To continue the dating conversation begun several weeks ago, let me tell you the story of my one and only fadeaway. Here’s what happened (if my parents are reading this, I just want you to know that I make better decisions these days): I was out one night about four years ago with a friend of mine who wanted me to experience Puerto Rican North Philly and the world he came from. We went to several bars over the course of the evening and finally ended up, in the wee hours of the morning, at an after-hours club at 2nd and Erie. (Anyone from Philly knows there’s not a lot of good happening there at 3am.) After a full-body pat down that assured the bouncer that I was unarmed (I was informed shortly thereafter by Jumbo, one of my bar-hopping companions, that the last time he had been there, a shooting had occurred), I entered the club, which was basically a room with a bar on one end and a dance floor on the other. I downed several bottles of Corona – that’s all my friend would allow me to drink that night, other than shots of rum – and noticed a Haitian guy on the dance floor, who, though a bit shorter (my height) than my general tastes run, had fantastic locks. (For those who aren’t in the know, locks refers to dread locks.) I approached him; we danced, flirted, exchanged numbers and then went our separate ways.

Divinity (that’s right, his name was DIVINITY; or at least, that’s what he went by) called me up a few days later, and we made plans to meet up at the movies in the Northeast. (By the way, going on a first date to the movies is a bad idea. Don’t do it.) That went well enough, and we decided to grab some food, so we got in our respective cars (because, let’s be real, I didn’t know this guy, so I wasn’t getting in his car) and headed to Friendly’s on the Boulevard. It was during this ice cream time that I learned that Divinity had OCD (there was an issue with the cleanliness of silverware that ended up with the need for individually wrapped plastic utensils). Not necessarily a dealbreaker, but it has potential to be one depending on the severity. As we said goodnight and I prepared to go my separate way, he asked me why I wasn’t going to sleep with him that night. (If there are any guys reading this that aren’t clear about this, it’s not okay to ask that on a first date. Or ever.) He also pulled out this little gem as he tried to entice me: “Most people think all Haitian men have AIDS, but I don’t. I promise.” YIKES.

At that point, I should have realized that Divinity and I were not going to work out, but, as someone who likes a free meal, I agreed to see him again the next weekend. This time, we went to Kabobeesh, an Indian restaurant at 42nd and Chestnut. (If anyone reading this can explain to me why a man with OCD and hygiene issues would suggest going to an Indian buffet, I would be much obliged. It’s been baffling me for years.) We once again had issues with cutlery and dishes, resulting in full use of paper products, but at least that was accompanied by excessively dull conversation that was strained, at best. He asked me where I lived (since I had yet to let him pick me up for a date), and I vaguely told him the Italian Market, but refused to give him any specifics. The meal ended and he walked me to my car, where he kissed me goodnight and said he’d like to see me again, to which I mumbled something unintelligible and quickly drove away.

While I recognize that I should have been direct with him and just told him I wasn’t interested, I didn’t, and, for the next several weeks, he called and texted quite often. I never answered the phone or responded, and got what I deserved when he started calling upwards of six times a day. I also saw him wandering around my neighborhood once or twice (he never saw me), which made me quite happy in my decision to not tell him exactly where I lived, the main reason being that he had no business being in my neighborhood, since he lived in WILMINGTON, DE. (You can’t really pull the I-just-happened-to-be-in-the-neighborhood thing with distance like that.) I get that I’m charming, but come on.

To make a long story even longer, my point is that, since we’d only been out twice , the fadeaway was an acceptable form of ending things between us. Of course, it’s also true that I wimped out and just couldn’t be direct, and that resulted in my phone and neighborhood both ending up being things I wanted to avoid for a few weeks, but I stand by that fadeaway. If I had it to do all over again, I wouldn’t change a thing, except maybe deciding to go out with a guy named Divinity that I met at a North Philly after-hours club where it was assumed I was carrying a weapon.

So, if this were a fairy tale and I wanted you to take away a moral from this story, here’s what it would be: don’t pick up men in places where people have been shot. There’s no greater dating wisdom I can impart than that.