{bazima.com}

I had a Bad Date Saturday night. I'm starting to get annoyed with my dates if I'm not interested in them. Like it's their fault. That can't be healthy. But it was a Nerve date and that's where part of my annoyance stemmed from.

Now, I know you know Nerve. Few people these days don't. Not only has it seemed to me in the past couple of months that every other week on the site is Blogger Week, but I've come across profiles of several people I know. And if they're not on that "social service site", there's plenty others that are almost as popular. They're everywhere and a lot less stigmatized. It's the everybody's doing it thing so take your pick.

Everyone and their father is on some sort of online dating tip so it can be awfully discouraging, all the lack of potential out there. It's especially annoying for women, I think, who make up the minority of profiles. You put up your ad and you get 567 responses in a matter of 3 minutes. They're like vultures! More than half of the time you can't imagine why they've emailed you in the first place. Does the 4'9" lawyer from the Upper East Side who listens to Dave Matthews and Ravi Shankar really think he's met his match in me? Then of course, there are those responses you get that make it so painfully obvious that they haven't even bothered to read your profile. They just see "Female" and hit "Send collect call".

Ten Things I Find Myself Saying Out Loud When Checking Out The Responses to My Personal Profile:

1. Ew.
2. You're married.
3. Are you kidding me?
4. Is that Ed Begley, Jr?
5. No, I will not be the sub to your dom.

6. No, I will not be the dom to your sub.

7. You're, like, 80.

8. Get away from me!

9. I didn't respond to you the first three times. What don't you get?

10. Get a job.

But Nerve is also addictive. Don't find what you want? Wait! There's more! And it's easy. the thing I like about it is being able to pick and choose from the comfort of my own home (in front of trusty IMac, in underwear, hair askew, picking nose). You have total control. There is actually an article about online dating in the new issue of New York Magazine here in which a twenty-four-year-old interviewee said: "I'll show up at the office and [someone] I work with will say, 'You look really cute today!' I'm like, 'Really? Do you think I should go out on a date?' Then I'll hop online and within ten minutes yell out, 'I have a date!'"

Exactly.

But still, then you have to actually go out on the date and do all that stupid first date stuff and have all those stupid first date bits of conversation and you're lucky if they're someone you want to keep talking to. And if they're not, well then you get back and start all over again or just respond to the next Nerver in line in your inbox. I have to say, though, I don't have any Nerve horror stories. Funny ones, yes. Like, I'd never go out on a date with you again but this was fun and it makes for great blog fodder, so thanks! ones. My Nerve-ette status was in fact one of the catalysts for the launching of my website in the first place. September 2001 through pretty much all of 2002 was the official Do What I Want With Whoever I Want Because I Want And Don't Apologize For It phase for yours truly. The Year of Bazima!

So every so often when I feel a lull in the loving or need an ego boost, I dial up the Big N (most humbling moment: "every time I find myself back on Nerve"). Plus, I've been on edge lately. Aside from recent post-break up/stand-up low-level confidence, historically, I (1) do not feel sexy in winter (I don't look good in layers and there's no color in my face. So to speak.) and (2) I haven't had sex in almost a month. (Last time I went this long I was at Choire's one night and I was so tense it scared him. I looked like I was about to crack into a million pieces.)

But back to my Nerve-sponsored Bad Date Saturday Night. There was nothing wrong with this guy. I just wasn't attracted to him whatsoever and knew soon after I sat down next to him at the bar that he was so not my type. (That's the other thing about Nerve and online personals in general. You gotta know how to read between the lines because everyone looks good on paper and no one ever looks like their photos. Ever. Evidently, this one slipped through the radar.) So I'm on this date and it's not long before I'm wishing that I was out at Florent with these people, making out with Dan'l and the rest of my gay boyfriends.

The silences with Bad Date Saturday Night Guy were not comfortable and to compensate for the fact that I could feel his eyes on me during said silences but couldn't bring myself to look back (What for? So we could do the lean in thing? No!), I kept taking big fat gulps out of the drinks he was buying me. Before long I was more drunk than I wanted to be on a not-hot date. Three hours had passed and when I went into the ladies room I thought to myself, Why am I still here? There's no reason. Sure, I could get laid. He seems interested, but there isn't even a sexified spark from where I'm sitting. I was shockingly off-balance in the bathroom from my three drinks and when I went to unlock the door to get out, somehow I jammed my finger and nearly cut the tip off. It was so time to go. I bid him goodbye and was home by 11:30, taking pictures of myself, drunk and bleeding from my Barbie band-aided index finger (see above).

He sent me an email the next day saying that he had a really nice time and would love to do it again. I didn't say that I wasn't interested as we said goodnight at the top of the subway steps, but I sort of assumed that he'd pick up on the vibe. Apparently not. I emailed him back and said that though I had a nice time as well, I wasn't really feeling any motherfucking chemistry. He responded with a "Hmmm...well, feel free to hit me up if you change your mind". I won't, but okay.

At the end of the day, Nerve serves three main functions. It's easy. It's a confidence booster for those involuntary down times, and certainly if you're looking for a no-strings fuck, well, it could be just the thing. I have another date tonight. Because, you know, that's the way it works. It may or may not be something to write home about.