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Critic sets up two lucky students on a blind date (courtesy of the lovely people at Toast), complete with a bar tab and positive vibez, in an attempt to prove that Dunedinites can date. The only catch: the love birds each divulge all the salacious details of their date in a short snappy article after the fact.

Mike Tindall
 
It was a warm spring night in July as I eagerly anticipated my first foray into dating since a series of null performances in the late Nineties. I’d been out of the game a while but it didn’t take long to get back in the groove. She arrived wearing only a kimono and reeking of tomato sauce. Although I am a staunch atheist I am a strong believer in love at first sight and from the moment we locked eyes across the bar, I immediately knew this was the girl I was going to marry.
 
We hit it off from the beginning, with me making most of the conversation (mainly about myself). After a bit of chat, we discovered that we shared a lot of interests, such as DIY, crosswords, and model airplanes. As the liquor began to flow, she began to dominate things, talking about the speeding she does in her car, the dog that killed three cats, and the birds she used to shoot from the window of her house (a girl has to protect her apples, right?). Brothels were also mentioned during the conversation as well as miniature horses (Shetlands mainly). I tried to chime in occasionally but she was obviously getting loaded up on the tequila sunrises and I was repeatedly butted out of the conversation.
 
Eventually she piped down a bit and as the bar tab dried up we were finishing each other’s sentences and staring into each other’s eyes. It was when she placed her hand on mine that I knew she was definitely ‘the one’. After 45 minutes flirting like two love sick teenagers, I knew how the night was going to end. I didn’t beat around the bush and she didn’t take much convincing when I suggested we go back to mine and share a bottle of Monkey Bay Chardonnay. When I added that I was an amazing and extremely unselfish lover the deal was sealed.
 
The night ended on a high note as I performed 45 minutes of cunnilingus before she fellated me, like a slithering komodo dragon, her salivating tongue darting about hungry for love. Ever since, however, I have been in a neck brace and am booked in for an intensive course of physiotherapy, but you can’t put a price on true love.
 
 
Zara Phillips
After arriving early, thanks to transportation limitations, I sat at the bar for about 15 minutes before my date showed up. But luckily for me there was much in the way of entertainment in that short time. Mainly this came in the form of the bartender, both in pouring drinks (luckily I had procured the voucher for the bar tab) and in the stories he told. It was a Thursday night, and only 8pm after all, so not many people were walking through the door, and of those few, all were previously paired. This included a fellow couple on a blind date, though theirs was of the red card variety, and as an extra challenge they were tied together with less than a foot of rope, which made their trips to the bathroom much more adventurous than my own.

It was more or less obvious when my date walked through the door. First impressions included a cute face and nice eyes, though, as recounted in previous tales, I knew the lighting in Toast could not be trusted. After ordering him a drink - I was already one down - we adjourned to a booth. Typical conversation followed; majors, age, what colour underwear we were wearing, names and numbers swapped, the usual. Three rounds of drinks later, and half as many hours, Hannah and Guy (the couple from before) joined us to share some of the conversation topics they had been provided in case of lulls. Of course #11 caught my eye immediately: would you rather rape a 50 year old man, or have consensual sex with a 12 year old girl? Go on readers, discuss among your friends, extra points if you’re in a gender studies lecture whilst reading this.

But even without the deep, philosophical questions given to us, we had no trouble with awkward silences. While discussing our favourite body parts of the opposite sex (mine = eyes, his = boobs), he seemed quite pleased to learn that the dress I had chosen was only the second least ‘boobtastic’ dress in my wardrobe, mumbling something about “the possibilities”. Once we finished off the bar tab, and downed a couple of drinks after (Toasts Shakers = ecstasy, just picture Homer thinking about donuts), we caught a taxi and let’s just say the night ended with a bang. Or two.