Nightlife: Sex!

I still love you Aiden...You can see these fresh every week at or in the Thursday’s Currents.

No, I don’t think I’m going to see Sex and the City.  I thought it was Sex IN the City for the last five years.  Finding out that it is really “AND” and not “IN” sort of puts a damper on what I expected of the story.  It does answer the question of why there was never the reverse, the inevitable Abstinence Out In the Country.  I guess that isn’t as marketable as a bunch of women running around in thousand dollar outfits looking for love.

Sex And the City is pretty much everything I hate about the world.  There are four characters that represent the four different sort of women that exist:  Carrie (the average-everybody, money-obsessed, girl-next-door), Miranda (the strong-willed, independent nerd), Samantha (The 80’s left-over sexual dinosaur), and Charlotte (Red-state potential house mom).  And, of course, Carrie is in love with Big, a man that treated her like next week’s recycling deposit for years.  God forbid she falls in love with pour Aiden, a guy that can hold a job and a conversation. Before you say anything, I had a girlfriend at one time.  That mistake forced me to watch every episode of the series.  I’ve had root-canals more thought provoking.

The parallels between New York City and Wilmington are paper-thin.  This is a small town, but half the people that live here are either from New York, or they go to New York three times a year.  Bits of the Sex And The City culture have rubbed off on us.  Many young, beautiful women in town expect men to treat them with a certain style. That style is completely fabricated, created by writers and directors of a television show and, now, mega-blockbuster movie thingy. Anyone under the age of thirty cannot live the Carrie Bradshaw lifestyle.  It would cost you billions of dollars.  Yet, they try. As males, we have to adapt.  So, as my service to the young men of Wilmington, North Carolina, I present a few helpful hints that might make your next date a bit more enjoyable.

Do I still have to pay for everything?

Yes, mister cheapy-pants, you do.  This is a rule that slowly was chopped down and down until it became ambiguous and mythical.  I’m here to reinforce it.  Whoever asks the person out, that person has to pay.  Since most men are given the esteemed honor, prepare to spend your weekly paycheck, dude.  You have to pay for the dinner, the movie, the random Skittles she wants, the kit and the caboodle.  If you can’t afford to pay for all that, then don’t date.  Sit at home and play World of Warcraft.  I do have a tip to make it a bit cheaper.  Redefine the date, and work it in your favor.  Instead of an expensive, flashy dinner that will give her gas, and a stupid movie that will bore her, just take her out for drinks.   The purpose of a date is to get to know some one, right?  There is no better way to find out about someone than to have a few drinks and let those inhibitions melt away.

Where should I do that?

A bar, dummy.  But be very particular about which bar.  Don’t take her to your favorite bar.  Your friends will be there, and they will make fun of you and tell her about that time you did that thing and got arrested. Take her someplace quiet, but with an ample amount of people to keep things interested.  Martini bars are perfect for these situations.  My favorite Martini bar in town is Caprice Bistro’s upstairs lounge. The music isn’t too loud, the wait staff is friendly and prompt, and the bartender knows a whiskey sour from a screwdriver.  Highly recommended.

What should I wear?

Simple rule to always remember:  On a date, dress like you are going to a job interview.  Because, honestly, that’s exactly what you are doing.

How do I know she’s cool?

Well, you are asking the oldest and most revered question in Human history. I do have a small test that might help you out.  I didn’t make the test up.  It was given to me by my father, as it was given to him, as I’m giving it to you.  Drive to her house.  Lock all the doors.  Go to her door, walk her to the car, and open her door.  Now, here is the magic.  If she doesn’t unlock your door while she is in the car, you can go ahead and forget about marriage, having kids, and that house on the hill.  Or, you can ask her if she likes Sex And the City.  If she says no, go ahead and slap a ring on her finger, baby.  She’s the one.

Questions? Comments? Do you need a hug?  Email Jarvis at