The Dream Guy

I’ve mentioned doubting my intuition after I got divorced, and how it has been illustrated to me time and again that my intuition is on point. Whether it’s the Divine, or just my own subconscious, sometimes the message is too clear to ignore.

I began talking to Dreamy online. His first message to me managed to thread the line between complimentary and playful, setting the tone for a lighthearted exchange. As our conversation progressed via the app’s messenger, I started to get excited about him. I enjoyed chatting with him and he seemed confident, relaxed, and mature. He seemed open to getting to know me. He was a CEO of his own firm, one he’d built from scratch - something for which I have tremendous respect. And, I thought he was quite attractive, if his photos were accurate.

On Friday night he pings me, “Hey. It’d be great to actually talk. Will you give me your number?”

 “It would be,” I answer and I give it, smiling because he asked.

“When’s a good time? Are you available to talk now?” He asks.

“Now’s actually great. I just got home from dinner with friends,” I reply.

My phone rings. After a few pleasantries, an exchange about my dinner, and a quick run-down of what we each do for work, he says, “So what’s your story?”

I tell him a short framework about being divorced and my children. He asks a few questions about why we got divorced. He’s respectful, but curious about why I’m single.

When it seems natural, I ask, “So, what’s yours? Have you ever been married?”

“I was married. I’ve been divorced for about five years,” he answers. He explains that he married a woman with whom he was deeply in love and with whom he wanted a family. However, it was never the right time, from her perspective, to start one. “While I was busting my ass to build my firm and create the lifestyle that she wanted, she grew distant and began to complain that I was never around. In the end, she left me, and then started a family with some other guy.”

“I’m so sorry,” I say, wanting to be supportive.

“Yeah, well, I worked so hard for us that I lost my wife.” His bitterness is plain.

I turn the conversation back toward the business by asking more about what he does for his clients. After about half an hour of mostly flowing conversation, he starts talking about his sexuality and asks me about mine.

“Well, I’m straight,” I say. “You pretty much seem my type,” I finish, laughing.

He chuckles, “Good. There’s a large range of people around Austin. And, New York, where I’m from.”

“I know what you mean.”

He begins telling me about his sexual explorations since he got divorced. He makes himself sound like an experienced Casanova, and then states, “I’ve recently discovered that I like oral sex.” His blunt statement seems to be in contrast to his aforementioned experience, however, I know that different people have different ranges of what they consider mainstream and risqué sex.

When I don’t say much, because, I’m not really sure what to say, he goes on to tell me, “I mean, I’ve discovered that I really like giving it.” Then I consider that perhaps his ex-wife was not interested in oral sex, which would explain the novelty of this.

“When’s the last time you had a date?” He asks.

 “It’s been a while. I’ve haven’t really met anyone interesting recently,” I answer.

“Do you want to come over and we can finish our conversation here?” He suggests. “I can make some drinks.”

“Not tonight,” I answer.

“Why not? It’s Friday night.”

“Yes, but we’ve never met. I don’t meet men privately that I’ve never met before.” In addition, I’m thinking, ‘It’s Friday night at almost midnight and I’m not giving a booty call.’

He responds, “The last person I met online was an attorney and she was a single mom, too. When I asked her, she hopped in her little Tesla and drove right over. We had a great time getting to know each other, orally.”

“Umm I’m, not, her,” I reply, not knowing what else to say in response to his barely veiled conquest-bragging.

“Ah, come on,” he presses.

I say, “Do you expect me to come over because she did?”

He dodges my question, and I think, ‘uh-huh, and where is she now?’ The answer: out of the picture.

Then he says, “Women are like tramp ships.”

For those who don’t realize that this is the origin of the slang term “tramp”, “tramp ship” refers to a ship that doesn’t have a set route that she sails on a regular basis. Therefore, she goes to whatever port is called for by her cargo for a given voyage. I.e. she frequents numerous varying ports, rather than an established few.

I manage a stunned, “Uh.”

