I'm hoping there's a future with Andre, but all the signs say otherwise. It is a truth, universally acknowledged, that when somebody tells you about the people they're sleeping with, they're not going to sleep with you.

"I met this guy online," he says, neglecting to mention whether it was at SierraClub.org or SuckThoseTootsies.com, "and we talked a couple times on the phone. Finally he says we should meet, and he tells me to bring a bathing suit."

I stop stirring my coffee. I've never been a multi-tasker, and feeling incredulous is work for me.

"Naturally I'm curious," he continues. "Nobody's ever said that before. But he sounded perfect. He's available: he lives with his ex-boyfriend, but they don't sleep together. If anything, he says, he's too honest. I'm consulting my mental checklist, and the guy sounds perfect. So I said okay."

My mouth actually drops open at this point. The guy sounds like a disaster, though I don't have a mental checklist. I've got my Red Flag Rules that nobody's supposed to break, and flags are flying inside my head.

First, a swimsuit, on a first date? This is Manhattan, not Redondo Beach. There's no sand. The surf is not up. Options for the evening do not include playing volleyball and then listening to Moondoggy play his guitar.

Second, "too honest"? This translates roughly to, "When I get drunk, I'm going to tell you exactly what I think of you."

Third, if this guy isn't sleeping with his ex, then they're spend every morning arguing about why not. Maybe you don't mind squeezing into the middle, but I find all the drama distracts from my enjoyment of bacon.

"So he picks me up and takes me to this hotel," Andre says as another flag flies in my head. "We go inside, and he goes up to the desk clerk and gives her a credit card." Outside I'm smiling, but really I'm waiting for duct tape and knives to appear. "We go up to the penthouse and there's this enormous pool! There's a DJ and a bar and all these gorgeous people in swimsuits, so we change and we swim! I had an incredible time. And I talk to him two days later and he's in Miami with another guy."

Now, obviously I'm sad for Andre. This was a miserable experience. I hate how people wave the Colorful Umbrella of Positivity and get stomped on by the Giant Boot of Reality. But I'm also thinking, "God, what a rube," and congratulating myself on the vast superiority of my Red Flag Rules over his mental checklist.

As a public service, I share the rules and this guy's violations with him. "No swimsuit on a first date?" he asks incredulously. "Why not?"

"It's too early! It's like saying, 'Hey, I've got to see you nearly naked!' and the first meeting is too soon for that."

"So which is the Swimsuit Date?"

I think for a minute, trying to place it. "The fourth, I think."

"When's your sex date?" he asks.

I blanch. Really, you're not supposed to admit this. "Somewhere around the third," I say.

"So you'll have sex with somebody before you'll go swimming with them?"

I shrug. Hearing my words repeated back, they don't seem to make a lot of sense. I think for a minute, then realize they do. "My hair won't get wet, my deodorant won't wash off, and I won't have to worry about accidentally swallowing other peoples' bodily fluids," I say, and I can almost see the flags go flying in his head.