Haylie Ewing
contributing writer
Growing up in a group of friends more focused on video games than relationships, the topic of flirting and romance rarely came up. I wasn’t really interested in dating, either; I enjoyed watching high-school love drama from afar. That is, until I met this guy when we were both 16.
We first met at a waterpark in the night. He was drunk, and thought I was weird. Still, he liked “weird” people, so we became friends easily. We found out we went to the same high school, and I’d skip class to hang out with him and his friends. Skipping class was something I’d never done before, but I thought it’d make me seem cool.
I just found him handsome from the start, but spending more time with him made me realize I was crushing on him, hard. The problem? I had no clue how to flirt. So, I turned to the group chat for advice, only to be met with, “That’s crazy. Want to play Minecraft?” My friends were no help. I then resorted to the best (worst) site for relationship advice: Reddit. The only tip that stayed consistent was to be direct, so that’s what I did.
So that same day, I texted him a meme of two cats “kissing” and I added a message below saying “could be us,” testing the waters in the least subtle way possible. He replied saying, “could be,” which had me shocked. So I went for it: “I’m kissing you at school tomorrow if that is ok.” To my horror, he replied with a “yes.”
So, as tomorrows usually work, it became a today. On that today, I avoided him. I wasn’t expecting him to agree to a kiss and I was scared. He caught me right after lunch break, asked my permission, and gave me a kiss. Then I went to class and ignored all messages from him for the next three hours because I was absolutely terrified, which made him think I was upset with him. I sent a message not long before classes ended for the day and we agreed to meet up, where once again, I was very direct: “You kissed me… am I your girlfriend now?” He later said my flirting was so terrible, it became cute. We’re still happily together almost three years later. So my best dating advice: don’t listen to Reddit, unless they like pathetic flirts.
AJ Aiken
contributing writer
When it comes to dating apps, there’s an ocean of bad-date stories. I have a few, including finding my ex-husband with a picture of our son on Tinder, being called intimidating, and finding a new husband (who quickly ran out on me), but my favourite, and most often told, really isn’t about dating apps despite meeting on one. From what I’ve been told, the problem was an island thing.
Years ago, I had been talking to a guy for a week or so on Tinder before we decided to meet for drinks. I suggested we meet at The Drake; back then it was new and exciting and one of my favourite spots. The day we were to meet, he confirmed the date was still on; all signs pointed to a good night.
Knowing The Drake would be busy, I went down a bit early to try to get a table. Sure enough, when I got to the pub, the place was packed; all the tables were full, so I sat at the bar. I knew I had a bit of time, so I ordered a drink and waited… and waited… and waited.
The more time passed, the more restless I got. I didn’t know what to do. There were no messages from the guy saying something had come up and that he wasn’t coming. I didn’t know how much time I should give him before leaving. I kept thinking, “What if I leave and he shows up a few minutes later?”
The bartender noticed I was constantly checking my phone and getting frustrated. He asked if the person I was waiting for was late. Embarrassed by how obvious it was, I let him know my date was 15 minutes late.
Now, I had only lived on the island for a few years and hadn’t really dated in Victoria. When the bartender responded, “He’s not late, he’s running on island time,” I was a bit shocked. I thought island time was a joke, but he seemed serious. So, I grabbed another drink and waited a bit longer.
After another 15 minutes, the bartender came back and said, “You’ve been stood up.” I was stunned; I had never been stood up before. I must have looked shocked or confused because the bartender informed me that being stood up is a rite of passage in Victoria.
I ended up staying at The Drake that night and chatting with the bartender. We shared stories about bad dating-app experiences and relationships. It ended up being a fun night.
So, if you ever get stood up in Victoria, don’t worry: that’s island life. If you’re lucky, a cute bartender might buy you a drink to soften the blow.
Jasmine Wagstaff
Contributing writer
For my second date with my girlfriend, I made us dinner at her place.
We matched on Tinder and talked for a few weeks before we met up in person. I was busy with school, she was busy with work, and it took a little while for our schedules to line up.
Our first was fun but a bit awkward; we met at Peacock Billiards and played pool for a while. Mostly we were just making out on one of their couches, though. We did still play a few games of pool.
For our second date, I made us spaghetti and meatballs. I got everything from the grocery store, even spent $10 on a small block of the good parmigiano reggiano. I’ve always loved cooking for people and mentioned this to her while we were still just texting. I was excited to make the two of us a nice dinner.
When I got there, she surprised me with some beautiful pink flowers. I’ve never had a girl buy me flowers before. I mentioned previously in our Tinder messages that pink is my favourite colour and that’s why she picked those ones out for me.
I made everything but the pasta from scratch. I made the meatballs from some ground beef, parsley, eggs, breadcrumbs, and, of course, the good parmesan. I used to be a prep cook at a restaurant, so I always make what I can instead of buying it from a store.
I lit some candles, plated the pasta all nice with some parsley and parmesan as garnish, set the table up nice, and we had our meal together. She loved it and told me we needed to do this again in the future.
We snuggled after dinner on the couch and watched a few episodes of Star Trek. It was a cozy night in.
I couldn’t stop smiling when I was bussing home afterwards, holding the flowers she got for me. I was so happy with how the night had gone; I was really nervous that it would go poorly. I’m glad I was wrong about that.
We’ve been dating for about three months now. Although we go out for dates sometimes, we have a lot of those cozy nights in. And she often requests I make her that same dish of spaghetti and meatballs. That simple dish just has something special to it now, at least for us.