In response, he says, “No, seriously. Look, my friends always fault me when I say this, too, but it’s true. Said differently, women are like hotels. The people who stay in them are there at the discretion of the establishment. They don’t own the hotel, and they can’t have any expectation that it belongs to them.”

At best, this sounds like an odd way of saying that no one owns the woman they’re with, which may have been his overall point. However, he’s completely overlooked the failing in this analogy where anyone can rent the room, if the hotel is open and not fully booked, and that patrons pay to stay. He sounds like he thinks all women are freelance whores.

After a moment, I manage to speak. “You’re not helping your point.”

Maybe this thread of thought is part of him working through the loss of his marriage, and the acceptance that she had the right to leave when she decided to do so. I don’t want to demean the difficulty that his divorce represents for him, but instead of open and kind, he sounds misogynistic and in need of healing.

By this point, my enthusiasm has cooled. When he mentions the single attorney driving over to his place again in what seems an attempt to pressure me to do the same, I say, “It’s gotten pretty late. I think it’s time for me to call it a night.” 

Afterward, I sit in my chair trying to rectify the perception that I had of Dreamy through the app and our written messages, with the experience of the conversation I’ve just had with him. I decide to give myself a night to reflect, although I no longer feel interested in meeting him.

That night, I dreamt of him.

We were walking along a street of shops, looking in various windows. We came to a salon and he decided to go in for a service – a haircut, maybe a massage – and a woman came out to attend him. I told him I was going to go look at something I’d seen in the window of another shop and then I’d be back.

When I returned to the salon, the stylist-woman was just starting to cut his hair. I thought it odd since I’d been gone long enough for her to have finished.

Her cheeks were flushed.

He was smiling like the cat that just ate the canary.

I looked between them, as they exchanged knowing glances.

I fixed my eyes on his. “You just went down on her, didn’t you?” I asked, deadpanned.

“Yes, I did.”

My expression turned incredulous.

He said, “What? I don’t understand what the big deal is.”

“The big deal is that I can’t leave you alone for a few minutes without you getting into another woman!” I left the shop.

When I woke, I realized that this was exactly what I thought of him and his opinion of women. I said a short goodbye on the dating app and blocked his number.

What a dream guy!

Grief Monster

A few years after I got divorced, my father died. His health declined over about a three-year period and we all knew what was coming. I knew that, when the time came, I would want to be held. To have a man to put his arms around me. But I was single.

I went out. I had profiles on various online platforms. I dated. I’d have a bad date, and then go on another one. I’d have a good date and get excited about someone, and then never see him again. I began to wonder why.

After one particularly bad experience, I had an epiphany. I was seeking comfort from complete strangers. I wasn’t consciously setting out to find it, but it was what I wanted. I was already experiencing the grief of loss, and the clock was ticking down to the time when I would need comfort most.

Without me realizing it, I was showing up as needy on dates. Never doubt that men can read how you show up. They didn’t know that I was seeking to have the comfort I would want when my father died. I wasn’t about to say anything like that on a first date, even if I had realized it beforehand. And, truly, it wasn’t a reasonable thing to expect from someone I just met.

However, even without knowing that, my dates could tell something was off. They could read my overwhelm, but I never gave them the clarity of the reason for it. For that lack of information, they assumed that I was emotionally unhealthy. Men who thrive on co-dependence and a push-pull dynamic were drawn to me. They sought to exploit my neediness. Men who were confident, kind, and healthy – the ones that I liked – chose not to pursue me.

It was a hard-earned lesson. I quit looking and I spent the time after my father’s death in solitude.

Earlier this year I reached out to a man with whom things had not developed. We’d kept in touch, but our conversations had dwindled. I told him that I found him to be both physically and intellectually attractive, and asked whether he was interested in being lovers. I took the chance to try to bring sex into my celibate life.

Initially, there was a mismatch between what I meant, and what I think that he thought I meant. He said he thought that I was trying to trick him into a relationship and, in contradiction, seemed also to think I meant just hookups for sex. I wasn’t and I didn’t. I meant a friendship where we’d spend an evening together that included sex, as long as neither of us was dating someone else. In hindsight, I should never have even suggested this because I genuinely liked him overall.

