Drink up

But don’t expect a goodnight kiss from dating columnist Michelle Provencher.

Back again for our second therapy session, group, and I have a fellow college columnist’s point of view to share. Alex Knepper, a writer for The Eagle, the student newspaper at American University, said in a March 28 column date rape is an “incoherent concept.”

In what Knepper wrote, he implied that any girl who drinks five jungle juices at a frat party and then heads back to a guy’s room indicates she wants to have sex. In Knepper’s words, for that girl to claim date rape the next morning is “the equivalent of pulling a gun to someone’s head and then later claiming that you didn’t ever actually intend to pull the trigger.”

Knepper is also a gay man, so I assume he understands what it’s like to be on a date with an overzealous gentleman with more than a few drinks in his system. But in case he doesn’t get out much, or you don’t either, let me share a personal – and fairly typical – story.

I met this guy only once before, but we hit it off and exchanged phone numbers. I’ll admit I was skeptical of his chivalry because he told me how beautiful and blue my eyes are. (They’re green, by the way.) But we arranged a meet-up, nonetheless – I pinned the blame on bad lighting.

We went to a nearby bar for a couple cheap beers, then headed to my apartment to hang out with some friends. After about an hour, the group left to get some take-out, but my date and I mutually decided to make out while they were gone. In an effort to escape the dry-humping he was subjecting my left leg to, I suggested he get going because everyone would be back soon, and some might frown upon walking in on the heavy petting happening on the living room futon.

“Yeah, you’re right. I guess we can’t f— here. It’s too bad we weren’t at my place,” was his actual reply.

My thoughts on “f—ing” just went from, “Well, he has a nice body, so maybe in the future,” to “I would rather both my hands get caught in a bear trap, have to gnaw them out and walk around with stumps for hands for the rest of my life than have his penis anywhere remotely near my vagina.”

I fought with myself, and my urge to vomit, over how to end things with him as soon as he was out the door and the deadbolt locked. Should I just ignore his calls and texts and hope he gets the hint? Or should I do the humane thing and put him out of his misery now?

I opted for slow and painful as punishment for his stupidity.

Looking back with you now, Group, I realize what I should have said was, “I can see how a healthy diet of porn and male privilege might make who is entitled to my body a little confusing for you. Why don’t we straighten this out? You may think that those two Coronas you paid for would buy your way into my skinny jeans, which I so kindly stuffed my butt into and laid down to button specially for tonight, but they won’t. Those were gifts in exchange for my company and conversation. Let’s not make this mistake again. OK, Honey?”

Now some of you may be wondering how I can be such a frequent dater, yet not put out.

Anybody with a pulse can get laid. In fact, most men are so desperately DTF that it requires little effort at all. Dating, especially sans sex, is an art. It requires a certain level of work and execution to get men to give me their undivided attention without taking my clothes off or the promise of a climax.

I do dating how it was meant to be done: just two people, getting to know one another over some bread and simultaneously trying to impress each other enough to secure a second date.

If this sounds good to you, Knepper, there’s an open invitation to dinner waiting for you in Philadelphia – my treat – but I better at least get a blowjob out of it.

Michelle Provencher can be reached at michelle.provencher@temple.edu.