Spooning.

So, I made it to date number two with Andrew. It's embarrassing for me to admit how rare second dates are...when it comes to the men I date, the last thing I want to consider is what I could have possibly brought to the table that somehow out-freaked the freak show.

There are times though when not reaching second date status is inexplicable, and I actually scan obituaries to find out whether the guy who I really thought would call somehow wound up under a double-decker bus loaded with tourists.

(Case in point - Gavin. We talked online for six months. Finally met for lunch. Lunch turned into drinks, which turned into a walk around downtown, checking out street performers, shopping in my favourite book store at his suggestion, which turned into more drinks on the patio, which turned into dinner and conversation about what movie we were going to see together later that week. After nine hours together following lunch, I thought second date territory was a given. I was wrong.)

(So far, my follow-up phone call to Gavin has not been returned and the obituaries have yet to provide any explanation for over two weeks now. They haven't even yielded any leads on an affordable estate sale condo, which I'm also looking for, but more on that later.)

(This is turning into a really long aside, and I'm sorry for that, but if anybody knows Gavin, I would appreciate if you did actually shove him underneath a double-decker bus loaded with tourists, because then my mind would be at ease. Thank you.)

The first date with Andrew started well enough. He was decent looking, and dressed very well. He smelled good. I was not fond of the facial hair situation he had embarked on, but I felt that could be addressed at a later time. He was funny in a way that took me by surprise, and he was taller than me.

I'm aware that none of these things would qualify this date as the most romantic story of our nation's time, but given what I have to choose from, I had little choice but to be impressed. Our first date ended with a kiss that was also surprisingly pleasant, and so I was cautiously optimistic when he emailed me asking to meet for a drink later that week.

Surely, this was how these things are supposed to go, and I felt perhaps I had managed not to screw things up or misjudge his character too badly. At this point, I knew he could still have bodies buried in his backyard, but he was taller than me and a girl has to compromise some times to get what she wants in the end.

We ended up meeting at a wildly popular ice cream stand instead of a pub, which was exciting because we could take a walk around the park, perhaps walk to the beach, and I could tell so many more people in the surrounding area through excited telepathy that I, Bambi, was on a second date. Yes, the attractive man beside me getting ice cream stuck in his ill-considered facial hair met me once, and then willingly chose to meet me again. In public. Behold the awesome miracle.

After settling on a bench and after me settling on a way to eat my cone without appearing to fellate it, he turns to me and says he has something to tell me, but he's not sure how. Of course he did. I abandoned any pretense of eating my cone in a dainty manner and told him he should probably just lay it on me. He warned that it may change the way I thought about him, but he really felt it was something he had to get out of the way early on.

I waited for him to tell me he had herpes or he was married. Or both. I wondered if I could manage to pull my face into something crossed between empathy and considered concern, and how soon after he told me was married with herpes would it be appropriate for me to take my leave without appearing shallow or angry.

It turns out, it was neither of those things. Instead, Andrew told me that the only way he could get off sexually would be if I was to beat him with a wooden spoon while he called me, "Mommy."

Now.

There was no point asking him to repeat what he'd said. I heard him perfectly well and did not want to hear it again. There were options. I could laugh at him. I could grab what was left of my cone and napkins and run for my car. I could explain to him that really, I don't ever want anybody calling me Mommy - that I've never wanted children, I don't have a biological clock, if I did have a biological clock it was out-matched in sluggishness only by my metabolism and that I'm quite comfortable with my decision to single-handedly keep the birth control industry in business, but sad for my own Mom and Dad who would make some totally kick-ass grandparents.

I sensed that would be a tangent however, and avoiding the real issue. Some response was called for.

I asked him if it had to be a wooden spoon.

This was the wrong response for several reasons. For one, it seemed to ignite in him some hope that I was not totally freaked out by this and was merely considering logistics. While I wasn't totally freaked out, it was only because as far as nutbars I have dated go, Andrew had some serious competition and nothing can shock me any more. My question and my nonchalance seemed to only encourage him that I may be the mean Mommy of his dreams. I was not.

Also, I would like to point out that his particular...desire...did not particularly freak me either. Each to their own - honestly. You could get off on dressing in a bumble bee suit while licking somebody's eyeball and standing on a Wii Fit and more power to you. What blows your hair back is your business, and I encourage one and all to get as kinky as you want - no complaints from me. Unless of course it involves a felony. Or kids. Or blood. Or poo. Or dead people. Or Stephen Harper. Some things are just sick and wrong.

(And now this post has gone totally awry, and I am so SORRY.)

What freaked me out about Andrew and his confession was that he had spent some time with me, had conversations with me, got to know me and still felt that I was the kind of girl it would be OK to dump this upon on our second date while we ate ice cream in a park.

It bothered me much more that he would think it necessary to bring up a sexual fetish at all, before we'd ever held hands. Yes, I kissed him, and I'm good at it. I really am. If I could put kissing on my resume I would, but I was mildly annoyed that he seemed to think we were mere minutes away from re-enacting some kind of sexualized child abuse scene straight out of an after-school special. I mean...honestly.

But I went and asked him about whether it had to be a wooden spoon, and it turns out it did not. It could be a wooden paddle. Or alternating between a wooden spoon or paddle. He had several that he liked, and had brought some with him. He preferred wood to plastic, as he felt wood had a more pleasant aesthetic.

Once again, I had some options. I could have said right then and there that this was not for me, that I wished him luck, but I would not feel comfortable swinging any wooden spoons or paddles. In fact, I suffered through one entire season of softball when I as fifteen and I did not get a single hit that got me on base in that entire time. It was humiliating. The softball season that is - this conversation was just weird. Basically, I would not be swinging anything made of wood, ever again.

I could have said all of these things, but instead I focused on one thing he had said that stood out. He said he brought some spoons and paddles with him. I asked him if he really did, and he really did. He had them in his car, safely concealed in his laptop bag.

Did he bring them just for me, or did he always carry them around just in case a public flogging were to suddenly break out? How many did he bring? And why in the name of everything holy did I not get a double scoop?

I asked to see them. I wanted to know. Did the man seriously carry around a bunch of wooden spoons in case of random acts of corporal punishment? When I asked to see them I thought he was going to foam over with excitement. He thought I was on board, and I thought this may be the lowest point in my dating history. And that's actually saying a lot.

We walked to his car, just a good looking young couple taking a stroll on a summer's evening. Sure enough, one entire compartment in his laptop bag was stuffed with wooden spoons and paddles. I might once have called the paddles "cutting boards" but apparently I have little imagination.

Once I saw it for myself, there was nothing left to see. I held my hand out and wished him good luck in his search. He looked quite shattered - I had got his hopes up. Some times it happens that way. You show somebody your private collection and they walk away, and some times you spend an entire day with somebody and never want to do it again. No further explanation necessary.