During my 20s, the only time I ever went on a date was after I had already slept with a girl. In fact, I was still up to my old tricks at 30, when my career took me 3,000 miles away from home to Los Angeles. That is, until I met Jill at a party in West Hollywood.

“Why don’t we head to my place?” I suggested, after observing her finish a second glass of Shiraz.

“Are you serious?” she replied.

I chortled, pretended to be kidding, then said, “So, are you on Facebook?”

Jill frowned. “Yeah, but I don’t use it.”

I was about to strike out.

Then, shocking even myself, I asked, “Can I take you out sometime?” The words just tumbled out of my mouth.

Jill smiled. “I’d like that.”

A week later, I found myself making an approximately 31-point turn as I attempted to pull up in front of Jill’s apartment. Having relied on the No. 6 train for so long, I was awkward and unsure about how much space my car required. I parked like a gangly adolescent girl self-conscious about her developing new body. I was also flummoxed by having to set the scene. We were in a car, strapped in (more on that later), and yet I obsessed over what radio station to put on so that I seemed hip, yet refined. In truth, I’m neither.

At dinner, I was instantly taken with Jill. A hard-drinking, sun-kissed, witty brunette, she kept me on my toes from the start. Yet I wasn’t sure we had much in common. She’s from a place called Calabasas — a tony suburb of LA — and attended USC. I’m from Plainview, LI, and moved to Manhattan following four years at the University of Pennsylvania. I’m pretty much as East Coast (and pale) as you can get. Jill’s frames of reference included Newport Beach and “hiking.” Mine were Jones Beach and hailing cabs. I was out of my element, a condition exacerbated by the fact that I still had to remain sober enough to get back in that damn car again later. I never missed Murray Hill more.

After dinner (and another dicey parking maneuver), we arrived back at Jill’s apartment.

“What’s this music?” she asked.

“Oh, just some random station,” I replied, nonchalantly.

Jill wrinkled her nose. “It’s terrible.”

Damn it.

Having nothing to lose at this point, I went in for a kiss. But as I closed my eyes to lean in, I got stuck. Literally. My seat belt had cinched tight, limiting my range. Noticing my predicament, Jill giggled, unbuckled her own seat belt, and kissed me. Her lips were warm and inviting. She tasted like California. And Shiraz.

Fortunately for me, Jill couldn’t find her keys (or at least that’s what she claimed), so we ended up back at my place. I finally caught a break. That is, until the next morning, when I awoke to find Jill still in my bed. Soon, though, I realized why she hadn’t snuck out at dawn. She needs me to give her a ride home. Los Angeles had struck again. Groggily, I reached for my car keys and moments later experienced yet another first: the drive of shame.

Despite the ensuing awkwardness, I pondered what I had been missing by refusing to date during my time in Manhattan. How many women would I have connected with on a deeper level instead of pretending to be passed out while they got dressed in the morning?

We arrived back at Jill’s once again and I parallel-parked with aplomb. Then, as we said our goodbyes, I stunned myself again by asking Jill out on a second date. She accepted. Maybe dating isn’t that bad.

As I drove home, blasting music I could actually recognize, I felt a familiar rush of excitement, adrenaline and accomplishment. The same sensation, ironically enough, I used to get from a one-night stand.

Aaron Karo’s third book, “I’m Having More Fun Than You” is out now. His nationwide stand-up tour concludes on Nov. 21 at the Nokia Theatre in Times Square.

Got a dating story? Send your tale of romance to meetmarket@nypost.com.