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.