One of my biggest pet peeves is an inappropriate act of intimacy on a first date. In my books – or blogs – groping, kissing and talking graphically about sex (or one’s virility) are top on the list of first date no-no’s and are only acceptable if the woman overtly leads things in that direction – in which case she is likely either drunk, a slut, or both.
I recently met a 53-year old divorced man from Del Mar who was willing to make the 2-hour drive up to Beverly Hills. Sadly, driving more than 20 minutes for a date is considered impressive by L.A. standards. Most men aren’t willing to drive across town. I have one friend who will only date women who reside within a half-hour driving zone from his home. Consider this: there are roughly 310 million people in the United States. If the odds of meeting your soul mate are one in a million, and you are looking only at members of the opposite sex, then you have roughly 155 chances of finding this person. The chances are slim to none that even one of those potential soul mates lives within a half-hour of you. Any man who is not willing to drive across town, or drive up from Orange County or San Diego, is an inconsiderate ass and will wind up a pathetic, single aging Playboy dating women half his age, like Charlie Sheen and his Two and a Half Men character Charlie Harper.
Mr. Del Mar was attractive: tall, intelligent, fit, and a stylish dresser, which earned him an A+ for accuracy of his online profile. But – there’s always a ‘but’ – he had a bit of a smooth-talking, snake-oil peddler quality to him, which reminded me of a used car salesman (albeit luxury pre-owned). Despite saying he was a foodie, he confessed to not liking wine and obviously didn’t know jack-shit about food given the generic chain restaurant he suggested as a meeting place. You know the type with plastic menus, factory-processed breadsticks, generic wines by the glass listed only as Cabernet, Merlot and Chardonnay, and a TV visible from all angles so one can follow the Clippers losing streak while chowing down on fried calamari. Once upon a time, men sat with their backs to the wall as a protective stance incase any unsavory types entered the restaurant, now they do it for optimum vantage point of the TV. Any restaurant with televised entertainment is not appropriate for a first date, or any date for that matter. I vetoed his choice in favor of E. Baldi on Canon Drive where I also ordered, since he didn’t know how to read “menu Italian”.
Before our wine arrived, my date put his hand on my thigh. Smooth. Too smooth. I’m not a rent-a-date. Keep your mitts to yourself! thought I, repositioning my chair to be further away. This SoCal Casanova was all for fast-tracking right past the unwritten third-date rule that runs rampant in this town. A rule that states that it’s uncool to make sexual advances before the third date, but is widely misinterpreted as expect to get laid by the third date. Before we finished our crudo appetizer, he leaned over and French kissed me. I’m sorry. Did I miss something here? I don’t recall saying that he could touch me, let alone cram his tongue down my throat. Talk about inappropriate first-date conduct. Honestly, gentlemen, that behavior would be the equivalent of me taking a credit card out of my date’s wallet and buying a pair of Jimmy Choos between dinner and dessert. While there are plenty of women in this town who would think nothing of doing that on a first date, I’m sure Mr. Del Mar would not take kindly to that kind of behavior given he had already questioned why all women covet expensive designer shoes. So we look great with our legs in the air, dumb ass! And since that’s for your benefit, you should buy the damn shoes - and the lingerie.
I don’t care how attractive, successful, or fit a man is, he has no right to touch me, let alone swap spit with me, on a first date. How about reading my signals – which were nothing like Ooh, baby…grope me at the table and then bang me silly in the restaurant bathroom before dessert. I know all men are looking for a little tongue-down-throat, hand-down-pant action, but can they at least try to wait till after the entrée is cleared before helping themselves to dessert?
Wednesday, October 19, 2011 at 12:04AM 
Ho, ho, ho! No, Christmas hasn’t come early this year. I’m referring to the women of Los Angeles. I wasn't sure whether I should write about how not to dress like a ho or why not to dress like a ho. One would think that the how is fairly simple: wear age-appropriate clothing that is appropriate in length, don't show too much cleavage, and don’t wear tight clothing. Fairly simple. And yet, I look around Los Angeles and see plenty of women who think that dressing like they’re on the cover of Maxim or Playboy is perfectly acceptable. Newsflash, ladies, its not!