kept talking about all the volunteering he does with kids and old people and his commitment to provide legal support to immigrant communities. Boring! He owed it to me to be upfront about any horrific clothing he might wear on our date, and he fucking blew it. I mean, what was he carrying in those huge, unnecessary pockets? What was he hiding in there?
After about 15 minutes, I ran out of small talk and could only concentrate on the shorts. What other offensive fashion choices was he hiding in those pockets? Hemp bracelets? Puka shells? Livestrong bracelets? Infinite possibilities flew through my mind as I struggled to keep normal conversation afloat. Before those thoughts came to my mouth, I blurted, “HEY BRANDON MY APARTMENT IS LIKE FIVE BLOCKS FROM HERE WANT TO TAKE YOUR PANTS OFF?”
Finally, I could get to know the real Brandon. The Brandon with a reasonable number of pockets.
We got back to my place. At the first kiss, I went to rip his pants off—“Whoa,” he said, “Maybe we should take it slow? I mean, we just met.”
But I couldn’t. I opened my mouth to explain, but all I could say was, “Pockets. Pockets. So many. Pockets.” He laughed. I finally, swiftly, took off his shorts, doused them in lighter fluid, and set them aflame on my back porch. I told him pant-burning was a sex thing I’m into, so if we ever sleep together again I guess I’m locked into that but that’s fine.
The sex itself was mediocre at best, and ultimately Brandon was a total snooze. But seeing Brandon without those frumpy, knee-length shorts covered in mid-thigh pockets? It was the most honest first date I’ve ever had. Some may call it drastic measures.
I, however, call it a moment of enlightenment.