It never happened. What did, was a series of attempted plans that kept falling through.

About a week after I asked him, my mother died. She had medical issues, and while I knew her death was a looming possibility, the timing was unexpected. I wanted comfort. I wanted to be held. I wanted this man to put his arms around me.

However, I was afraid to ask him. Why? Because the night before she died, he and I had plans that fell through.  We’d decided to get together for an evening in, at one of our houses. We were both getting ready and I got put off about some of the texts we were sharing. I froze. He got frustrated with me, and, I didn’t respond for several hours. Neither of us offered the other our address, so we didn’t meet.

After that, I assumed that if I asked him to hold me that he would say ‘no’. I honestly don’t know what he would’ve done. He reached out to me several days later. I could’ve said what happened, but I feared his rejection so I kept it to myself – played things cool.

Grief does weird things to a person. I didn’t have comfort, so I just pressed forward. I focused on to-do list tasks. I knocked them out, and all the while, kept up an on-again-off-again text communication with him.

For months, I didn’t even tell him that she died. I remained afraid to open up to him, and yet, I couldn’t understand why, with both of us single, it was so hard to get together. I invited more mismatch, and tricked myself into consciously expecting to receive something else.

He was genuinely attracted to me, and me to him, but things were sideways. They were sideways from the moment I crossed into grief, and kept it to myself. Maybe they were already partly sideways when I asked him about being lovers because I felt rejected by him not choosing to pursue me when we’d met. Maybe there’s a maybe on his side about which I know nothing because neither one of us really opened up to the other.

Wash. Rinse. Repeat – a strangely similar experience to dating before my dad died. And I didn’t even see it.

Our communications became text-only. At first, our conversations were light-hearted, playful and covered a range of topics. They made me smile hugely. As things didn’t progress, however, they devolved into purely sexual discussions that were exciting until they culminated in failed plans. I kept it superficial by refusing to be open; he insisted on strictly casual with no dates. Things crossed into a series of block-unblock on both sides.

At one point, he said goodbye to me, saying that he found me very attractive and would have to get over the physical attraction. Then in the next text bubble, he said, “Not healthy”. I felt affronted when he said that. Looking back, I wonder whether he saw the unhealthy nature of our interactions before I could.

That wasn’t the last of our texts. We continued to engage in sexual conversations. For me, it was in hopes of having part of what I wanted, and it felt fun; I can’t say why on his side.

It’s excruciating to experience the grief of losing a close relation when you’re alone. When you’re a deeply emotional being. To try to assuage it, I was willing to serve up sex on a silver platter to a guy that I’ve known for six months, but never had intimate relations with, and he lost all respect for me. While he didn’t act perfectly either, to his credit, he finally turned me down.

Why? Because, on the whole, he’s a good guy, and sex isn’t really all he wanted. In addition, he met someone else, who I presume he still respects. He chose to pursue her.

For my part, I finally remembered leaving myself as an option means getting treated like one and that chasing only brings breadcrumbs, which isn’t what I want. The embarrassing thing is that I didn’t even realize what I was doing until he told me he wasn’t going to keep communicating with me. I sat with it, spending the weekend that I’d hoped to be enjoying with him, processing grief instead. As much as it stung for him to tell me that, it was an important reminder of my previously hard-earned lesson.

If envy is the green-eyed monster, grief is the invisible one.

As hard as it is, look inward when things repeatedly don’t turn out with the kind of person you really want. There’s likely a reason that comes from you. In this scenario, it was that I needed to work on being emotionally open with less fear. Whatever it is for you, explore it, without berating yourself, and work to address it.

Mr. Clinton?

Last night I met Bill Clinton, in disguise. Or, rather I met someone who pulled a Bill Clinton on me. 

Let me set this up. One of my closest friends, my cousin Holly, lives a bit of a socialite lifestyle.  She’s fifty and parties like a carefree twenty-year-old. She’s in a non-committed relationship where she and her partner see each other and spend many of their nights together, however, they freely date and sexually enjoy other people. According to her, he goes out with multiple new partners each month and ends up having sex with many of them, completely casually.

