Date 2: The Rankled Radiologist

I had unusually positive feelings about meeting Morris in person. After an hour long call on Valentine's Day, where his frenetic energy and slightly racy wit nearly burst forth from my phone, I had a sneaking suspicion our time together would be entertaining at a minimum. He chooses a Middle Eastern/Mediterranean cafe on the Upper West Side, and requests that I wait for him out front so he can escort me down the stairs because I'm far too tall and would hit my head on the overhang. He's bearded, my height, quite nice looking and dressed up for the date. As we settle in and size each other up, we start discussing personal history (he is a Jew from Iran- really starting this cycle of dating off with a bang)- he was born in Tehran but has lived in the US since he was very small. 

 That he is a tortured personality is evident- he wears it as plainly as he wears his snug patterned sweater that he says makes him look like Teddy Ruxpin. He was an intensely disciplined student and lived at home throughout his education because, he explained, that is what immigrant children do. He was devoutly religious in his 20s, then became whipsawed by the vagaries of practicing the religion. Didn't understand why his mother bought kosher meat, but ate in non kosher restaurants, didn't understand how to integrate sexuality and chaste piety into the modern world. He says he missed his window- he should have married young in his culture to have lots of children and a religious home and not worry about a soulful relationship. Now in his advanced years (38), it is too late and there is little point in marrying as it would involve prenups (he's apparently a very successful radiologist), and certainly no point in being in a relationship for anything other than a great connection. He is odd, completely lacking in filter, but altogether intriguing. I admire his self madeness- he is impressive in both intellect and accomplishment. Unlike many men I've been on dates with, I feel like he is quick to pull back some kind of curtain.

As we finally order, the waitress specifically asks us to wear masks when she approaches the table, and he ignores her. He explains to me that he has both had Covid and was vaccinated, and under his breath says he shouldn't have to obey this courtesy since he is paying. He also fumbles around for what turns out to be a Juul, and occasionally smokes it at the table.  We order markdown food and markdown prosecco, and I don't eat much because he nearly inhales it, and I have barely recovered from an earlier migraine. I am also on such an intensely strict diet to feel thin enough to date again that even cardboard pizza tastes like heaven to me...but that is a story for another day.

What is the protein of this story, you ask? It is this: the disease of people talking shittily about previous dates to their current date has to be one of the greatest offenses in modern dating. Compliments when told in the shadow of disparaging other women feel very hollow. He says things I begrudgingly want to hear- he's surprised that I'm as smart as he is (arrogant), I have gravitas that other women he has dated don't have (the start of what would be an endless diatribe against what seems to be MANY women, with Jewish Manhattanites as his most vilified target), I'm attractive and witty and cultured, yada, yada. These women talk about the interesting things they do and how fabulous they are, but they buy this interestingness as easily as they purchase a class at SoulCycle, rather than actually earning it.

At one point, unnerved by his vitriol, I tell him that I strongly believe we all need to be a little kinder to each other. I know it sounds a little cumbaya, particularly to someone carrying a tortoise shell of resentment towards the opposite sex, but I say it anyways- we meet people for 90 minutes over an unpleasurable meal because it isn't fun to eat in front of strangers who are eyeing you up the way my cousins in Texas look at hogs at livestock shows. We ask meaningless questions, we give polite answers and we hope that some spark of connection and humanity click while we slam drinks. We pass judgement and then tell subsequent dates about how vile and judgemental people are. In writing this, I know that I am also making him a caricature, with traits as outsized and unshaded as a portrait artist at Disneyland (he is now the Iranian Radiologist from the Upper East Side with a Chip on His Shoulder and Wandering Hands). This feels like a virulent strain I see popping up in the dating set- we reduce people to nothing so they fit in the little box we designed for them. But these people have their people who love them- families, friends, coworkers. They are real and worth something. I try to keep these comments as unharpylike as possible, and he manages to blow by them as quickly as he rips through our crappy pizza.

He says he loves that I don't have make up on (I do) because he's in constant need of dry cleaning because these vile, hungry women sully his collar with their concealer when they get close. He also explains that the more women say they are into sex, the less likely they are to be the fun, kinky ones. These women pretend for so long in order to keep him happy that they eventually get addicted to it once he unleashes his animal fucking on them, because he used all his meaningful lovemaking in his 20s and now only has angry ferocity left.   He says that I’m refined and communicate with a sophistication he isn’t able to; he says he is wholly unable to censor himself and make himself polite.  I personally have a hard time believing this.

