In Which You Might Want To Save That Move For The Second Date

How To Be Single

by Molly Lambert

Gems culled from the comments on this Jezebel post:

Don’t show me your hair plug scars on a first date.

Don’t tell me how many girls you fucked on your job as night manager at a hotel.

Do not ask my friend who has an artificial eye, and it’s somewhat obvious, “What the hell is wrong with your eye?”

Do not say, “I kind of hate feminists.”

A moonlit walk on the promenade is not the time to share your thoughts on the Holocaust being a hoax. In fact, there is no time for that ever ever ever.

Don’t tell me you shave your chest and legs because “I’m a serious cyclist” and then have me feel your stubble.

Do not tell me, within five minutes of meeting me at a party, that you get 4 times as large when aroused.

Don’t say, “I know women like it when men are forward. I want to take you home and fuck you.” when I’m obviously not interested.

Do not tell me that you share a bed with your ex-girlfriend, whom you live with, and that your current girlfriend doesn’t know.

Do not come up to me in a bookstore and tell me I have beautiful feet and you would like to photograph them.

Do not start reading the newspaper during the first date.

When hitting on someone of a different race, it’s really fucking inappropriate to insist that sleeping together is really our duty, because the mixed babies would be so beautiful.

it’s really sensual when someone touches their face that way

Do not ask me to tell you about my “hot lesbian encounters” when you find out I went to a women’s college.

Do not say “Can I kiss you?” at all. It’s creepy and it should be pretty obvious if it’s okay. If you try and it’s not okay I will dodge, no harm done.

Do not tell me what works on Katie. As in, “I don’t know why you’re not coming, it takes like two minutes with Katie.”

When curious about my ethicity, do not phrase the question as “So what are you?”

Don’t sit at a table full of hot women and after 5 shots of Patrón announce that you like single mothers because they’re “grateful”

Do not assume because I smile and am nice to you in the workplace that I would be amenable to you accosting me in the hallway and trying to make-out. I WILL kick you in the shins AND tell our boss.

Don’t tell me you never see your wife anymore.

Don’t try to get me to have sex with you because you’re a 22 year old virgin. Or at least, don’t give me that reason.

Don’t ask if my friend is hot every time I mention a friend.

At a work conference, don’t show up at my hotel room door in the middle of the night with a Coleman lunch cooler full of Bud Light and ask if I want to “talk.”

And absolutely under no circumstances, when I say you look familiar, do you reply you must have met me when you liked black girls.

Do not wait a full 24 hours to tell me the condom broke. Tick tock, buddy!

Don’t tell me you fantasized about killing your brother as a child

Do not invite me up for a drink (while I’m waiting for a cab) and, after I tell you we aren’t going to have sex, say “Oh, that isn’t really how I do things.”

Don’t talk to me for forty minutes and then ask if my friend is single.

Do not tell me how much you miss your ex-girlfriend, but you’re ready to move on with whomever because you want to be married within a year.

Don’t ask me if it’s a weave (it isn’t). Don’t insist I’m lying and ask to inspect my scalp as proof. When you discover it’s really my hair, don’t tell me I must be mixed to “be so dark with such good hair.” In fact, don’t ever use the term “good hair.”

Don’t ever bring me to your parents’ house on the first date, where your mom will tell me that I’m going to be a great girlfriend, and then make me trudge the snow in non-snow appropriate shoes through an apple orchard to meet your father.

Do not tell me after spending the night making out that I was drunk enough that you could have raped me.

Don’t tell me I could make a lot of money stripping and then rock back on your heels and smile proudly at me like you just gave me a huge compliment.

Don’t tell me you usually don’t date girls like me but “what the hell”

Do not invite me back to your apartment and then try to slow dance with me to Lady In Red

Don’t tell me over beers that you’re looking for a “cuddle buddy”. Especially don’t then tell me it’s not about sex, you really just like to cuddle.

If we are at a party don’t say, “You look really good, if I didn’t just break up with you I’d hit on you.”

Don’t call your ex-girlfriend to tell her that you’ve “got a stone fox now” and “you’re over her for real this time”, then hang up, start crying, collect yourself, and spend the rest of the evening rhapsodizing about how wonderful she was. I can’t imagine why she would dump a gem like you.