Hers isn’t the kind of lifestyle that I choose to lead, but it doesn’t have to be. She is her; I am me. I don’t always understand why she does the things she does, but I love her, and I don’t judge. We’ve been confidants since childhood.

For New Year’s she invited me to come and visit. I was tempted, despite some scheduling challenges. One day, when we were talking about it, she says, “Oh, come out, I’ll set you up with Jack.” Jack is her non-committed partner. My jaw dropped and I didn’t say much.

The next day I decided not to go and called to tell her. “I’m not going to make the trip.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry to hear that. Are you sure you can’t make it?”

“Honestly, I can probably make the arrangements work, but the idea of you setting me up with Jack, for a date, has completely put me off. I’m not coming.”

“Oh, he’ll be so disappointed. Okay. I understand,” she says sulkily.

That was months ago. Last month she called to tell me that she and Jack were coming to town for the weekend, this weekend. 

Remember how I mentioned being each other’s confidants? Yeah. So, I’ve lamented my challenges finding a good partner to her. I have shared the facts of my very limited sex life, when I’d rather be having a vibrant one. I think she has interpreted this as a problem she needs to solve for me. The problem with that, is that she and I have very different interpretations of what a healthy sex life looks like. More importantly, we have significant differences in how we choose partners, and the men we select.

She texts me the day they’re arriving to remind me that they’re coming to town and invites me to join them that evening. They both have friends here and have made reservations with a few other people out at a local bar. I’m available; I accept.

Initially I’m excited about going out, but I can’t help feeling like something about this is a set-up. As I’m getting ready, I feel increasingly irritated. At one point, I realize that I’m rehearsing in my mind what I’ll say if this turns out to be an attempt to hook me up with Holly’s friends. The idea of that irritates me, because of Jack.  On the other hand, I consider that maybe their local friends live a different lifestyle than they do, and might be great to meet.  I let go of the irritation and look forward to a fun evening.

When I arrive at the bar, only one of Holly’s friends, Darryl, is there. I introduce myself. We order a few drinks, and chat innocuously. It turns out that he lives out-of-state and has come to town for the week. Our conversation is enjoyable and I relax.

When Holly and Jack, who I’ve never met before, arrive, Holly introduces us and Jack says, “I’m going to slide on in next to you!”

Quickly, I say, “I’d actually like to sit next to Holly. It’s been so long since we’ve seen each other.”

Holly says, “Oh that’s great,” then looks at him, saying, “We can shuffle around throughout the evening.” To me she says, “We like to switch it up when we’re out so that everyone gets included.”

“Ah, like the old idea of conversing with the people on either side of you during a multi-course dinner. Okay, I can sit next to your boyfriend later,” I say, as she begins sliding into the booth.

She hugs me, “Oh, he’ll correct you if I don’t.  He’s not my boyfriend.”

After only a few minutes, she gets up to get something and when she returns she asks Darryl to let her back into the booth, leaving me now seated between her and Jack.

Holly observes that my hair has grown long. As we’re comparing length to see whose hair is longer, Jack says to me, “Your hair’s not that long.” I turn my back and show him the length.  He says, “Oh, you have stripper hair.”

“Did you just compare part of my appearance to that of a stripper?” I retort.

“Oh, whatever.  All women secretly want their man to think their stripper-hot.”

“Yeah, well, I’m just plain hot,” I say, leaving unsaid that he isn’t my man. I turn back to Holly.

After a few minutes, Jack asks what I’m drinking and says, “You’ll kiss me before your drink is gone.”

“No, I won’t,” I reply.

Holly is now engaged in conversation with Darryl, so Jack and I chat about our respective work until I need to use the restroom. I ask Jack to let me out of the booth since Darryl and Holly both would have to move. 