I am foolish- for 90 minutes, I let the compliments numb me to his crassness, I don't fight when he reaches over to start kissing, don't pull away when he wraps me in an embrace in a doorway on Amsterdam. This has been a long, cold winter, and touching someone else feels extraordinary. For a first date performance, I feel like I'm holding it together. I'm not shrinking in intimidation (these days, men who walk upright feel out of my league), and I'm letting him run his mouth with probably more tolerance than he deserves. I'm trying to balance tolerance with observance- as my mother likes to parrot Maya Angelou's great quote, "when someone shows you who they are, believe them the first time".

He tells me as we walk out in the cold that he wants to do things to me- lurid detail that is so surprising, I almost can't reconcile it with a man who has told me he is riveted by my intellect, and wore slacks and dress shoes to impress me in 30 degree weather. I know doctors and I get that there is a total lack of filter with some- but it takes me a couple days to really settle in that perhaps a fellow shouldn't be telling you he wants to bury his face in your vagina while you're walking down Central Park West after a first date. He asks me to come home with him and promises to just watch me and not touch- I tell him no, kiss him goodbye, and head home. In the moment I laugh it all off- in the morning, I feel unsettled and ill at ease, and have a very strong suspicion I won't see him again.

Some days I feel like I am 39 going on 19- I still don't understand men, don't understand the boundaries I should adhere to, and (pitifully) rarely understand how my worth plays into this market. Its a battle to stay open minded and easy going, yet strong within your identity and principles- as I've aged, I greatly admire people who understood this from a young age.  

A loud mouthed buyer I have a soft spot for from Roslyn with an accent you could cut with a knife recently told me I need to go have some fun and "get the stink off" me.  I just don't need someone dressed like Teddy Ruxpin who smokes Juuls in a restaurant in a pandemic to piss on my leg, if you know what I mean. Even if he is a doctor with second-home money potential.

Highlights of the evening

1) Inadequate prosecco accompanied by the bachelor's wispy puffs of Juul leaves the palate longing for a more refined offering.

2) When someone mentions step brother porn in a first chat, take them seriously. It will not get better from there.

3) In my business we say "A best seller is a best seller is a best seller". Pray on that one.

Day 4- Blast from the Past

As I was in the first few weeks of dating Pedro- weekly dates that we fun and easy and somehow ended up with us nekkid but not fornicating- I matched with a fellow named Jason. I went on a first date with him at a local biergarten that was so miserably tedious, I was quite sure he would have rather been clipping his toenails. We also learned that we creepily lived only 4 doors down the block from each other- the odds of a fail were very, very high. Imagine my surprise when just a few days later he invited me to a wine tasting event. I debated- if he didn't loosen up from the first date, this could be miserable. But WINE. LOTS OF WINE. So I decided to go, and ended up having a fabulous evening. I learned he is very smart and driven, collects wine obsessively, works out obsessively...does many things obsessively. But after a few walks around the room and chats with North Fork vintners, we both loosened up and eventually found our 30 something selves rolling around and kissing in the grass at Brooklyn Bridge Park. He left the next day for an epic trip to Paris and Barcelona- I gave him several recommendations and he took photos and texted from all. Somewhere around the tapas restaurants of Barcelona I lost him- he fell off the map, and I didn't hear from him until a few days after he returned. My fragile ego felt that a man should have texted very shortly after arriving, and not ask "Hey, want to grab a happy hour drink?" (I never said I was sane or easy). By that time I was already starting to fall into a strong lust haze with Pedro, and didn't feel the loss too terribly. Present day, trying to shake off my demons, I match with Jason once more. He reached out immediately and we start texting. Wouldn't this be a meet cute? Love came so close to this pair, circled the block to find parking for two years, then finally snuggled in on 21st Street. He asked me to a Jack Johnson concert with him and I agreed. I am optimistic leading up to the date; at a minimum I knew him to be a decent and engaging fellow and hope that perhaps we will be friends. We meet in Bryant Park and hop on subway out to Forest Hills. He is as cute and polite as I remember, and as before I have to push the conversation along a bit. We walk around snacking and drinking and he insists on paying- is this a date? I am honestly not sure. It took an obscene amount of wine to get this fellow to loosen up so long ago. He is very attached to his mother and brother which I adore, and talks about third wheeling with his favorite married people. We head into the stadium and this is where I find things fall apart. Jack Johnson is essentially elevator music- there are no peaks and valleys, just an occasional flush of recognition when you realize that he has had so many hits and yet they are all indistinguishable from the next. We note that we are the only people not smoking pot, and admit that neither of us really indulge in any illegal substances (but clearly both like the sauce). We both fade as the evening drags- tired, tired of pushing conversations about nothing, thinking about getting up early the following day- it would take far more animal heat to keep us sparking and you can't really fake that. We bolt out and hop in an Uber, and have a very hearty and friendly hug as we part ways on our block. Guess we both have to keep circling to find a parking spot in someone else's neighborhood.

