The need for speed
Dominic Knight tries moving with a fast crowd at speed dating
I'm not the kind of person who goes to speed dating. Such an artificial environment, I've always felt, is for desperadoes who can't meet people under ordinary circumstances. And what kind of loser needs a bell to save them from awkward conversations when they can just pretend they need to go to the toilet every eight minutes?
So when Time Out suggested I try out the Fast Impressions service, which is offered in conjunction with online dating behemoth rsvp.com.au, a combination of snobbery and shyness rendered me reluctant. But then my flatmates gently pointed out that since I hadn't been on a date in many months, perhaps it wouldn't be such a terrible idea to give it a try.
As suave as I am, my forays into the bar scene generally succeed only in identifying women with boyfriends. Possessive boyfriends, specifically: the sort that interrupt conversations and aggressively run a hand over their beloved's back before dragging them home, leaving the women to, I always presume, remember me fondly and ruminate sadly on what might have been. So I had to admit that the concept of a room full of guaranteed, bona fide single women was an refreshing concept. Besides, I told myself, I'd be in a journalistic capacity - undercover, in a way. I could convincingly pretend to myself that I didn't care about the outcome.
So I signed up to a "Speed Dating with Style" event for 27 to 35-year-old women and 30 to 39-year-old men - and yes, with the exception of Fast Impressions' Toy Boy events, that age differential is standard. Though I like some of their other venues, like the Arthouse Hotel and Bar Europa, the news that my night was at the 1970s Bayview Boulevard Hotel on William Street left me wondering exactly where the "style" would be coming from. But it made for a perfect venue, since the 25th floor bar, with panoramic westward views, was completely empty. No chance of running into an ex with their better-looking new lover here.
There was plenty of tension in the air as I rode up in the lift with three women. I was tempted to make a joke about us all just being there for a quiet drink, but thought better of it, hoping to defer their discovery that I'm a smartarse until they were forced to meet me one-on-one. I looked downward and mumbled "speed dating" to the waiter, and was ushered to the Corral of Shame.
As the world's largest speed dating outfit, running half a dozen events most weeks in Sydney alone, First Impressions certainly seem to know their game. I deduced this immediately after observing that the nametag tray was located directly adjacent to the tray of champagne - sorry, Australian sparkling wine. Plentiful refills were on offer throughout the night, and while it made my head feel quite sore the following morning, it certainly got everybody in the mood.
It appeared that all the guys had opted to hunt solo - I certainly had. So, without the moral support that most of the ladies had sensibly brought along, I latched onto the guy who was closest to the bar. He was a lawyer, a little older than me, and turned out to be something of a veteran. He'd even achieved 'elite' status, meaning that the majority of the women at a previous event had ticked the box to see him again. I wondered idly how 'elite' you could be if you kept coming back for more events rather than actually getting into a relationship, but apparently there are serial monogamists in speed dating, just like everywhere else.
After only a brief introductory spiel, our dates were underway. There were 13 women, and the men flitted between their tables, spending eight minutes with each lady before a Red Faces-esque gong told us to move on.
Judging by the questions of my male friends, any gentlemen reading this will have only one question: were they hot? Well, in fact, yes. And any presupposition that the event would be a dork convention was quickly dispelled when I talked to the women. Nearly all of them were a genuine pleasure to chat with, and the conversations flowed almost as freely as the bubbly. There were the predictable enquiries about jobs - the majority of my dates were office workers, with a few outriders like a midwife, small businesswoman and designer - but my persistent attempts to move onto non-work topics were generally welcomed. And that was because I was being very cagey about my own profession, vaguely explaining I was a freelance writer for magazines and stuff. Which probably made me seem as though the only writing I did was filling out Centrelink forms.
There were a few painful moments - some of my dates had clearly memorised guaranteed conversation-starters, like asking where in the world I'd like to travel to, or what my favourite dessert was, which I found so absurdly amusing that I couldn't even think of an answer. One woman responded to my line about how I was really enjoying not asking anyone about their jobs - because I'd never choose a partner by CV anyway - by immediately asking "So, what do you do?". And worst of all, I hadn't heard of the suburb where one woman lived, did a terrible job of hiding it, and consequently felt like a complete wanker for the next seven minutes.
Nevertheless, I soon realised that the process was no different from meeting people at, say, a house party, only with a guarantee that politeness won't trap you in an uncomfortably lengthy conversation. As a result, there's less pressure to actually chat the women up, as opposed to simply being friendly. The impression I got was that most of the women had come out of relationship disasters, and were looking to kickstart their way back into the dating scene.
The question of whom to tick was a tricky one. To be perfectly honest, there was no one that I was especially enthusiastic about seeing again. But I'm always accused of having absurdly high standards, so I - or perhaps the champagne - simply said 'bugger it', and ticked a whopping seven out of the 13. Sure, I doubted that any of them would be The One. But the prospect of a longer chat to most of the women I met was quite appealing. And at least I'd get to do a bit of actual dating, and that had to be a good thing, right?
After we finished, about a dozen of us went to the pub over the road, and the relief at being in a more normal social situation was palpable. The other guys were generally a bit older, quite outgoing and funny, and to be honest, a bit better looking. Since we were joined by some of the braver women, and were finally able to drink something other than Australian sparkling wines, we had a great time, and the last stragglers headed home after midnight.
As I walked home, I wondered if I'd been too generous with my ticks. Imagine if all the women had ticked me as well! And what if some of them had really liked me, and I'd have to let them down gently? I didn't need seven separate awkward situations.
The following morning, Fast Impressions' email was waiting for me. I opened it with a quiet air of confidence, feeling that my generous ticking was about to be rewarded. But no. While the email claimed that others had, not a single one of my seven had ticked me. For me, speed dating had equated to speed rejection.
I spent the rest of the day wondering what I'd done wrong. Had my employment caginess made me seem like a poor catch? Was my banter lamer than I'd realised? Were my looks even more mediocre than I'd long suspected? I'll never know.
But I do know that speed dating is an excellent way to meet new, single people - and from outside your usual, comfortable social group. And on the bright side, even if I had liked some of the girls, far better to find out immediately that it wasn't mutual than waste time on someone who wasn't interested. A few days later, I'd forgotten any disappointment at not getting any ticks. No one would ever know, right? And I'd probably never see any of them again.
Of course, it's not entirely risk-free. There's a small chance you'll discover that someone you rejected subsequently wrote an article about it for Time Out. That's right, Boulevard speed dating ladies, I'm talking to you. But only for eight minutes.
Dominic Knight is the author of Disco Boy (Random House).
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