Imagine that repeated 135 times.
Later that evening, half drunk, Rachel and I peeled off from the formal after-party and found a kids' playground. We crawled inside a network of large concrete pipes with earth piled over the top (as was the style of 1980s New Zealand playgrounds) and got down to some serious making out. Let it be said that I had no idea what to do and neither did Rachel. I opened my mouth, slightly baring my teeth, and put it near hers, she met my lips/teeth and proceeded to furiously jab her tongue in and out of my mouth much like a psychopath stabbing a quiche with a gherkin. There were no winners.
The night ended with Rachel dropping me home in her Subaru Justy. As I wandered into my house I had several thoughts: What weird Freudian force was making me want to go out with my sister's best friend? Was my romantic future going to be a series of awkward gherkin moments? How long would the VHS boom last before it was superceded by a superior form of data storage?
Michelle Blundell
My very first date was with a boy I met at a Blue Light Disco when I was 11. Allow me to set the scene: being dropped off at the St Lukes Foodcourt to share lemon pepper fries at Long John Silver. I think we went out for two weeks. Why did it end? Well, at two weeks, did it ever really start?
But one of my most awkward dates was with a guy I met once at a bar I was working at. We met up at a restaurant and as we sat down to dinner he told me he was going to marry the next girl he went out with. While I totally appreciate that kind of honesty, we hadn't even ordered yet. I mean, I didn't even know his last name. Did he mean me? Because if he did, it suddenly got awkward. If he didn't mean me, it was still awkward. You could say it was too-much too-soon, and I suppose it won't come as a surprise that there wasn't a second date.
The last date I went on was when I worked as programme manager for The Basement in Auckland. One night, as I showed a tall and handsome musician around the space, I found myself all tongue-tied with sweating palms. Words were coming out of my mouth in the wrong order. I was starting to regret the purple checkered hoodie I'd thrown on that morning. I texted him later that night to check how the gig had gone. Very professional. He suggested we meet up to discuss another upcoming event he'd like to put on at the venue.
So I rocked up to our meeting, laptop and organiser in sweaty hand. Turns out, this was actually a date under the guise of a meeting. My heart was beating fast and in an attempt to charm I performed many impromptu scenes to illustrate my stories in the tiny cafe. This kind of inappropriate acting is something I tend to resort to when I'm feeling nervous. After our faux-meeting wound up, he texted me to say the beverages were on him next time. Oh man, there was going to be a next time! I lit up like a Christmas tree. Next time turned into dinner and drinks at Tanuki's Cave ... this was a Real Official Date and we both knew it.
Nic Sampson
This is one of the only dates I've ever been on. Even then it wasn't really a date. Lots of other people were there and she didn't know it was a date. It was Sunday, October 23, 2011. The day of the Rugby World Cup final.
Our flat wasn't that into rugby, but we were into waving flags and singing. So we had a few people round to drink beer on the couch and watch the game.
We were drunk on national pride, we were blasting Midnight Youth and Goodnight Nurse at a volume I don't think they've ever been played before or since in Grey Lynn. We were kicking around a rugby ball like we knew the right way to kick a rugby ball: we would kick it once, it would go into a tree, we'd spend 10 minutes trying to get it back and then kick it straight back up there. Pretty sure that's how the All Blacks train.
A girl I liked was there, a friend of a friend. I thought she might like me, mainly because our mutual friend told me she did (I was 24 at the time, not 12, as you might be thinking). Plus I'd also sent her a YouTube video of a mariachi band serenading a beluga whale, so I was feeling pretty confident.
Somebody had brought stick-on silver fern tattoos. I put one on my face because I love subtlety. She put one on her bare arm. We made some jokes pretending they were real tattoos. I drank some beer. She drank some ... whatever it was she was drinking. We sang. We ordered Pizza Hut.
Before the game we all stood around the TV and sang the national anthem. Then myself and my friend sang a song about rugby we'd written for a fake rock band we were in, called None Tree Hill.
She was extremely impressed. The game was, of course, intense. You remember it. If it was too long ago, watch The Kick.