Date 3- In Heat

My friend and I went to London for work recently, and extended the trip to include a fabulous getaway to the Cotswolds. We frolicked through meadows, chatted with sheep, and drank with locals (including a very frisky fellow who climbed up my tall body to get a kiss and may or may not have been missing teeth). I noticed as we wandered through the country towns, and later the streets of London, that an old familiar tingle was back. For the first time in months- nay, years- I noticed how many attractive men are in the world. I noticed their big hands, their finely tailored suits, their muscled buttocks. Although my head was not quite back in the game, my body was starting to send up alarm bells that she was in fact alive and ready to get up to no good. While swiping idly, I come across a very muscled and handsome firefighter in his 40s. He is big, tattooed, half Jewish and says he reads Bukowski. I see his broad tattooed shoulders and imagine being thrown over one of them and carried off to a British King sized bed. The rest of the world is swiping entirely based on physicality and sex appeal- IMA GIVE THIS A TRY. So I swipe right and promptly receive a very polite text. We exchange friendly messages over the next week- he wants to have a phone interview before we actually meet to be sure we have similar interests (BIG HANDS. MUSCLED ARMS. NO CONVERSATION REQUIRED.) Somehow I manage to avoid the interview and skip directly to the date round. We agree to meet for drinks at a wine bar in Park Slope, and I decide that although I'm feeling battered from the shitty date the night before, I'm going to throw on an off the shoulder top and tight jeans and give it my best. I feel slightly liberated by not caring if this has a future because I can think one thing only- PUT YOUR BIG MAN HANDS ON MY BODY AND MAKE ME FEEL LIKE A WOMAN. I circle the block before arriving at the wine bar per usual, and he walks up to me as I arrive. I find out he saw me cruising in nervousness, but my anxiety evaporates when I see how obviously jittery he is. He is smiling broadly and looks dazzled; its a balm to my wounded ego, and tonight I will try and believe the reflection I see in his eyes. He has a rough Brooklyn accent and is as handsomely rugged as he looks in his photos; he tells me he can't believe I actually look like mine (THANKS GODS). We work through margaritas and I start to remember that dating can actually be fun. We are not a match by any stretch of the imagination and we both know it- we live in two different worlds, and speak so differently. He is the conservative black sheep of a decidely intellectual family, and it doesn't take long to see it bothers him. He is divorced with three kids, and loves watching old musicals with his 8 year old daughter. I hoped for a wee bit of opportunistic sleaze but he doesn't have it. He's just a nice man, and needs someone with their feet on the ground. He tells me he is lonely and wants someone to do things with. After what seems like 9 drinks, he looks at me and says "What do you want with a guy like me?", and I realize both of us have probably miscast and undersold this fellow. He walks me home and holds my hand to his chest since the wind has picked up and my teeth are chattering. He kisses me sweetly in front of my door. We never speak again, and although this initially surprises me, I guess it was inevitable. The only thing people like us have in common is sex, and I don't think that is what he is hoping to find right now. And maybe its not really what would make me happy either.

Date 2- Bag Fetish

Dating these days is a study in habits and tendencies.  I'm always surprised when I hear that girls have a hard time with the Tinderfellas because dudes want to be pen pals and text endlessly and never actually meet.  I do not seem to have this issue.  Perhaps I swipe slightly adultier men who don't seem to have patience for the false intimacy of the text conversation and want to get down to brass tacks.  Or perhaps they are bored and lonely and want to see if I look like the (2 year old) photos I have in my profile. As such, my social calendar is full full full with drinks drinks drinks.

Drinks with Alex- he works for HBO, lives down the street in Park Slope, and is- dare I say- handsome.  Very cute smile, displays a variety of interests through his charming pictures, and asks me to dinner after a brief conversation.  

I work late and at the last minute change into a flared mini skirt I have stashed under my desk- this isn't my favorite look but I have to give up my usual lesbian attire if I am going to start interacting with straight men again.  My nerves are totally frayed- I thought after the first date I would feel a little more relaxed but that has not yet kicked in and I feel like throwing up on my Steve Madden shoes as I wait for him to arrive.  

