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Photo by Leslie Sachs I am a 31-year-old woman who has never been on a date. The closest I came was in high school, when I asked a unibrowed record store employee out solely because he wore archaic clothes to and, on the afternoon I entered his store, was listening to a Cheap Suit Serenaders LP.
Our "date" was little more than the public consumption of whiskey; it culminated in the two of us drunkenly falling asleep on his twin-sized mattress.
So when a friend suggested I try lesbian speed dating, I figured, Abject confusion was the norm from launch.
An exclamation point–riddled email from the event's organizers informed me that the suggested attire was "dressy casual," a.k.a. I had no idea how to dress appropriately—I wanted to look like I belonged, but not so much that I looked like a narc.
My second closest brush with a date was with a man I had met earlier that evening.
At 1 AM, he took me to the waterfall featured in the opening credits of .
(I say "allegedly" because I cannot be bothered to google it, because I do not care.) Upon arrival, I mistakenly wandered upstairs, where I found myself surrounded by bloated white men who were talking, presumably, about how great it is to run the fucking world while eating appetizers.
As we stared from the darkness of our isolated perch at its illuminated, undulating flow, he quipped that he could, in this moment, very easily kill me and get away with it.
I went home with him and didn't leave for two years.