The hopeful lovers on the Critic Blind Date are provided with a meal and a bar tab, thanks to Mamacita. If you’re looking for love and want to give the Blind Date a go, email firstname.lastname@example.org
When I found out that I was gonna get to be part of the historic Critic Blind Date, I was pumped. Free food and a chance to meet a cutie? I’m in.
So in preparation I douched, wore a sexy turtleneck to hide my hickey from the night before and guzzled too much vodka in 15 minutes, then I was ready to go.
So I rock up to find my date is already there and the good news is, I didn’t know him, which was surprising considering there are only about 3 gays in Dunedin. The bad news is I immediately knew I was not interested. He started his uni degree when I was 10 and hadn’t drunk any alcohol before coming, which breaks Blind Date etiquette. But hey, I was ready to make a friend!
We eventually get talking, I’m pretty sure we discussed queer issues and other gay shit, but honestly most of the date is a blur. Not because I was drunk, but because I was a bit bored. I’m interested in having a laugh, not a thesis on queer identity. But the gay community is too small to be a dick and leave, so I stayed and chatted until it was time for Mamacita to close. Upon leaving he offered to drive me home, and it was pouring with rain so of course I accepted.
So we get to my flat and he switches the car off, and in the awkward silence I say “so, do you want a tour of my flat?” Now I’m not dumb, I know what that is code for, but it was the only thing my intoxicated brain could come up with. So in we go, he meets my flatties, and we eventually get to my bedroom where he sits on my bed. Here is where I broke the news that I was giving him a literal tour and kicked him out.
So if my date is reading this, sorry for leading you on, you seem like a nice guy. Anyway, cheers Critic and Mamacita’s for the feed.
My inbox buzzed three days earlier: you’re on the blind date this week. I still managed to arrive on time on the night, only waiting ten or so minutes for my date to arrive. Meanwhile, I kept my Snapchat story updated for expectant friends.
The biggest shock of the night was that we didn’t recognise each other, which must be a gay first in Dunedin’s history. We hit if off well straight away though, chatting about politics, queer identity, coming out stories, and our passions, while forgetting that we needed to order.
As we settled on the priciest menu items that a vegetarian and a vegan could muster (cheers Critic for picking up the tab), the discussion shifted to years at uni, and we quickly discovered the age gap. Clearly bored of repetitive fresher-versus-third-year fuckfests, Critic was going for the Daddy angle by setting me up with a guy nearly a decade younger.
Conversation flowed well throughout the evening. We found out that we both worked for OUSA (a coincidence I promise, not nepotism), we swapped dating app stories, and were later subjected to the awkward friendly reminder by our waitress that the restaurant was about to close, in order to boot us out.
The looming post-dinner-plans question was upon us; we both had 21st birthdays pencilled in, but it suddenly transpired that he had a cold and needed an early night in. Being a good friend, I offered to drop him home, and so I got invited in to see the place. He popped a couple of Strepsils in front of me and coughed a bit in order to drop the hint that he wasn’t interested in anything further, but my asexual ass was kind of grateful that there were no sexpectations. I went to the 21st.