He slides over like he’s going to stand, but instead stops in the inside corner of the booth and leans back. There’s only enough room to either straddle his lap, or shove my butt through the air in front of his face to get by. I guess he’s expecting a lap dance to match my stripper hair. I shove my butt through the air, and roll my eyes. When I return, a waiter is blocking the other end of the booth where Darryl is seated. I wait for Jack to move, but he positions himself the same manner. I should’ve just sat on the outside seat, but I wanted back to my purse and drink.  As I pass my butt through the air again, he grabs my hips and pulls me into his lap.

I turn to face him and sweetly say, “If you don’t take your hands off me, you’re going to have my elbow in your nose.” He lets go. I take my drink and slide further down the table, away from him.

Another friend arrives, Chet. Chet actually lives in town and is cute. However, he’s one of Jack’s closest friends and, my guess is, can see that Jack’s hitting on me. Not surprisingly, Jack won’t shift away from his position next to me. So much for that rotating seating arrangement.

I try to make the best of the situation and be lighthearted. I was excited to see my cousin for the first time in nearly a year and half of Covid, and I don’t want the evening to sour. I dance to the music while I’m sitting at the table. Holly shifts to the other end of the booth and starts chatting with Chet at the far end of the table, so I continue visiting with Darryl and we converse until he observes that Jack looks like a third wheel and pulls him into the conversation.

Another drink and a small bite arrive for me. Jack states, “You’re going to have to stay the night at the hotel. It’s a good thing we have two double beds. You can share mine.”

I say, “That’s not going to happen.”

Jack says, “Why not?”

“I am not going to sleep with you. You’re involved with my cousin.”

“I’m not her boyfriend.”

“I don’t care what you call it, I’m not interested.”

“Oh, so you’re not going to have sex with me, simply because I’ve had sex with her?”

“Precisely.”

“I’m not with her anymore.”

“So you haven’t had sex with her this year? You’re not sharing a hotel room with her right now?”

“Well, I guess it depends on how you define sex. If you mean am I putting my penis in her vagina until I cum, that’s not happening.”

Uh. Is he really saying this? He is. “If you have split hairs about how we define sex, you’re just proving my point. This is. NOT. Going. To Happen.”

Chet and Holly have stopped talking and are paying attention. Jack begins to argue more, to which I say, “No! You’ve been involved with her, you’re here with her. She’s my cousin. No.”

Chet says, “I think it’s actually pretty great that she’s knows her mind.”

Holly looks at Jack and says, “I told you so.”

She told him so?  The farce underlying this night out becomes transparent. She knew that he was going to try to get me into bed. Maybe she wasn’t worried because she knew I’d turn him down. Maybe she didn’t warn me because she knows I can hold my own. Either way, I don’t appreciate it, from either of them. 

He’s a creep. I don’t know why she entertains that type of behavior. Whatever it is, my cousin clearly doesn’t understand my perspective or what I want for my own life.

Jack turns sullen and the men start talking about moving to a nearby restaurant for burgers.  Holly asks if I’m going to join them, and I decline.  When we exit, I turn unceremoniously, and walk to my car.

Jack’s lucky that I didn’t crack his nose or toss my drink into his lap.  I didn’t for my cousin’s sake.  But, I do wish I’d thought to call him Bill Clinton.

Beware of Setups

If you’ve been single for half of a second the chances are that someone has tried to set you up.  “Hey, I know someone you should meet.”  “I know someone who’d be perfect for you.” “I think you’re lovely and I think so-and-so is lovely too…” Etcetera. 

 Ummm…what made you think this was a good idea?

 I have this friend who I’ve known for many, many years.  We’ve known each other through many of life’s ups and downs.  She has a business through which she interacts with numerous other small businesses.  She knows I’m single.  She knows I’m looking.  She knows some of my secrets.  But, ummmm – I’m getting ahead of myself here.

She has listened to me lament about how difficult it is to find someone I really want to date.  She has a couple of men that she gets on with really well and adores.  As such, she started talking to me about them.  I didn’t really bite, because, well, I’m wary of this sort of thing. 

So, one day she calls me and says, “I’ve been thinking about this for a while and I want to ask you something.”  She sounds cautiously optimistic and so I indulge her.  “Don’t say no until you’ve heard me out, “ she says.

