JAKE COSANAVO’S PANTY-MELTING TIPS FOR A BANGIN’
FIRST DATE
By Hansel Castro
Love is a mad naked
midget with a bow and arrow. Let me tell you about this date I just had. Her
name was Silvia: Syllables worthy of a Muse! A proper woman in a world of petulant
bimbos! Although we had previously collided socially, (her, benevolent and
friendly; me, smitten but hesitant) it wasn’t until earlier tonight that we met at a
restaurant to decide whether romance or friendship or a civil parting handshake
awaited us.
Half an hour before the
date and there I was at the bathroom mirror with the nervous anticipation of a kid
first discovering Drakkar Noir. “You’re rusty! Buck up!” I admonished my shaking
reflection. “You can do this! Just let her know that the tender bloom of
adoration is upon your heart, and she’ll be all yours!”
My reflection shook his
noggin out of sheer embarrassment. Like I said, I was rusty, so I decided to
Google for dating tips, (let it not be said that I scorn the march of progress.)
And THAT’S how I happened to read Jake Cosanavo’s blog on the finer aspects of
modern romance. Without much commentary, I invite you to peruse a post below:
HEY FELLAS, THIS IS JAKE COSANAVO, AND LET’S GET ONE
THING OUT OF THE WAY: THE BEST FIRST DATE IS, WITHOUT A QUESTION, AT THE ZOO.
THERE, YOUR LADY FRIEND WILL SEE MONKEYS AND BEARS GETTING IT ON. HAVE YOU EVER
SEEN TURTLES DO IT? IT IS VERY HOT STUFF. BUT I’LL ASSUME YOU’VE DECIDED TO DO
THE BORING STUFF AND HAVE DINNER. THAT’S FINE, JAKE CAN STILL GET YOU LAID WITH
HIS:
PANTY-MELTING
TIPS FOR A BANGIN’ FIRST DATE!!!!!!
1- AT
THE RESTAURANT, MOVE YOUR CHAIR NEXT TO HERS. YOU GOTTA GET CLOSE. YOU’RE A
HUNTER, SHE’S PREY. YOU NEVER SAW A LION EAT A GAZELLE FROM ACROSS A TABLE, DID
YA?
2- AVOID
INTELLECTUAL SUBJECTS, LIKE THE ELECTIONS OR FOOTBALL. THE LADIES JUST GET
CONFUSED BY THINKING ABOUT THAT SMART STUFF.
3- MAKE
SURE TO TOUCH HER REPEATEDLY. FIRST, HER HAND. THEN, FIND AN EXCUSE TO TOUCH
HER FACE. IF SHE’S RESPONSIVE, HEAT THINGS UP, AND GRAB SOME BOOBY. NO NEED TO
BE SHY! YOU GOTTA LET HER KNOW YOU’RE THERE TO GET PHYSICAL.
4- SECRET WORD OF THE DAY: “BABIES.” USE THAT WORD
AT LEAST THREE TIMES DURING DINNER. FOR COMPLICATED MEDICAL REASONS, WOMEN LIKE
BABIES. JUST TALKING ABOUT BABIES GETS THEM HORNY. I KNOW IT SEEMS
COUNTERINTUITIVE, FELLAS, BUT IT’S WHAT THE SCIENTISTS CALL A SUBCRIMINAL
MESSAGE.
5- ULTIMATELY, YOU’RE GETTING THIS POINT ACROSS: YOU
ARE NOT HER LITTLE BROTHER. YOU ARE NOT HER HOMO FRIEND. YOU ARE NOT A “NICE
GUY”. YOU ARE A SERIOUS LADY-KILLER!”
Have you ever read such
offensive, simple-minded pablum? Appalled, I turned off the computer and headed
for the restaurant assured in the certainty that, Jake-Cosanavo-be-damned, the
only thing a man needs for a first date is the easy-going confidence that
radiates from an honest, open heart.
And that might have
been enough except I forgot how beautiful Silvia was. A knock-out, a keeper,
with the grace of Greek statuary and a smile out of a DaVinci painting, (you
know the one I mean.) She greeted me outside our chosen restaurant, and it was
all over for me. I was down with full-blown LOVE the second the appetizers came
in. Love, I tell you! A golden arrow snaking through my heart, making me all
sorts of warm and fuzzy.
“Silvia,”
I said gazing into her eyes while her lips parted expectantly, “Lovely name. Shakespeare
wrote a poem to a Silvia. If I recall it went like this: ‘Then to Silvia let us sing/ That Silvia is excelling/ She
excels each mortal thing/ Upon the dull earth dwelling.’”
Her cheeks were flushed: “That was lovely! Stop it! But go on!”
I
didn’t need encouragement: “Silvia is a name for poetry, if there ever was one.
It reminds me of Sylvia Plath.”
“I
love Sylvia Plath,” she gasped, squeezing my arm. “‘Daddy’ is definitely in my
top 50 poems of all time. I think sometimes people are quick to dismiss her
work because of her suicide. And by people I mean ‘men’, who are so unfair to
women in poetry.”
