Love is Blind | Issue 27

Love is Blind | Issue 27

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.

Akon

After my flat mates gave me a much-needed two-hour run down of what and what not to say to the mystery date, I was left rather confused. I had to take their word as they were all more experienced in the art of wooing the opposite sex than I was, but they had pretty much just told me to say nothing about myself, what I’m like, my past exploits and told me nothing that I should say. I dwelled on the advice all the way to the bar, where I was greeted by a very sensually lit little establishment but no date. So I took a seat and an eager beer.

I was not nearly as drunk as I would have liked to be coming in, as my flat mates had kept me under strict drinking surveillance leading up to the date; they knew how I usually deal with the prospect of courtship. Nervous conversation with the bar staff got me through the first 15 minutes of waiting, but over the next 15 I was with myself, imagining what could be taking this mystery woman so long.

40 minutes past my own time of arrival, I began coming to terms with the fact that she was not coming. This realisation was a mixture of both relief and disappointment, so I inquired if I was still allowed to solely work my way through the bar tab. After such a confirmation, I preceded to text my flat mates and tell them the good news and invite them down for a hoon on my broken-hearted bar tab. They arrived to find hardly enough left for them to have a drink each and me talking shit to the bar staff. So I had one more round, toasting to the on-going life of a bachelor and took my lonely heart home.

To my ever-elusive true love out there, you hurt me more than you will ever know.

Cheers to Critic and Di Lusso for the drinks, though!!!

"Em J

Let’s get it out of the way: i didn’t have sex. well, not as a result of Critic, at least, because I couldn’t be fucked showing up.

My hands were so wet from exertion that when I tried texting Critic to bullshit to them that something had happened my phone flew, nay, exploded from my hand, shattering on the ground beside the gym equipment. What a stark example that this wasn’t going to happen. Sorry, mystery date, but before I commit to someone else, I need to commit to getting my shit sorted.

Back in my room, I did have second thoughts as I picked up Critic. The date I turned to was the “genetically gifted” couple from the voting issue. Some good, hard sex would have been great after all, but I was already half an hour late and in no state to turn up. I went to turn to Tinder but my phone was fucked from before. Fuck.

Grabbing my purple friend from the bedside table I eased in to some epic, erotic Sailor Moon before falling asleep.

I’m really struggling to hit my target word count. That was all that happened. I even missed dinner.
This article first appeared in Issue 27, 2014.
Posted 11:58pm Sunday 12th October 2014 by Lovebirds.