There has been (I've been told) quite a high demand by AfroToronto readers for a follow-up to my original Hitch in T.O. piece of over two months ago. I wasn't too sure about going ahead with the follow-up since my cover might well be blown by my dates reading this. But since it was a relatively good experience overall, and I won't be outing any psychos (well, not "clinical ones"), I figured: what the heck?
As they say in those old Western epics, this story is true, but the names have been withheld to protect the not-so-innocent. This is the second of a five-part series. But first, a brief introduction.
In a nutshell, I had endeavoured to go undercover at Nubian Connections' summer speed dating event to assess the myths, truths, and rumours surrounding the state of the Black dating scene. And, of course, I was also hoping to meet some special ladies. As the future pieces will reveal, I have met some special ladies. But let's start with the drama for Part 2.
As I arrived at the vicinity of the set of condo buildings housing the speed dating event on that beautiful June evening, I was lost. I couldn't find the entrance. I immediately started bonding with some of the male competition who were just as lost as I was. We paced around for a few minutes, and after some helpful directions from a parking attendant, we finally found the venue. That turned out to be a good ice-breaker for the evening. We got a chance to size each other up like gladiators before entering the arena, Interestingly enough, as we commented, we didn't see any ladies pacing around aimlessly looking for the spot. Most of them were already there. Metaphor, you think?
We took the elevator up to a beautiful penthouse lounge. After being warmly welcomed by the hosts, we grabbed our "scorecards" and a pen. The premise was quite simple: go on a series of eight-minute dates with over a dozen eligible ladies and indicate on the scorecard immediately afterwards if you wished to date that person again, see her as a friend, or pass altogether. The ladies did the same with us. After 48 hours, we would get an e-mail from our hosts telling us if we had any "matches."
There were several "stations", small dining tables or long white couches on which the ladies would sit while the men rotated at the sound of a whistle. In case the conversation got dry, small question cards on adjacent coffee tables provided hints of topics to discuss.
Alright. I downed my soft drink, and it was time to get down to business. I was asked to start at the back of the room, where a tall, slender woman was sitting waiting for me on one of the white couches. It was immediate interrogation style.
"I have a list of questions for you," she said somewhat defiantly.
Alright, I thought, here we go!
"Do you like going out to clubs?" To which I responded: "Yeah sure, once in a while with friends."
It turned out it was a trick question. She was a Seventh-Day Adventist, and she was trying to weed out the "worldly" brothas who frequented Satan's spots. Wait a minute, I thought. I see Satan sitting over there chillin''' with a Martini. Then she brought up her 9-year-old son. Nothing wrong with that, but I thought, "Do I have time to work out the potential implications of baby-daddy drama in an eight-minute conversation?" Oh ... is that the whistle already? Peace!
Stay tuned ...
