Boy 9: Troll

You’re an economist, and you win most texting.

Thousands sent, EASILY, thousands,before we actually met. Probably because I was bored on a plane, and you were bored… ’cause that’s your default state? But no spoilers.

It’s not surprising that I thought you might be a troll.

The theme of our texting was basically… disappointment. How disappointing it’s going to be to actually meet in person. It’s funny in a morbid kind of way. Endearing nihilism… turns out you’ve been online dating for five years. I am easily fascinated… who is this internet veteran? An excellent date or a horrifying dud?

Lots of meta-Hinging about horrible dates, Jewish jokes, innuendo… Banter: high. Substance: low. I guess I did figure out that you’re bilingual like me. That’s sexy.

We settle on a date for when I return from work that’s post-Passover Seder.

Even after logistics have been confirmed, the texting continues. Selfies… sarcasm. What’s the best way to disappoint each other, hmmm?

Somewhere in this conversation, I drop the fact that I have a new dealbreaker. I will not get emotionally/sexually involved (in any capacity) with a guy who hasn’t told someone that they love them romantically. Everything else I can wrap my head around, but at this point, if you haven’t loved someone and differentiated that personal maze for yourself, then I’m not going to provide you with a training ground. And I want you to recognize your own limitations and preferences within our dynamic/relationship and whether it’s casual or serious or anything in between.

You assure me that you were with someone for a year…***

After many pithy little comments about how it might be better not to meet and preserve what we have projected on each other, we finally meet. At one of my favorite bars in NYC: ArtBar.

Boy 9, you basically look like your picture. Not quite. B+.

I ask you questions about your job. You answer them. You seem to care about it. You work on economic proposals for an environmentally-conscious firm. But you work remotely which means you work and live alone… somehow jokes about oral sex get made and that you give it poorly. Or not at all. Yellow flag.

You ask me about my work. I answer a bit. We get derailed with peripheral and tangential jokes…

Interesting thing about you, Boy 9. The excessive texting did actually reflect you well. Banter: high. Substance: low. In person and via text.

But let’s get back to disappointment. We had discussed many things, including but not limited to the fact that you tend to kiss on first dates, and 8/8 of boys texted me after the first date but did not kiss me! So, I was expecting you to kiss me if I didn’t “disappoint.” Am I crazy?

You don’t kiss me! But you do walk me all the way across town instead of taking the subway.

I get on the bus. Text me, I say.

I want to thank you:

You’re weird. I haven’t really met any truly strange birds. I like that you put yourself out there.
You’re a fascinating manifestation of online dating culture–you’ve been on the apps for years–and the way it reflects the deep loneliness many professions can cultivate. Troll isn’t quite right, but it isn’t quite wrong, either. You work alone (computers make the work remote), you live alone (one bedrooms mean you’re more successful), and you date alone (apps mean a revolving digital door of strangers). I see your solitude, and I am grateful for my community.

Boy 9, I could sleep with you but only out of morbid curiosity and that unhealthy teaspoon of self-destruction that every hopeless neurotic contains.

UPDATE: You text instantly. It’s weird. The texting continues… I accuse you of disliking me because you didn’t kiss me. You accuse me of recoiling when you made physical contact with me. I don’t remember you touching me… good sign, right?

Somehow a second date is scheduled. Wondering if it was disappointing? You have no idea. I guess I’m a glutton for murky disappointment. I’ll follow a story all the way to Brooklyn. More on that later.

***Turns out to not be accurate, later, unsurprisingly…

Boy 8: Oral Care

You kind of checked me out the moment I walked in? I feel like you should do that when I go to the bathroom halfway through the date.

You started a toothbrush company, and you like podcasts. And rock climbing.

Not feeling it.

You sort of said some presumptuous things about my writing. Then I went to the bathroom, and you apologized when I came back? And assured me my writing was probably great?

It’s nobody’s fault. Sometimes you’re just not feeling it.

Boy 8, thank you:

I didn’t know there was a cool hotel bar thing in Chelsea, and now I do.
It turns out that a Quip is not actually an electric toothbrush. It’s a manual toothbrush that vibrates. So you should actually stick to Sonicare and not fall for those sleek little ads on the subway. I’m glad I know this now.

Boy 8, I wish you the best of luck.

UPDATE: You texted me the next morning. I didn’t text back for a day.

Boy 3: The Casual Sparrow

All right.

Boy 3.

I was surprised that you matched to me, Boy 3. You are outside of the type that I typically attract. Slightly bro-ier. Into music. Attorney.

So, I’ve been on two dates at this point, Boy 3… which is still probably fewer dates than you’ve been on ’cause apparently everybody has been on Hinge for years, but I’m feeling seasoned AF.

You and I started texting last week, Boy 3. Actually, you asked me what my plays were about, and I didn’t respond for a day, and you kind of made an edgy quip about it. Something about “keeping your public on their toes” while they wait. I appreciate your honesty. This digital cybersociety is weird, and transparency is awesome. I apologized, told you a little bit about my art, and then I dropped my number. This was a week and a half ago or so, remember? ‘Cause I thought that was normal.