Don’t ask to take a picture of me so you can put it in your blog. The answer is no.

After telling me you’re a plastic surgeon, refrain from telling me my button nose is cute but I “should really lengthen it to sex up my face.” and offer your services.

It won’t work for you to say to me and another friend of mine, who is pretty but overweight, “I wish I could put your head on her body.”

“You really look Jewish,” is not a good pick up line regardless of whether I am or am not.

Don’t inform me, while we are naked in your bed, that your usual “moves” won’t work because I’m bigger than the other girls you’ve fucked.

Don’t practically beg me to go to a wedding with you three months down the road on our first date. Desperate and creepy.

When I’m holding my newborn baby, don’t talk about how much you love the taste of breast milk–especially when you’re married to my good friend.

Don’t ever say, “GIRL DRAMA!” when I’m telling you about a problem I’m having with a female friend.

Don’t tell me, a tall blonde woman of northern European descent, that you are really, really into Asian woman and are on lots of websites catering to such.

Don’t say, “everyone always thinks I’m gay”.

Don’t complain at length that your dog shits all over your house because you can’t figure out how to train it, and then ask me back to your place.

Don’t troll Craigslist looking for someone to have a threesome with, find someone, and give her MY NAME AND NUMBER without even telling me! I got a call last week from some woman who said my bf told her we were looking to have a threesome. I was like WTF?

Don’t say “You look like a model from the side, but from the front you have birthing hips.”

Don’t attempt to have sex with me while pretending I’m someone else. Yes, I can tell.

Please, please do not tell the girl working at the bagel shop (me), “I hope you fuck better than you make that sandwich.” Secondly, it’s not a sandwich, its a bagel. Fuck.

Don’t wake me up in the youth hostel to let me know I can circumsize you with my Swiss Army knife if I’d screw you afterwards.

Don’t offer to share a cab home and then say there is something important for me to see in your apartment and then have it turn out that it’s actually your friend’s apartment and you just live in a weird, closet-type area and then try to read me a bunch of bad, depressing poetry when I’m trying to leave while telling me that you “wrote it about me and didn’t even know it” and then leave a bird skeleton in a tin box outside my apartment several days later with a note: thinking of you.

Don’t tell me you love me, commit to a monogamous relationship, have a discussion about not using condoms, pay for birth control pills, and then let me find out that during the ENTIRE duration of our relationship you’ve been fucking random men, women and trannies from craigslist (literally anyone who would have sex with you) and then coming home and having unprotected sex with me.

Don’t suggest the possibility of us giving each other enemas someday soon.

Do not tell my friends when you meet them how you are going to get me pregnant. When we have sex do not tell me you are trying to get me pregnant and it’s okay because your mom will raise it

Don’t tell me that your baby momma is only giving you drama because she’s having “dick withdrawals”, ‘cuz chances are, you’re still fucking her.

When in the middle of a fun, flirty conversation, don’t lean in and say, “it’s ok, I like small tits!”

Don’t show up to our first date an hour late because you had to take a shower before you came here because you were helping a friend move, then wait a minute before admitting it was actually your ex-wife. Then wait ANOTHER minute and admit she’s not actually your ex-wife yet.

Molly Lambert is the managing editor of This Recording

“What’s Missing Is” – Bonnie Prince Billy (mp3)

“You Want That Picture” – Bonnie Prince Billy (mp3)

“Keep Eye on Other’s Gain” – Bonnie Prince Billy (mp3)


Sex Scenes In The Novel

Sex Scenes In David Cronenberg Movies

Sex Scenes On The Interwebs


9 thoughts on “In Which You Might Want To Save That Move For The Second Date

  1. So… that’s a no on the “Lady In Red,” huh?

    I feel like a good contigent of the men that these “Don’t”‘s apply to our this far away from going into together on some kind of Frank TJ Mackey seminar weekend.

  2. I couldn’t make it through the whole thing – too painful. I actually got away with “can you take a picture of me and my Imaginary fren” though.. recently too! In front of my apt.

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