West Vancouver Boys
// Cheetah Powers

Do you fuck on the first date?
—Via Text

Uh … I think so? That’s not a good answer, but the whole concept of going on first dates is pretty whack I guess. It’s like you’re interviewing someone for the position of vagina-filler. Awkward! Anyway, I’ve only ever gone all the way on a first date once. I think. You’re all reading this for the raunchy story anyway, so here it is:

It was a beautiful afternoon in 2010 and I was preparing to attend my friend Carl’s annual Cinco de Mayo party. I was looking forward to nothing more than getting loco when my friend Tylene called me desperately, asking for a favour.

“Of course,” I said cautiously, thinking that she needed a ride somewhere or to borrow money.

“I need you to come on a double date with me,” she said.

I immediately tried to weasel out of the situation. Not only are double dates usually suicidally boring, but Tylene has even worse taste in men than me.

“You’ll like them,” she said wheedlingly.

“They’re athletes.”

“Lame! I don’t want to hang out with a bunch of stupid jock straps when I could be livin’ la vida Lohan,” I said stubbornly.

“Ho, you haven’t been on a date in months,” she said mercilessly. “Anyways, we can go to the stupid Cinco de Mayo thing afterwards. It’ll still be early. And I promise that you won’t have to pay for anything. These guys are from West Van!”

If there’s one thing I’m powerless to resist, it’s the lure of anything free. And everyone who reads this column knows that I have a sick fascination with putting myself into awkward social situations for the sake of a good LOL. Tylene extracted from me a promise to meet at seven at Milestones.

An hour later, I cruised into the restaurant wearing a themed Mexican poncho. Tylene was already at a table with two guys straight out of an American Eagle catalogue. Her date, Ryan, had hair so severely spiked it looked like it could be snapped off by a strong breeze. Mine was wearing camo shorts and a white polo shirt, although, to his credit, the collar wasn’t popped. I was completely unsurprised to learn that his name was Brody.

Like a real bro!” I said, already planning the hilarious story I would recount later at the party.

“What frat are you guys in?” “Alpha Delta Phi,” they said, in unison. I gave Tylene a long, meaningful look across the table, but she was enraptured with Ryan’s admittedly very chiselled visage and had totally forgotten about my existence.

I was prepared to spend the next few hours hating Brody, but he shocked me by displaying a level of self-awareness that I’d never before seen in a Hollister model. “I had no idea that Ryan was going to make this into some kind of weird double date,” he said conspiratorially. “So let’s just get smashed and make them feel really stupid for dragging us along.” He then ordered a round of tequila shots. I stopped hating him at once.

An hour, many shots, and one greasy quesadilla later, Brody and I had become reasonably good bros, although I was still counting down the minutes until we could leave. Tylene and Ryan seemed to be doing well as they eye-fucked each other over a series of increasingly fruity drinks.

“Dude!” I shouted into Tylene’s besotted face. “We should totally bring these bros to the party. It’ll be LOL.” S

he hadn’t downed enough liquid courage to take Ryan home and jump on his huevos at that point, so she agreed. However, I could see an expression of craftiness seep into Ryan’s expression like the Grinch. “Only if we stop at my house first,” he said. “It’s still early, and I have some really good tequila that I want you guys to try.”

Ryan was definitely hoping for a little preparty action, but Tylene was too drunk/in love to realise, and Brody and I were just too drunk. We all piled into a cab and shot off to a huge and ultra-modern house that looked straight out of a Beverly Hills reality TV show.

In the massive kitchen, Ryan poured out a sampling of drinks with the air of a pope bestowing the sacred wine. “We should go out and enjoy these on the heated deck,” he said smugly.

Looking back, I have to mentally high-five him for his flawlessly smooth operation. The whole point of bringing Brody and I was to encourage a festive and relaxed party atmosphere that would make Tylene feel comfortable enough to loosen up and drink. Weaselling in a tour of his parent’s awesome house would impress the shit out of her, and of course, the heated deck was totally romantic, featuring a majestic view of the city lights far below us. And of course, the best part, sunken into the wooden floor …

“A hot tub!” shrieked Tylene. “Oh my god, can we go in?”

“Cinco de mayo!” I said, suddenly anxious. As much as I thought Brody was cool, there was no way that I wanted to be forced into a regrettable hot tub orgy.

“Don’t be a wiener, Cheet,” she said, already stripped down to her underwear. “We still have lots of time.”

I settled for dangling my legs in the searing water and tried to relax, but something was definitely off. The combination of prolonged exposure to tequila, the horrible Milestones food, and the smell of chlorine was making the city lights glow feverishly. My face grew sweaty and started to swell like an ugly balloon. Brody was talking to me but it sounded like he sounded very far away.

“If you will all excuse me,” I said with great dignity, “I must vomit now.”

I got up and ran back into the house. In that moment I cursed the architect and my own drunken self, because for some reason I was unable to find any bathroom. The hideous bile started to fill my mouth, and I found myself in what seemed to be an office, in the corner of which was a garbage can. I flung myself towards it and heaved up everything I’d consumed that day, as well as two internal organs.

I must have fallen into some kind of swoon, because the next thing I knew, I was lying on the carpet. Someone was calling my name. I couldn’t tell if it had been minutes or hours since I’d made my vile offering.

Brody’s feet came into view, swaying unsteadily. He saw me lying limply on the ground and fell to his knees beside me, cradling my upper body like a NATO peace worker with an incredibly wasted war child. “Are you all right?” he cried dramatically.

His head, lit from behind, looked like a sexy, buff angel. I was overcome by a powerful urge to do something regrettable. The next thing I knew, we were making out, rolling around on the floor of Ryan’s dad’s office. He didn’t comment at all about my vomit breath, though I suspected he’d just thrown up himself.

You know that point of intoxication when any attempt at physical performance is defeated by the weak state of your body? We were both at that point. It was like trying to pick a lock with a wet noodle. Gross!

After much frustration, I blacked out for a second time. When I opened my eyes, I could hear someone calling my name again. This time, it was Tylene’s feet that appeared in my field of vision. “Cheetah! What the hell did you do?”

I sat up and looked around groggily. Brody lay face down next to me in the puddle that had seeped from the overturned garbage can. He was completely pantsless, and I was wearing only my Mexican poncho.

“Cheetah, did you have sex with him?” Tylene asked incredulously.

“Not in the eyes of the Lord,” I said uncertainly, trying to locate my clothes. “I mean, look at him.”

“True. Well, Ryan was a total joke. I gave him a blowjob for like, 20 minutes, and then he just fell asleep! Well, are we going to that party or what? It’s only 11:30.”

“Ha ha ha! Oh man, we’re such whores.”

We high-fived over Brody’s prone body, emptied the liquor cabinet of as much alcohol as we could carry, and hit the Cinco de Mayo party with the best story of the night.

And that was the time that I put out on the first date.

//Cheetah Powers, columnist
//Illustration by Katie So

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