Eek. Now I’m wondering if my dropping my number is making guys think I’m wild? But you know what… maybe I am? Anyway. Since Date 1 with Boy 2 (when in our meta-Hinge conversation he revealed that asking for the girl’s number is a thing) I have given my number to one more guy. Ironically, when I did, he texted immediately and said that he was about to give me his. Haven’t heard from him actually in a hot second, so we’ll see. BUT I DIGRESS.

Boy 3, when you and I moved to text, I gave you shit about vinyl ’cause you were sitting in a pile of records in one of your pictures. I stand by my argument… what the fuck is vinyl? Like, really. If you actually love music, why don’t you listen to it with the best technology available? Like if you want to get somewhere, would you take a horse-drawn carriage instead of a car? You countered that it’s the journey and not the destination and also that vinyl has some uncompressed qualities to it. Ultimately, we compromised, and you asked me to drinks. I explained I was busy for a few days and also sort of sick, so we arranged to meet on a future day, if, as you pithily pointed, neither of us ghosts. To which I responded, plenty of time to ghost! We were sort of in a slightly reckless tit-for-tat DGAF text chain. I liked it.

You checked in once or twice over the course of the next four days. Nothing crazy.

The day of the date you checked in with me about meeting up still. Asked me about my weekend, and I asked you about yours. You made a joke about a music festival at which the audience was too dorky. Like they listened to NPR. I immediately bristled. And I let you know. I’m a dork. I’m listening to NPR right now. You said you did, too. Hmm. Remember when I noted that you were slightly outside my type? You suggested a tapas/wine bar. Ok. Ok. Oy.

During the day there are quips about ghosting. I describe my outfit in case I don’t look like my picture. You respond, “you’re not blonde?” Then you arrive.

Boy 3, you do look like your picture. Thank you.

We talk. I ask about your job. Now. This is a thing I do. I ask about what people do all damn day because… it’s what people do all damn day? You sort of indicate that, eh, it’s a trap, you hate it, and that there’s no need to go down this conversational route. You order a beer; I order sweet, cheap white wine. You say I seem more like a red person. I explain that I am actually neither. I am a sugar person hence the sweet wine. We drink. We struggle a little at the beginning conversationally, jumping away from profession to family background stuff, so we make jokes about the woman sitting next to us who is giggling and sort of crazy. We finally sort of hit our stride with music and vinyl ’cause when I ask you your favorite musicians, you say what genre? Yes. Get specific. That’s fantastic. So we get into old music vs. new music. Turns out you like Jenny Lewis, and I’ve seen Rilo Kiley in concert twice and know the entire album More Adventurous by heart. Now we’re really sort of talking.

I finish my wine, and you pay for it. I offer multiple times to contribute to the cause. You make a joke, “Well, men are getting paid more. Let me.” You pay. So, Boys, is it that you think you have to pay? Are you aware that we can split? Maybe you are, and I’m just new to this. Or is it that paying is meant to socioeconomically indicate that you like me? I’m still not sure. And then you said let’s GTFO and go somewhere else?

Location #2. I guess this date is the most stereotypical, Boy 3. Drinks at Location #1 and then another drink at Location #2. Somehow at Location #2, as tends to happen I imagine, the conversation suddenly turns to meta-Hinging and to major exes ’cause it turns out you have one and I have one. Which you point out is actually more like 3rd date material. After a mutual commiseration about toxic codependent relationships, you ask for the subject to be changed, and you tell me about your new tattoo. A sparrow. I almost say, “There is a special providence in the fall of a sparrow,” but I’m not sure if Hamlet is how you roll. You tell me though that apparently they are an invasive species not native to America. That’s cool.

You finish your beer; you walk me home. You want to hear me talk more about the writing process. I think you kissed me on the cheek when I hugged you goodbye, but I am not sure.

Damn, guys, how do you depart from someone on the first date? I don’t know why people don’t like shaking hands. I love it. It’s intimate but acknowledges the inherent distance. I think I’m a shake-hands or kiss-me kind of person? Like the hugs are strange.

So, Boy 3. I want to thank you.

You took me on a conventional date that somehow I hadn’t had yet. Or rather “conventional.” This is good. I need to learn.
Conversation wasn’t that easy between us, but you were good at asking questions and/or simply changing the subject when you wanted to.
At one point you said you didn’t think you were particularly funny. You’re not particularly funny, but you’re transparent and authentic. I talked about how annoying it is when guys send too many texts pre-actual-meeting but that I understood this was because many women online were just digital unresponsive stones. You countered that you didn’t think this was an online dating thing but that that was a New York City thing. You might be right. People here just don’t respond a lot of the time… or they disappear. And that you don’t have that many friends yet ’cause you’re a recent transplant, and it’s crazy how many times you have to poke someone just to hang out with them. I like that. I like that you’re honest and looking for company.
You live in my neighborhood. Like one block away. Not gonna lie. Compelling…
Ugh it’s so good. Thank you for reminding me. “Not a whit, we defy augury. There is a special providence in the fall of a sparrow. If it be now, ’tis not to come; if it be not to come, it will be now; if it be not now, yet it will come – the readiness is all.” And oddly relevant to love and dating, too, isn’t it?

Boy 3, I don’t know if I would go on another date with you, but I would sleep with you.

UPDATE: I texted you the Hamlet quote for “conversation starters with chicks and your new tattoo.” I felt like that was a nice way of acknowledging the evening without foisting myself. You texted back right away and want to know what my week is like. Hmmm.