Boy 11: Force Meet Cute

It kept getting rescheduled.

It’s always ephemeral and sometimes uncomfortable, and I don’t always know why. I can’t pinpoint why some delays in logistics are sexy and others are simply sitting on the tarmac in frustration wondering why you decided to fly anywhere in the first place… ’cause wherever you go, there you are.

We chat. You are a filmmaker. You are also a teacher. You look slightly out of type for me, but I am open-minded. You encourage me to watch some David Lynch. I am reluctant… I don’t do spooky well.

But you were persistent, Boy 11.

At one point, I had to reschedule for a Shakespeare-work-related conflict, and you insisted that it would be a lovely “meet-cute” if you accompanied me. I considered this briefly and then felt slightly affronted by your (clearly well-meaning but not considered and accidentally diminishing) invitation into my professional life. I declined. We then rescheduled twice more.

It is sort of coming to light that you are sort of an artist. Not via my judgment but via yours. You claim that you are in generative phases and acknowledge that you have yet to hit upon a breakthrough in your work. I admire and appreciate your honesty.

Our date finally happens after rescheduling thrice. We settle on a cafe in New York that has multiple locations.

We accidentally go to different locations of the same cafe.

What a meet-cute you reiterate this is as you head over to my location.

We talk. You smile a lot. I enjoy the conversation though I feel a little like you are planting seeds, and I am making leaf rubbings.

You walk me to the subway and say you’d like to see me again if I’m not too busy.

I feel kind of awful? I had a feeling before this date that we were not going to hit it off but that you wanted us to. I don’t know why exactly; you must have projected something upon me that was deeply desirable to you because we can’t pretend you knew anything real about me. Was it my responsibility to cancel the date because I wasn’t feeling it? On the contrary, I felt like it was my responsibility to follow through on the date so that my instinct could be physically manifested and justified? What if you’d bowled me over? That has happened. See Boy 4 and Boy 10.

But it didn’t.

It felt like a meet-finagled-and-forced. Though you’re plenty cute and sweet.

So, I want to thank you:

I’ll watch some David Lynch. You’re not the first to recommend it, and maybe I need some guts.
You’re straightforward. You wanted to meet, and you pursued the meeting. You wanted to meet again, and you said so. I was not as bold and am not as bold, and I admire that.
You’re clearly a romantic… that’s lovely. Don’t let me hinder your heart.

Boy 11, I might want to collaborate with you someday.

UPDATE: I text you a passage on writing that I promised I would during the date. You write back saying it’s “spot on.”

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 6: Block Ice and Books

Boy 6, you were one of the first people I clicked.

Your pictures are all sort of weird, but you said that your personal brand was a young Larry David… and… well, what can I say.

You’re in tech. Hot.

You were a click whim.

You initiated a conversation. Harry Potter banter. Aforementioned easy nerd icebreaker. Lots of jokes about crappy magical means of transportation that are still more effective than the L train. Then we move into other media… some criticism of a theater show you saw and then Silicon Valley ’cause you’re in tech. I ask if it’s realistic. You say it’s a documentary. I complain about the horrid representation of women. You drop a paragraph charting the lack of women throughout Mike Judge’s work, and I drop my number. Remember, this was still a while back. I was dropping my number like a hot potato.

I get a text from you asking if I’d like to get a drink and discuss the lack of women in TV. I say I’d love nothing more.

Yes, goddamnit, yes. We finished the banter on the app, and we move straight to setting up a meeting. Very impressive, Boy 6.

What’s interesting about this is that our texting wasn’t super sparky. There has been a general trend of banter and joking via text that is almost interchangeable at this point between Boys 1, 3 and 5 (with whom I am not actively scheduling second dates).

Our texting is more practical and simple, and once we moved off Hinge, the only texting was to coordinate logistics. Boy 4 is an anomaly (because I kind of already want to embroider his name on my pillow)… we hit on instantly engaging topics via text, and we met almost right away.

Day of our date you text to check in. We change locations because I’m coming from somewhere else now to a bar you love in the West Village. It’s an unmarked speakeasy style bar with those square hunks of ice in the drinks that are so awesome. And an hour into our date a jazz band appears.

You’re there already with drink in hand.

You look like your picture. You are your height. You’ve got kind of hipster glasses. You have broad shoulders. I am intrigued.

I go get my drink. Thank you for not insisting on paying for mine. Yours is some kind of thing with an orange peel in it, and I get a vodka seltzer with a beautiful floating ice cube and a funny metal straw. I love this place, Boy 6, and I actually secretly kind of hate bars.

The conversation is all right at first. Questions about profession… we sort of have to get into some of this more expository stuff because we didn’t text much. You tell me about tech and the lack of women. We get into people who write about science and don’t know shit about science. I tell you my computer science story.

Basically, I took one computer science class, and I ended up having to drop it, but I was completing an assignment that I kept messing up. And I kept thinking, “ugh it’s the computer.” And then I realized… girl, it’s literally NEVER the computer. The computer is simply a reflection of what you put into it. It’s always you. It’s never the computer. You liked this.

The band arrives and we move to bar stools. You are facing me with your legs open. I have learned from a male friend that this means you are body-language-ing me. Ah, ok. So if you open your knees towards me and/or put your feet on my stool, that’s a sign… maybe. This is confusing.

And then we start talking books. You are well read. You are reading one chapter of War and Peace every day. You mock me for liking Jonathan Franzen ’cause you couldn’t get past the bit in The Corrections when the pasty intellectual white professor sleeps with his student. I see you, Boy 6. We talk podcasts. You recommend one called “Deli Boys,” and I explain that I have trouble at Jewish delis because I don’t like anything smoked. You’re horrified. It’s cute. What can I say? Personalities get me all hot and bothered. We talk brisket which you claim as a Southern thing and I claim as a Jewish thing. We walk to the subway, and you miss your stop while you show me all the podcasts on your phone. I explain that I detest soundscapes behind human voices.

You say this was fun. Let’s do it again.

Boy 6, you left me wanting more. I am curious. I would go on another date with you. I would definitely sleep with you.

I want to thank you:

So far, you and Boy 2 are minimal texters pre-first-date. That is downright awesome.
You read. You read so much. You and Boy 4. There’s this thing that happens, I guess, when you are both readers where suddenly, even though you’re strangers, you know the same people. We can gossip about these people. Love them, hate them, lust after them, dismiss them, etc. And then I can tell you to meet other people… Pierre Bezukhov and Neil Klugman and Pip Tyler. And because it’s not as literal as television, which I also love, we can wade through our interpretations and know each other a little.
You seem particular but peaceful.
You have an adorable dog.

UPDATE: You text me the next day. Asking me how I’m doing, etc. We’re texting now about Beowulf and Nathan For You. No date set up, but horizon.

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.