I'll admit, I'm pretty picky when it comes to guys. For years I've been plagued with what I refer to as "The First Date Curse." I can't even tell you how many first dates I've gone on over the last five years, with only a handful actually continuing on to a second one. People have said to me, numerous times, that my standards are too high. I beg to differ. I can't help it that 98% of the men I've gone out with just weren't up to par.

You can imagine the impression my column gives: that I'm a sarcastic, bitchy, masturbation-obsessed nymphomaniac. First off, I refuse to date a guy who wears a blazer and jeans. I'm sorry, but no. It's not 2008, and even if it was… no. Second, I refuse to date any guy who wears his phone on a belt clip. "But the phone comes with the belt clip!" Well, a baby comes with an umbilical cord, but I sure as shit don't see people carrying them around by it. Same goes for Bluetooth devices. It just makes you look like a pompous douchebag with a name like Brad or Chad who works at a cellular company mall kiosk. Third, and most importantly, he must have a sense of humor. Let me rephrase that: he must have the same sense of humor as me. The Dane Cook/Johnny Knoxville sense of humor is not attractive. If that was the kind of thing to turn me on, I would've fucked entire frat houses my freshman year of college. Even at the tender age of 18, I knew a fraternity guy was not my type.

Two guys with popped collar polo shirts

Don't get me wrong, I gave chances. There was the "Straight Gay Guy" who showed up to our date dressed better than me. There was the "Commitment Guy" who, by the end of the date, was already inviting me to his sister's wedding… six months from then. The "Cool Guy" who thought it was attractive to never text me back and act disinterested.

Three different types of guys 

I began to think that maybe it was just me and I was looking for something that didn't exist, making excuses and coming up with reasons and flaws in these men. Perhaps I was the flawed one. But then I remembered that I'm perfect, so that thought quickly left my mind.

I had friends set me up with their friends, thinking we'd be "so great" together. Usually my friends "introduced" me to these guys by having them read my blog and column. You can imagine the impression that gives: that I'm a sarcastic, bitchy, masturbation-obsessed nymphomaniac. Which I am, but it also gives the impression that I'll put out on the first date. I'm actually quite sexually conservative in my relationships. We have to have been dating for a bit before I'll let you see my naughty bits. Or your name has to be Christian Bale and you must have starred in such classics as American Psycho and 3:10 to Yuma. Or you have to let me pick out at least three things off the McDonald's Dollar Value Menu. After all, I'm a lady.

Classy Ashley with a Bud Light

My longest relationship ever was four months. And two of those months were long distance, which might explain why it lasted as long as it did. My sisters think I'm a commitment-phobe, since the last time a guy said "I love you" to me, I thanked him and then decided I needed to be anywhere but where he was. It's not so much that I'm afraid of commitment, it's that I like my space and don't like the feeling of having to answer to someone. Some nights it's fine to hang out and watch a movie together and snuggle. But some nights, I just want to polish myself off after a long day at work and pass out, spooning a bag of Doritos.

However, I think I have finally found someone I can stand to be around for more than a week (at least, that's how I feel at the time of writing this. By the time my editor Court reads and edits this article, or even opens the email it's attached in—probably about three weeks—I may feel differently). I've been seeing someone for a few months now; we'll call him "Hair Guy," because his hair is infinitely better than mine ever hopes to be, and it's quite possibly the only reason I'm dating him to begin with. As with most guys I date, I was hesitant at the beginning because I wasn't sure how it would work out. But then the following exchange happened one night while we were watching television:

Me: Did you just fart?
Hair Guy: Yeah, sorry. I thought it was going to be a silent one.

I knew then that he was a keeper. Nothing is more attractive than a man comfortable enough with flatulence to not only do it in front of me, but not be embarrassed by it. I considered farting back, but decided it might be too soon in the relationship for that. So instead I just belched. It's a match made in gassy heaven… for now.

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