We are having drinks at the bar I went to on my 2nd date with Pedro, so I am looking over my shoulder for a man who I have not yet met, and a man I know too well.  Alex arrives, we order cocktails and sit down to the chat.  He was married for 20 years- SURPRISE- and has an adopted son that he makes sure he explains is adopted because he wouldn't want his date to think he was foolish enough to have a child when he was so young but his ex wife was very foolish and had a child very young but he is a good man so he adopted the child.  I will give him credit- he is crazy about the son, and shows off instagram shots of him skiing and living his dream in Colorado.  Its a very intimate and strange thing to hear about your Tinder date's child, but when one swipes adultier men, they come with a history.   But overall I find him very difficult to talk to, and sense that he is not interested in me at all.  He was a frustrated rich Jewish kid who rebelled by going into the military to hang out with people from different walks of life (JUST SAY POOR, I KNOW WHAT YOU ARE IMPLYING) - I've already tangoed with tortured, spoiled men and don't want to tangle with this one.  He describes his post divorce life in detail- he has delved into photography as a hobby, and trolls the internet for free models to use for his portraits.  He is very into fashion and tells me he is obsessed with buying bags- goes as far as to describe it as a "bag fetish", which killed what little hard on I had left.   Handsome, smart, interesting....and still trying to piece his life together after a divorce.   But at the end of the evening- I am tired, hungry, buzzed, disappointed- he looks at me and says "Listen, I really have to get out of here, can't stay all night, sorry".  I am fairly certain my eyes bugged out of my head, and I internally shouted, "FINE BY ME, ASSHOLE.  GOTTA GET HOME TO GOLDEN GIRLS."   I thanked him politely, bid good bye, awkward hug, and nearly ran down the street to get away.

What is it about a disinterested stranger that can make you feel so badly about yourself?  I don't even know his last name, but his obvious condescension wore me down.  My friend told me that it was a bad idea to start dating before I felt whole and well again- before I could look in the mirror and say, "Yep, I like this, and I know someone else will too."  

I go home to my late night diet of cheese, crackers and hummus and wonder if I am ready to face these demons again when I'm just starting to feel normalish.

DATE 2- Les Miz.

COCKTAIL DU JOUR- Too much vermouth and pretension can ruin a Negroni.

FOOD ALLERGIES- Recently divorced men who fancy themselves Annie Leibovitz.

Date 1- Nantucket Red

Eli and I texted steadily over Memorial Day weekend; he seemed perky, intelligent and music loving. He revealed that he plays in a cover band with old lawyer friends and sent me Youtube videos of himself playing guitar.  I agreed to a Wednesday evening drink in the middle of an intensely busy market week- I am committed to trolling for Internet dates!

I walk from my office, vibrating and nauseous, and almost turn back five times.  Like a teenager, I  get a pep talk from a girlfriend- what exquisite torture the first Tinder date can be!   I slyly circled the block, groaning audibly to myself (I do the same during pap smears) while I walked, and spotted him standing in front of the hotel where we were due to have rooftop drinks.   I realize quickly he spotted me first, and in what will become a common theme in these Tinder dates, he catches me circling the block.   He is wearing Nantucket red chinos and brand new Adidas, and will later show me his very spiffy socks.   He didn't lie on his profile- he is Tinder 5'10",  which is actually 5'8" in real life.

As we head into the elevator that is sure to take us to paradise, a young urban fellow with face tattoos looks at Eli and says, "Dude, is this neighborhood dangerous?  Do I need to bring my gun?  I don't want to have to kill no one."   To Eli's credit, he is completely unratttled and calmly says, "No, man, neighborhood is fine, but do what you got to do".   The young urban fellow looks impressed that a short Jewish lawyer doesn't sweat for a second.

We have mediocre wine at a very odd rooftop bar that uses a boombox to funnel in music, and he begins to talk about himself.  He recently moved from the West Village to Chelsea and is hoping that the neighborhood will be as lively.  He is visibly worried that he will not have his creature comforts in this new backwater area-  I nod and assure him that he will most likely survive.  He shows me pictures of rugs he is thinking about buying and quickly scrolls past endless photos of boobs and vaginas and various tan body parts.   After two hours of listening to Eli talk about his marvelous self, I tell him I really must get home but I sincerely enjoyed meeting him.   At a minimum, I ripped off the band aid and got myself back in the dating scene.  He tries to kiss me and I just barely dodge his advance.   I hop on the subway, and immediately begin swiping up fresh meat.

DATE ONE-  Showed up, and didn't throw up!   I call this success!

WEATHER REPORT- A fresh and fragrant evening in Manhattan, enhanced by low clouds of electronic cigarette fumes.

WINE SELECTION- When one can only select from Chardonnay or Pinot Grigio, one realizes that there is no winning selection.    