“Okay”  I say, cautious now myself.

“I have this client I think you should meet.  He’s cute, he’s successful, he’s single.  He’s lovely and he always makes me laugh.  I’ve known him for several years and I think he’s a doll.”  She pauses.

“Well, what’s his story?” I ask, curious.

She jumps at the opening.  She tells me what sort of business he has, how successful he is, that he’s been married and divorced and has kids that are nearly grown.  Apparently, the divorce was years ago, but more recently he’s gotten out of a relationship with a long-term girlfriend.  He’s looking to date but not necessarily ready for serious and long-term.

“Great” I say and to myself I add, ‘Neither am I.’

I ask her a few questions, which she answers.  Then, encouraged by my interest, she proceeds to tell me that she’s already asked him whether she can tell me about him and give me his name.  She says she won’t give him mine unless I say it’s okay.  He agreed that she could share his info with me or, well, she never would’ve mentioned him since he’s her client.  She passes along that he said, “Well, tell her I’m pretty much a sure thing.”  It makes me chuckle.

She offers to send me some recent photos of him, including one of something he’s building, and his name.  That way I can check him out on Facebook.

“Great,” I say again and we hang up.

She sends me his name.  I look on Facebook and he’s cute.  He’s a bit older than me, but clearly intelligent and accomplished – all good things, right?  I’m not sure if I find him attractive, but he’s interesting at least.

Then the photos start popping into my phone.  Bing.  It’s him with a new Labrador puppy.  I’m not a total dog person, but it’s cute, fuzzy, lovable.  Bing.  Hrmm.  It’s him with his new motorcycle.  Nice, but this is starting to look like a mid-life crisis.  Bing.  Um.  Hold the phone.  What’s this third photo?  I stare.  I turn the phone sideways to look at it from a different angle, forgetting that the moment I shift the phone the photo is going to re-orient itself.  After it shifts I turn my head sideways to change my viewpoint.  I zoom in and move the photo around.  “Hrmm” I absently utter. 

The picture is a stainless steel and black rack with a scantily-clad woman strapped to it in a rather compromising position.

Bing.  She asks what I think.

“What’s this last one?”  I ask.

“Oh, that’s the apparatus he’s building.”

“And he sent this to you?  Why?”

“He’s pretty wide open” she says, “he thought I would be interested to see it.”

The conversation goes silent as I think about the way this is playing out.  ‘Wait a minute’ I think.  I dial her number.

“Hey.  So, what do you think?” she asks.

“Well, I don’t’ know.  I want to think about it,” I say diplomatically.

“That’s fair,” she says.

“I have a question,” I say.  “At what point did you suggest that he should meet me?”

She’s confused.  “We were just chatting and I thought it was the right time to ask.  I’ve been thinking about this for a while, but haven’t asked since he’s a client, but it was just good timing.”

“Did you ask him before or after he sent the pictures?” 

“Oh, it was all part of the same conversation.” She replies.

“Did he send you the pictures to send to me after you asked about giving his info to me?”

“No, the pictures were just an update on him, we hadn’t chatted in a while.  Then I broached the topic of you.” She summarizes. 

“Uh-huh.”

“What?” she asks.

“So let me get this straight.  You’re talking.  He sends you a picture of the rack he’s building to strap a new lover to and you answer with, “Hey I’ve got a friend you should meet?”” 

Silence.

“Did I hear that right?” I ask.

She starts dying laughing.

“I heard that right, didn’t I?  He sent you a picture of his sex device and you said, “Hey you should meet my friend.”” I say lightheartedly.

More laughter.

“That’s how it went down, isn’t it?”

“Yeah.  Holy shit.  I didn’t even think about that.” She finally says.

“Great one.  Now he’s thinking you know something he doesn’t about me and that you’ve suggested we meet because you must know that I’d be game for that – thanks hon.”  We’re both laughing now.

Talk about a great first date icebreaker, “How’s your rack coming along?” Or, “So your friend thought you’d be a good fit for this….”