Ally Martindale
contributing writer
I’ve experienced the good, the bad, and the ugly when it comes to first dates. The story I’m going to share with you today is about an amazing first date and how I met my current partner.
It all happened one night when I was supposed to meet a girlfriend for dinner. Keep in mind I only met this girl a month ago while I was out downtown and she gave off very chaotic energy. So I go up to the address she sent me, which was supposed to be a restaurant, and it ends up being a random apartment complex. I was pretty weirded out, but I ended up buzzing up anyways and, honestly, I’m so glad I did.
My friend meets me in the hallway and takes me upstairs to the apartment. It ended up being full with strangers, but there was a guy in the corner who immediately caught my eye.
We ended up hitting it off, and he asked if I wanted to leave so he could take me on our first date. Of course I said yes. This was around Christmastime so all the lights were up around town; we started it off in Centennial Square with all the beautiful lights and we shared our first kiss in the light tunnel. I got such a huge swarm of butterflies.
Then we got late-night Denny’s and shared life stories over pancakes and milkshakes. (He made me laugh so hard from the very first date; he’s absolutely the funniest person I know.) After Denny’s we were going to call it a night, but we both didn’t want the night to end. So we went back to my place and baked cookies.
Baking cookies, we made a huge mess in the kitchen, which is mostly my fault—I’m such a mess in the kitchen. We ended up eating cookies and getting to know each other until about 3:00 am, when we both decided it was time for bed, so we passed out snuggling each other. When we woke up in the morning we got delivery for breakfast and ate it at the lake near my house.
We are still together to this day and we basically live together now. He’s still the funniest person I know and I love him.
Lane Chevrier
contributing writer
Imagine an awkward, 19-year-old autistic man full of pep and hopeful vigour, about to meet a girl for a first date, having almost never gone on a date before in his life, and certainly never a successful one. This was to be no exception.
It was a sweltering, humid day in August. Stepping off the bus, I hadn’t gotten very far before the sky darkened as a flock of seagulls swarmed and whirled overhead, screaming raucously. I heard the pattering of small, wet impacts, like a fleet of enemy airships dropping their explosive payload. I dodged and weaved like a drunken elephant, but to no avail. A rich, moist deposit of bird shit splattered down the back of my neck.
Frantically, I infiltrated a restaurant bathroom and washed up. However, I overlooked something. The greasy reek of digested fish is a scent best cleaned with cold water, otherwise the smell will set in. I used the hottest water possible, and by the time I finished, I had a very wet, stinking shirt. Instantly, I knew this was unacceptable, so I came up with my next brilliant plan. I snuck into the fragrance department of a Shoppers Drug Mart and bathed in the only cologne they were sampling. To my horror, I realized that this did not help. Rather than smelling like hot, dead fish, I now smelled like hot, dead fish in a perfume factory.
I would have to risk it. I scrambled to meet my date. She looked amazing, but her brow furrowed as she noticed that I was saturated from the tits up, and entirely flustered. Not wanting to remain indoors, I suggested we walk. This was a bad idea. Inside, it was air conditioned, but beneath the searing naked rays, I began to sweat, and soon realized I had forgotten to apply deodorant that morning. I was moist, anxious, and smelled indescribable.
If you’ve ever watched a young autistic man interact with the opposite sex, it is a masterclass in cringe. Despite my best efforts to be suave and dazzling, it was increasingly clear I was making a disastrous impression. The poor girl kept grimacing, and kept a generous distance between us. Eventually, she supplied an excuse to leave. For some senseless reason, I felt that the best departure would be predicated on a hug, but she dodged me, and gagged.
We never had a second date.
Nik Ovstaas
contributing writer
Dating is tricky. And seems to be getting trickier. But it’s an entirely different world when you’re gay. If you’re cruising for an otter or scanning the room for a lipstick, that’s easy, but if you want to settle down, get a bearded dragon together, and hope for someone to clean you up when you shit yourself as you die, that’s a whole other bunch of bananas.
This has become increasingly obvious to me as I age. There was a time when I could crawl out of a boxcar, figure out what city I was in, and then just try not to vomit on whatever old guy was buying me dinner and drinks. It was the life—I slept under bridges, caught rides with questionable truckers, did more than one thing that I’ve tried to forget, and now suddenly I am the lecherous old man at the bar. The shift from being whore to john was so subtle I didn’t even notice it happening.
Sex work is really hard work with long hours, and they deserve to be supported. But I’m here to tell you that suddenly realizing that you might be the john is also no picnic. Now every old guy I meet thinks I have sass-mouth.
Unfortunately, as a homosexual, these were the options I was proffered. Be gorgeous and friendly and the world is your oyster, or… the alternative. There are darling stories where you and the high-school jock fall in love behind the bleachers, but for the vast majority of us, we are just behind the bleachers to roll cigarette butts into butt smokes and drink shitty beer.
That brings us up to speed. I’m a middle-aged, vaguely unpleasant and overbearing gay man that already hates you, reader. Balding, overweight, covered in ill-advised tattoos, and bubbling over with rage. Yours truly.
I suppose it’s too much to ask to just be allowed to roll around in a field of wildflowers, until some fucking rad as shit dude comes and sweeps me off my feet.
If we’re being so unjustly deprived of that sort of baroque love affair where we both wind up dead, at least give us a little rococo whimsy to while away the hours.
I suppose all of this is just to say that those of you that should find yourselves so lucky as to slip easily into the dull-as-dishwater mould of heterosexual domesticity should count your boring blessings. Us queers will see you when we’re done having fun.