“Let
us not talk of women in poetry,” I replied, leaning close to her. “What a
redundancy! Women ARE poetry. YOU, Sylvia, YOU are a poem!”
“Listen,”
she said, “I don’t feel particularly hungry. Do you want to maybe go back to my
place?”
WELL. That’s kind of
how it transpired in my head. The actual conversation turned out more like
this:
“So, hmmm, Silvia…
that’s like… the same name as that chick. You know, the writer chick. One that
killed herself. Put her head in the oven. With the poem? Her Dad was a Nazi?
Not literally a Nazi, but in the poem she says he’s Nazi. She hated her Dad. ‘Daddy,
you’re a Nazi.’ I think that’s how the poem went.”
“Pardon me?” She
squinted at me. “I’m sorry, I didn’t understand a word you said.”
“I said that you remind
me of that crazy chick who killed herself!”
“Hmmm… Thanks?”
With my usual perspicacity I realized Silvia
and I were having trouble communicating from across the table. Did I need a
megaphone or something? That’s when I had an inspiration:
MOVE YOUR CHAIR NEXT TO HERS. YOU NEVER
SAW A LION EAT A GAZELLE FROM ACROSS A TABLE, DID YA?
Of course! Maybe Jake
Cosanavo was onto something after all! I stood up to drag my chair to her side
and it would probably have been a smooth move. There was no way I could have
predicted that a chair leg would get tangled with a table leg and the whole
flimsy set-up would crash to the floor. Bye bye, garlic rolls.
Silvia,
the classy thing, was an ocean of understanding: “It could happen to anyone,
pay it no mind!” No great harm was done. Less than six minutes after the table collapsed
there I was, sitting tantalizingly next to my date again. Close enough for a
lion to spit on a gazelle’s thigh.
But
the gazelle was getting restless, and the lion was not pouncing.
Silvia
smiled tentatively: “So… Who do you think has a good chance in the next
elections?”
AVOID
INTELLECTUAL SUBJECTS, LIKE THE ELECTIONS
“Let’s
not talk about intellectual subjects,” I waved a hand.
“The
elections are an ‘intellectual’ subject? Very well, ball’s in your court,
mister. What should we talk about?”
What
a puzzling question that seemed! And I was speechless! Me! The bon-vivant racconteur, so
quick to impart a merry tale at any gathering! Me who had so much to share with
her, all my impressive triumphs! Surely she should have heard about the
heart-breaking play I had precociously staged off-Broadway at age 19! About the
exciting article on Costa Rican eco-tourism that the National Geographic had just
bought for a flattering sum! About my two-year stint teaching macramé to refugees
in Rwanda!
But
when my lion-ish roar came out, it sounded like this:
“Let’s
talk about… diseases? Maybe you can tell me what this spot on my chest is. It’s
all pinkish. Weird, no? Do you think that’s gangrene? Or am I thinking about
gonorrhea? Maybe I am. They both start with G, I get them mixed up!”
No good!
THE SECRET WORD OF THE
DAY IS:
“BABIES!” I grabbed her
hand in a transport of tenderness and said with the determination of a
hypnotist: “Do you know if BABIES get gonorrhea? I hope not! I love BABIES!”
“Let go of my hand,
please. You’re hurting me,” Silvia said.
THEN, FIND AN EXCUSE TO
TOUCH HER FACE.
“Hold still,” I said
impishly. “You’ve got a something in your eye. Could it be a little piece of
magical starlight?” For reasons I cannot honestly explain in the sober
afterglow of recollection, I proceeded to poke her in the eyeball.
She screamed: “AAAGGGHHH!!!
What the hell is wrong with you, you fucking retard?!?”
What was the next step?
What was the next step?
HEAT THINGS UP, AND
GRAB SOME BOOBY.
I cupped my hand
appreciatively around her right breast and said in what I hoped were seductive
tones: “I’m sure BABIES love these!”
She slapped me rather
soundly: “That’s it! It’s over! Waiter! The check!” Her face was a painterly
shade of red as she fished a twenty-dollar bill from her purse, threw it in my
face, and said in that magical musical voice of hers:
“I hope you suck Satan’s
cock in hell!!! Never EVER contact me again!!! Do you hear me?!?”
Such spirit! But I wasn’t too bothered. Perhaps the
evening had ended a little sooner than expected, but I still had the purity of
my devoted heart to place before her. I meant to say I loved her. I meant to
tell her that her beauty was a storm in my head, washing all thoughts away, all
propriety, all manners. I meant to tell her I wasn’t always like this, and that
she would surely like me if she could look past a few minor dinner setbacks.
So I walked up to her,
hugged her tight, and lovingly whispered in her ear: “I AM NOT A NICE GUY! I AM
A SERIAL LADY KILLER!”
She fled out the door,
but her fleeing was kind of flirty, so I dunno. I’m feeling good about it!
Maybe we’ll do the zoo next time!
Love is a mad naked
midget with a bow and arrow. Thanks for everything, Jake Cosanavo!
