It's taken some time to admit it, but I'm a prude. I just have to be.
Certain things that are perfectly normal for my generation are not so ordinary to me.
I still get appalled and squeamish, like a 60-year-old woman, at the sight of things that most millennials wouldn't give a second thought to.
One thing, however, irks me more than anything else.
Let me vent.
Recently, I went on a Dave & Buster's date with a "friend."
We played nostalgic arcade games, ate overpriced food and won a gazillion tickets that we gave away to little kids. We watched the children run off with excitement, nearly colliding with one another as they raced to the prize shop.
It was exhilarating.
But on the way home, my bladder refused to behave. I crossed my legs tightly as I felt the urge to tinkle become unbearable.
I needed to go now. The closest and most decent restroom open at 1 a.m.? His house.
It was less than five minutes away. I floored it and got there in three.
"In and out," I thought, as I busted down his apartment door and sprinted to the first door on the left.
After relieving myself, I headed for the exit.
Before leaving though, I couldn't help but notice his massive TV. It was 65 inches or more and sat just above the out-of-order fireplace.
I found myself admiring his electronics while he apparently was admiring other things.
He crept up behind me and placed his slimy hands around my waist while trying to kiss me all in one motion.
The spirit of Bruce Lee took over my body as I threw his hands off of me with a jolt. I gave him the look of death so that he'd know I don't play those kinds of games.
I can't speak for every woman, but I think I can speak for most when I say I don't want to swap spit or lie down with you on the first few dates.
I don't blame a guy for trying. But if I mean-mug you with a force powerful enough to break a neck bone, please take the hint.
Why don't men get it?
I recall guys in college using bottles of liquor as a tactic to get me out of my clothes. As alluring as a gallon of some cheap spirit may have been back then, it never worked.
I always returned to my dorm room drunk, but happy and fully clothed.
One for me, zero for men.
A guy is not entitled to my body just because he sends a few grammatically incorrect texts for two weeks straight.
The look on a guy's face when he can't slob me down after dinner at a burger joint is priceless. Those are the moments I live for.
I look at it this way:
It takes me forever to feel comfortable around someone. So if that means having to wait a few months for our first kiss, then respect my boundaries or find someone who will gladly smooch your face off.
Moving slowly seems to be nonexistent for my generation.
Jumping from person to person seems to be the norm.
Once I am intimate with someone, I can never take that back.
Even if we stopped talking, I can never rid myself of any intercourse I've had or of the energy transferred to me from it.
So, excuse me if I'd rather take my time instead of being impulsive, then later regretful.
Men, if you lean in for a peck and she scrunches her face up like there's a bad aroma, she doesn't want it. Please don't boost your ego by thinking she's playing hard to get or is just fighting the feeling.
She genuinely does not want to kiss you.
Ladies, know what you want, don't want and what you will and won't do and stick to it.
Now that that's off my chest, I'll be lucky if I get another date at all this year.
Zahara Johnson's column appears regularly in b.