By the fifth date, there better be some serious exchanges of bodily fluids. Five dates means something is cooking. Fires are being lit. Cauldrons are boiling.
By the fifth date, I should know what color your game panties are. If it's the fifth date, then we are making out and blushing and making out again and taking a breather and then making out some more. I know what's it's like to be a piece of gum in your mouth. Our lips are raw, pants half-zipped, and we're both a little freaked out, holding hands, staring down the rabbit hole to relationship wonderland.
If you had a great first date, then freaking accept his Facebook friend request. Don't be a she-douche. It's not like a tattoo or a binding contract. You can unfriend him. Good Galactus.
I have said this before, and clearly, it needs to be said again. Facebook is not real life. It's a fun social network where you can keep people up to date on mundane things in your life. It's a time suck and seeing which of your High School friends has inflated into a fatty is always a good time.
Is there something on your Facebook page you don't want revealed? Pictures of ex-husbands? Children? Mug shots? KKK rallies? Are there pre-surgery photos of your hunchback and prehensile tail?
Or are you embarrassed that your only friends are your mom, your best friend Margaret, and Zach, who you totally think is gay, even though Maggie tells you he's been in love with you ever since you told him he has Robert Pattinson's skin?
Accept his Facebook friendship. It's not an actual "friendship," you know. And it goes both ways: if you accept his friendship, you can investigate how it is he projects himself to the world, albeit, a self-controlled world of inane public shout outs, flattering self-portraits, and stupid games where virtual gifts are given out.
If the second date tanks, maybe he'll turn into a friend. If not, unfriend him. If the second date is a gravy boat of amazing, then you have nothing to worry about.