The date has gone well. I minded my manners, held the door, made her laugh and most importantly, paid for stuff. Now the date is headed back to my place. But, I have been single for a while now, and my home reflects this. I should be afraid of what she might find.

I consider this while entering my house. The lights are out and no one has replaced the bulbs, so I lead her blindly toward my bedroom, imagining potentially offensive materials strewn about – representations of my independent maleness.

As we enter my room, I hold my breath like I’m facing a firing squad and perform a frantic, sweeping glance along spots that usually have incriminating apparel. Bed vicinity, computer area and TV proximity – it all appears OK.

I sit her at my computer desk, offering to mix cocktails. She instinctively begins checking MySpace and accepts my drink offer without even looking away from the screen.

As I scowl at her, I notice a glow-in-the-dark condom wrapper peeking out from beneath the folds of my tasteless cheetah-print sheets. I haven’t been “up to bat” with any girls lately, but, let’s just say I am the kind of guy who occasionally wears his baseball uniform to the batting cages.

In an attempt to conceal the evidence of my practice swings, I bust out a commando roll to grab the wrapper from the bed. Success! I frolic toward the kitchen in celebration.

It’s not that I’m particularly suspicious of her stuffing her purse with my valuables, it’s what she might uncover while poking around that worries me. She doesn’t know me and may interpret certain belongings as threatening or disturbing. Hopefully, she’ll stay distracted by MySpace and won’t discover any one of the numerous folders containing Burt Reynolds magazine clippings, my numerous copies of Hunter S. Thompson’s “Rum Diary” or my gas masks and Pok