Afterwards, we marched up to Ponsonby Rd singing the national anthem and triumphantly waited in line at Ponsonby Social Club for one beer before deciding we didn't have any more pride to give. The girl and I later sat awkwardly next to each other without touching in our shed until everyone else had finally gone home. I asked her if we were going to make out and she said something to the effect of "Duh, why else would I still be in your gross shed?" Thanks, All Blacks.
Jackie van Beek
I was 16 and I'd just become great friends with a new boy at school. We hung out a lot, avoiding homework by taking my dog on lengthy walks. We lay about in the sun listening to music together, dabbled in substance abuse and got up to as much mischief as possible without risking any serious convictions.
Our major point of difference was that I was falling in love with him but he wasn't falling in love with me. Obviously, being 16, I didn't tell him this.
On a Friday night, we decided to hang out at his house, get drunk and listen to John Lennon. An hour later, we decided it would be a good idea to head down to the local swimming pool for a dip. Thankfully I gave myself a black eye in the changing rooms before I had an opportunity to dive into the water. We aborted the swim plan and headed back to his place.
After a bit more John Lennon we both agreed I was probably too drunk to be much fun, so we called my mum to come and pick me up. Mum didn't mind too much as it was still only 7pm.
Unfortunately this good decision-making was quite quickly followed by my worst decision of the night.
As we waited out on his driveway I vomited, just as Mum's Mitsubishi pulled up. Caught in the headlights, I weighed up the whole situation; the black eye, the aborted swim, the vomit on my T-shirt, my future goals and aspirations, John Lennon ... and decided it was definitely the right time to lean in for our first kiss. He wasn't hugely receptive.
The following week we discussed the terms and conditions of our friendship and decided that it would probably be all right for us to keep hanging out as long as we both agreed to abide by the aforementioned terms and conditions.
The week after that he started dating the hottest girl in school.
Thankfully I had a pretty good bounce-back attitude and managed to put the night behind me. We remained good friends for many years.
Jonathan Brugh
My friend Jodie told me that a woman she works with found me very attractive. At the time, like most times, I suffered serious self-loathing and didn't understand any of that indulgent carry-on. But I was also deeply lonely, so I showed interest. Jodie was delighted and suggested I meet this woman on a blind date. I thought it was a bad idea because if I have a good time with someone I usually come across like a curious dandy who thinks his dad jokes are awesome. Anyhow, a date was set.
We would meet at a nice restaurant and drink heavily, that was my only demand. I was not early. As I walked in, a woman sitting at a table for two stood quickly, knocking both the table and her drink over, creating a noisy mess. Whenever someone does this in public I always suffer a fit of exaggerated empathy and, if I can muster the balls, I'll instantly recreate the same thing to draw away the focus of bystanders - no one ever tries to help. So I knocked over a table beside her, ruining a nice couple's meal.
As it turns out, I was in the wrong restaurant. We sat together while the staff cleaned up the mess. I've never felt more intimate with anyone than in that moment. Frightened, confused staff wiping crotches and whispering.
Anyway, we talked a lot. About big cars, rugby and how best to get stains out of things. Salt and wine are two important things to have in one's hall closet. We laughed and drank. It was lovely.
I should say that my lovely date is now a huge celebrity so I won't be using her real name. She would not want this story ruining her reputation. Let's call her Danielle - I mean Mary.
Mary and I left the restaurant to catch a taxi God knows where, I was hoping to her house. As we approached the taxi rank she attempted a playful jump on to my back. At the same time I turned to say something, only to have Mary arrive in mid-air on to my flank. We both flew sideways and landed on the road, in the gutter. She landed face first. When I came to I saw she had not, her face was a shocking mess of blood. I grabbed the taxi, put her in and got her to the hospital in Grafton. We sat in emergency for two hours.
As the nurse and doctor cleaned her face, I noticed another nurse calling the police. Thinking nothing of it, I chatted away to Mary hoping to make her feel better. I tried to make her laugh despite her broken jaw and black eyes. Within 10 minutes there were four policemen standing around me. Now I understood ...
Anyway I spent the night at the police station answering questions about our relationship. A blind date was it? Just a playful accident was it? My bleeding knuckles didn't help.
I never saw her again, only on television. Does she remember? Perhaps she was so concussed she doesn't remember. Maybe that's for the best.
Silo Theatre's The Blind Date Project is on at The Basement from November 4-29.
