I had my first “real” date when I was 15 with this guy we’ll call “Dave.” Dave and I had been flirting for a while in that awkward, high-school way. You know, ambiguous Facebook statuses and texts filled with winky faces.

All of this unresolved romantic tension culminated in a very profound, very romantic confession of basic attraction: “we shld go out sum time, lol (((:”

Seeing as neither of us could drive, we had two transportation options. We could either be chauffeured to the movie theater by Dave’s mom for what would surely be an uncomfortable 10 minutes, or we could walk to the theater. Obviously, we decided to walk. It was still uncomfortable.

Here’s a tip for all you guys (and girls) reading this: have a license and access to a car, especially if it’s late September and you’re in Chicago. Cold weather is not romantic unless you’re skating in a rink of frozen sparkles and hormones. Actually, scratch that. It’s still not romantic. It’s just cold.

When we got to the theater, Dave put on a big show of paying for my ticket and our shared bag of popcorn. He winked at me and made some comment about being an “expensive” date. I think he thought he was flattering me.

Another tip: the amount of cash you carry in your edgy duct-taped wallet really doesn’t matter to me or to most people. If the $5 movie ticket (which, by the way, I offered to pay for) is too much, then don’t pay for it. I would much rather split the cost than have you (flirtingly?) chastise me for accepting $5 of the cash your daddy gave you.

Anyway, Dave insisted on sitting in the darkest corner of the theater. I thought, oh, he’s just one of those people who doesn’t like to be up close, right? Don’t judge me; I was about as sheltered as a 15-year-old white girl from the suburbs could be.

Several minutes into the movie, I reached down to get some popcorn. Dave immediately extended his arm around my shoulders and whispered in my ear, “I’m smooooooth; I know.” I flinched—partly because his mouth was on my ear, and partly because Gwyneth Paltrow had just collapsed in a fit of seizures on her kitchen floor.

Tip numero tres: if you’re going to bring someone to a movie, don’t bring her to see “Contagion.” Actually, it doesn’t even have to be “Contagion”—don’t bring her to see any movie that centers on an infectious disease spread through physical contact. Especially if the movie has Matt Damon in it. If you’re trying to get your “smooth” self laid, you should know that global epidemics, Matt Damon and “ironic” self-compliments are not going to help your cause in the slightest. (Zombie epidemics are totally fine, though).

For the remainder of the movie, Dave proceeded to mash his lips (nose? I couldn’t tell) into my forehead. I, meanwhile, was very concerned with the increasingly real possibility of a skin-to-skin-transmitted virus attacking my brain. A few times he rubbed his hand up and down my arm, which was also weird.

“I like your sweater,” he said in a suggestive voice. I’m still not quite sure what he was trying to suggest.

Yet another tip: don’t do that.

Needless to say, after the frigid walk home and stiff kiss (it was my first one, and it lasted half a second) at the door, I did not call Dave back. Actually, that’s not true. We went out a few more times, mostly because I liked the way he styled his hair.

Hair or no hair, Smooth Dave and his backward smiley faces are elements of the past I have no desire to repeat. Perhaps if the date had ended in a fantastic sunset getaway on a pure-white unicorn, things would have ended differently. Unfortunately, my date with Smooth Dave did not result in a dramatic love story of epic proportions, and his lizard-like peck on the lips did not involve any mystical creatures. The night was definitely a night to remember, but not for the right reasons. If you ever take a guy, girl or unicorn out for a movie, please learn the difference between a forehead and a mouth, and please don’t be a Smooth Dave—you probably aren’t nearly as smooth as you think you are.