Nice Guys Finish Last

It’s sad but true: When it comes to dating, “nice” is the ultimate four-letter word.

Take my rendezvous with Mr. Nice Guy, a 28-year-old technical support specialist, otherwise known as the guy who’s patient enough to teach your grandmother how to use a Blackberry.

Most of the boys I’ve dated have been like stray dogs, the kind of hot messes who I take in to love and groom. Predictably, they all eventually chew away at their leashes to roam free again. But Mr. Nice Guy was the sweet, loyal Labrador—the eternal safe bet.

When I walked into the bar to meet him for our first date, he had already staked out two overstuffed lounge chairs. We plopped down and started to chat, but the space between our seats was so expansive, he would have to make an emotional pole vault to successfully cross it.

He didn’t as much as accidentally graze my leg as we swilled our first few rounds. He never once lowered his eyes to take sly glances at my cleavage. At first, this unflinching politeness was charming. In my world, guys who open doors and get up from their seats when you stand to find the ladies room are a novelty.

The simplicity was refreshing. I talked and he listened intently. I didn’t have to work for it. And he was simple, too, with his white tee, black blazer, non-descript jeans and short-cropped hair. The kind of guy who likes typical guy things: cars, football and card games.

But three hours later, when Mr. Nice Guy still had not even placed his hand anywhere near mine, I was annoyed. He was nothing like the guys who have come before him—the ones who would’ve at least had the confidence to take hold of my wrist, lean into my ear and let their baritone voices fall onto my skin with a warm breathiness. How could I get that shot of new-relationship bliss when he hadn’t done anything to distinguish himself from, say, my brother?

I listlessly walked through the parking lot as he trotted behind me. Instead of pressing me up against my car in heated passion, he said nothing as I fished my keys out of my purse.

Then came the nail on the nice-guy coffin. “Um, can I steal you away for a minute?” he asked. It was the kind of thing my boss says when he pokes his head into my cubicle. I cringed and turned around.

He misfired and planted his closed mouth square on the corner of mine. It was about as hot as the goodbye kiss you’d get from your mother in the minivan drop-off line outside of grade school. So I thanked him for the drinks, got in car and sped away.

It took me several blocks to realize the absurdity of my thought process. I was angry because he didn’t even attempt to plunge his tongue into my mouth. Yet I couldn’t remember his last name or the color of his eyes. Have 13 years of dating really transformed me into a girl who has forgotten how to be romanced?