On Wednesdays, Amanda Chatel will be sharing stories about her strange, fascinating and sometimes wonderful dating life. If it makes you want to date, check out TheGloss dating page.

We weren’t very far into the evening when Marc said what I thought he said. “Come again?” I asked. He smirked and repeated himself but this time a bit louder.

“I said: You have a pretty mouth. It looks like it would give good blowjobs.” His smile got even wider after he said it a second time and although I’m not usually bothered by such things, I was offended that he thought that an appropriate compliment. Had we hooked up in the past or met before under a haze of binge drinking or something that had flirted with the notion that we would be having sex, then it would have made more sense. However, at this juncture we had not even reached the second course of the meal. There were also other contributing factors that made this statement completely wrong.

First of all, I do not have a mouth that evokes thoughts of blowjobs. Even when covered in lip gloss, my mouth does not elicit anything even remotely related to sex. Why? Because my lips are thin and I’ve yet to master a ‘come hither’ pout. Although I do promise to work on this in the upcoming months if only for this column or to procure a husband for the sake of my mother.

Secondly, we were talking about 30 Rock when he offered this bit of information; information that we already covered is wrong and was now also illy placed in the conversation. Yes, Liz Lemon talk can be sexy under the right circumstances but not in this case. If I recall correctly, and this was just a few nights ago, we were discussing Lemon’s dance moves and how they are just as fabulous as mine. Who jumps to sexy time thoughts during such a topic? Apparently this fella, Marc.

Thirdly, did I mention this was a first date? And that neither one of us was intoxicated enough to exchange such, um, pleasantries nor, based on the lack of chemistry, would such a banter ever come to be? I really should stop allowing ‘friends’ to set me up.

I was at a loss for words. As I sat there I thought about the guy who whipped it out on our official first date and the drama of the past week, and had a Seth Meyers and Amy Poehler “Really!?” moment. I turned my head to the corner of the restaurant, a venue I’ve been to easily a hundred times in the past few years and actually looked for a hidden camera. If I believed in a god, I would have thrown my napkin on the ground, pounded my heel into the tile beneath me and screamed: “Is this funny to you?!” Alas, my lack of religion kept me in my seat and only able to utter a meek, “thanks a bunch.”

I steered the direction of the conversation to a more civilized topic that still involved the NBC Thursday night lineup: Parks and Recreation. Although slow to follow, he did manage to get back on track and keep things above the belt until we wrapped up the evening and were about to part ways. It was then he went back to his book of “compliments,” the one I imagine they distribute to 15-year-old boys and the one which this guy had yet to learn really isn’t helping his chances of getting laid. Really?! It didn’t work the first time around, but you want to go for a second time, Marc?

After a good 10 minutes or so of persistence in trying to come home with me, as I had made the mistake of saying I lived around the corner, Marc childishly told me he didn’t want to come home with me anyway and would “have more fun jerking off.” There was no sense in arguing with him, it was clear he was a child, as the majority of the men who have come in and out of my life are, so I just turned around and walked home. I didn’t even accompany my long sigh with a “goodbye.” I was just done.

For the millionth time, I shook my head and rolled my eyes on a street in lower Manhattan and swore off all further contact with the outside world. The best part of the night was putting on my pajamas and watching Jimmy Fallon. Why? Because the TV doesn’t talk to me; I talk to it. And as Andy Warhol once said: “The less something has to say, the more perfect it is.”

I should really start dating dead pop artists.

Care for some dirty talk? I’m sure it’s easier to find than you think. So make your way to TheGloss dating page and find your sexy other half.