The Lonely British King

This blog took a hiatus when I met Pedro.  Our relationship felt so precious that I couldn’t and wouldn’t tarnish it with my acidic snark.  I could turn the rest of the Tinder fellows into caricatures, but my Pedro, my love, I would not.   If I briefly sum up our 18 month relationship, turn the highs and lows and happy and sad tears into a quick summary, it would look like this: 6 months of inquisitive bliss in a bubble.  Big blow up. 6 months of doubt but furiously treading water and hoping for sunnier skies.  Bigger blow up.  6 months of trying to end it but never wanting to.  I am so envious of that couple in the first 6 months- they had it all.   But isn’t that always the case?  Ignorance is bliss until it isn’t.  I am so sad and regretful for the downward spiral of the final 6 months.  I should have cut him loose when I really had doubts instead of keeping him close to me and constantly chipping away at him, at us.   By the end he said I had worn him down, exhausted even his romantic heart.  We needed to break up, but so much of my behavior towards the end was unnecessary and shameful; we degraded something that was once special.   This unfortunately seems to figure in my thoughts much more prominently than the logical reasons why we ended everything.

And now here I am, 5 months after our final night together, still turning over what this means in my head.  My grief hits me like waves of nausea- a moment, a conversation comes back to me and sends me into a tailspin.  I haven’t seen him since the morning I left his apartment, but my eyes deceive me and I see his ghost everywhere.   I am terrified I will see him on a date and skirt restaurants we once frequented.  I never realized how many bald men were in New York until I broke up with one I ached for.    

A friend sent me an article on Lifehacker that suggests little Tinder flings are like paper cuts- they don’t get the sympathy that broken marriages or cohabitations receive (rightly so) but they hurt.   It wasn't the longest relationship I had been in, but it rocked my world and brought down my defenses.  I know Pedro never felt that way and wanted to keep pushing past the boundaries, but for me, at least for a year, I let them down.  I gave him a key to my apartment and loved finding him there.  We spent every night together, and bathed each other every morning.   He scrubbed my back, then I scrubbed his, and always rinsed off the soap so I  could press a kiss to the shoulder I loved.   We had an intensely intimate relationship, and I miss it.

This relationship was a tease.  I saw a preview of life with a man who loved to bake bread and spatchcock organic chicken, then take me to bed and make love all night long.  I found him intensely attractive, loved his body and how our bodies moved together.   He made me laugh and he brought passion to my life.  In this movie trailer, you don’t see the problems and wounds, or the nature of two fractured persons struggling to trust each other.  But how will I find someone like this again, who shares my interests and humor and makes me weep with pleasure?  

A friend of a friend gave me his unused extra bed from an apartment he sold in Dubai- a very comfortable and luxurious British King.  Every night I roll to the middle of my big bed, and throw my arm across a pillow.  In my most secret thoughts, I imagine this is him, and he pulls me close into the nook of his chest and arms.  I don’t know if its still Pedro, or the faceless person I hope will come along sooner rather than later, but I wonder how many people in Brooklyn are living in their little apartments, moving through their lives, imagining that someone is holding them at night.     

Back in the Saddle

Dear friends,

After a two year hiatus (to be addressed at a later date when I've had far more Muscadet and feel like reopening a wound), I am back on the Tinder. I'm looking for love in the only place I know, because if I wait for this man to just arrive himself in my life, I will grow old and bearded while waiting. If I am perfectly honest, I am not ready to be doing this- I don't feel good about myself right now and am in the mental state that I can't quite discern why anyone would want to date me. Every previous break up felt like a liberation- back on the scene! Partying with my people! Tearing up the town! But I don't feel that way this time. I miss my boyfriend and can't seem to shake this sadness.

Prematurely or not, I'm hitting the app and swiping aggressively because sometimes I think its a numbers game. I'm weeding through these men knowing they will be a treasure for someone, trying to get better with first date jitters and not lose my mind in the process. But these are shark infested waters, as everyone knows. In the two weeks since I downloaded the app, I have:

a) been asked if I enjoy spanking.
b) been asked if I am a sub or a dom, after being called "cold". (He slipped his own status in a subtle way- "I enjoy healthy cooking, running in the park, sailing, I'm a dom, enjoy Crossfit and make time for charity work.")
c) received suggestive images of torso and nether regions (ok, I egged him on a little).
d) received a fully nude picture of a man proudly displaying his ding dong (different man from above- I did NOT egg this on).

I would call this a fruitful two weeks, if unsuccessful in the actual pursuit of meeting someone kind and normal.  When the spanker first proposed his question, I burst into tears at my desk.  This is what is out in the world? This is what I have to look forward to?  I buried my head in my hands for a few minutes, then shook off my sorrows and kept swiping.  Up the food chain!