Critic’s infamous blind date column brings you weekly shutdowns, hilariously mismatched pairs, and the occasional hookup. Each week, we lure two singletons to Di Lusso, ply them with food and alcohol, then wait for their reports to arrive in our inbox. If this sounds like you, email
critic@critic.co.nz. But be warned – if you dine on the free food and dash without sending us a writeup, a
Critic writer will write one under your name. And that won’t end well for you.
Dane Cross
I’ve never really been on a date before. All my previous romantic endeavours have been in that time-honoured New Zealand tradition of first becoming friends and then throwing alcohol and sex into the mix. But if every date were as funny and charming as mine was on Thursday, and also came with a free bar tab, I’d try and do it every night of the week.
I was feeling pretty apprehensive about the whole thing as I sheltered in an alley down from Di Lusso and hastily drank a final beer for confidence. However, I needn’t have worried; my date immediately distinguished herself as a woman of class and distinction by showing an appreciation for whisky and agreeing that we should spend more of the tab on drinks than food. We guessed one another’s majors (Commerce and Religious Studies) and found out we were both from Wellington with all the mutual acquaintances that that entails, who will no doubt find this all pretty amusing. I was impressed by my date’s ability to mix her liquors as she went through some fancy rum cocktail, a White Russian (although she’d never seen the Big Lebowski), as well as double Gin and Tonics and some whisky.
By this time we’d drunk away the bar tab, which seemed like the appropriate moment to head back to hers stopping only to pocket the left over cheese and crackers from Di Lusso. We played some beer pong and though I may have some talents, hand-eye coordination is not one of them – even at the soberest of times – and I was comprehensively beaten by her flatmates. We retreated to her bedroom to listen to some records whereupon not only was my date kind enough to sit on my face but she also proceeded to fuck and suck me with a skill and enthusiasm normally reserved for couples on their wedding nights or soldiers returning from war.
And so after a thoroughly enjoyable evening I left my date with my phone number and a mouthful of DNA and wandered drunk and happy into the night. Thanks
Critic, thanks Di Lusso, thanks Obama and, most of all, thanks to my date.
Faye ReaganA week before turning 23, in what I can only put down to being a pre-quarter-life crisis, I allowed my flatties to sign me up for the Critic blind date. So it was with a bit of lipstick and liquid courage that I made my way to Di Lusso to meet my fresher soul mate.
Instead, I found myself face to face with an attractive fifth-year with an accent. Well, this was unexpected. Cracking straight into it, we guessed each other’s degrees, myself assuming he was a music kid based on his fashion sense and then being slightly embarrassed when he was in fact a Law major who was also from Wellington. I was impressed when he went straight for the whisky and relieved we were both on the same page when it came to the bar tab – spend the minimum amount on food and as much as possible on alcohol.
I knew I was in for a good night when I mentioned the need to make up an outrageous report, to which he replied, “or we could just have a bit of fun and not have to make it up …” Point noted. So, back to my flat, it was in order to down a Scrumpy and play a bit of pong and vinyl – but I should probably cut to the whole reason people read this article, shouldn’t I?
Surprisingly, given how intoxicated we both were, it took him all of two seconds to flip me over and start strong and hard with my favourite position – enough for me to reach the famous “O.” I tip my hat or, in this case, I’ll throw a blow job/69er in the mix for any guy that can make me bite my pillow that hard. So after all the fun, and a quick exchange of numbers, my soul mate went on his way. Cheers Critic for the hookup.