Stone Dead with One Text

Open Mouth. Insert Foot.  I could start and finish with those four words, but what fun would that be?  I met Dr. Adonis innocuously online. 

His initial message conveyed a sharp intellect and he sent a picture of him from a conference, standing in a blazer with several other men. I wasn’t sure whether he was my type, but he was cute, and witty. As we exchanged messages I learned that he was intelligent, successful, attractive, and single. 

He seemed interested in pursuing me, but sporadic.  I woke up one morning to find a message with a picture of him wearing a low-slung towel.  Just the towel.  I revised cute to rather nicely made.  The text had come in the middle of the night and I wondered at the timing. I looked through his messages and observed that his communications would come in clusters and seemed sprinkled throughout all hours of the day.

I asked what he did.  He told me he worked at a local hospital and sent me a picture in scrubs.  I figured that this accounted for his unpredictable timing.  Whether he was a nurse, a tech, a doctor, or an attendant, they all work long, rotating shifts.

Our first planned date didn’t make.  He asked me to meet for drinks on Cinco de Mayo. I said it was a perfect day for margaritas at happy hour.  He had to work that night, so he countered with coffee.  I told him I already had plans for dinner, but agreed to meet him afterward.  In the end, I got stuck at the whim of a friend and wasn’t able to meet him before he had to leave for work.  I worried that might end things between us, before they started.

He asked me out again and we agreed to meet for lunch on his next day off. 

That morning, I stood staring at the dresses in my closet.  I wanted to look sexy for a date, but professional enough for work.  I decided on a printed wrap dress that would show my curves, and manage to pull off both. 

He chose a pub near his house that he liked, which was just over the road from where I work.  He texted mid-morning to confirm and I immediately replied. 

At 11, I check my appearance in the ladies’ room and head to my car.  When I arrive, I look back at his photo, hope he’s true to it, and get out of the car.  He’s waiting at a table on the patio and I recognize him immediately.  He’s tall – I maybe come up to his shoulder – chiseled, and well-muscled.  I notice that he moves with a lithe ease and an air of confidence.  When he speaks, his voice purrs like warm amber honey.   

“I’m Mark,” he says as he hugs me.

“Constance.”  He looks at me momentarily with narrowed eyes because I hadn’t given him my real name.  I rarely do, and I explain the name I gave is just what I use online.  He accepts my ruse and we sit.

After we order, we engage in some customary get-to-know-you chit chat.  It turns out that he’s a surgeon, a dad, and has just gotten divorced.  We’re both well educated professionals and single parents, and seem well matched intellectually and physically.

“Congratulations or condolences?” I ask.  He looks surprised.  I grin.  “I think I had that same reaction the first time someone asked me that when I got divorced.  I know it’s hard when a relationship ends, no matter the circumstances.  What I mean is, do you feel good about being out of the relationship or do you wish it hadn’t ended?”

“Oh.  Well.  Congratulations, I guess.  She’s a good woman, but we just aren’t really compatible as partners.  It’s difficult right now, though, because we are still trying to sort out custody of the kids.”

“That’s tough,” I sympathize.  I sample one of the appetizers. “Will you tell me about your work?”

He laughs, “Sure.  You know, mostly, I save people from their own stupidity.”  I guffaw at this and he continues, “No, really.  It’s kind of a running inside, well, not joke, because it isn’t funny, but something like that.  An inside perspective, maybe? 

“For example, I had a patient last month that came into the ER with her boyfriend.  She knew she was highly allergic to shellfish.  One of his friends had brought over a platter of shrimp. They got high and ate it. And she landed in with us.  That sort of thing.”

“Wow.  That’s pretty bad.” 

“Tell me about yours,” he says.

“Okay.”  I explain the details of the project on which I’d spent the morning working.  “It’s a bit of a challenging puzzle, but I’ll figure out a good solution,” I conclude. 

He asks me a few questions and the check comes.  After he settles it, he walks me to my car.  We embrace and he bends to kiss me.  His lips are both soft and firm on mine.  He teases my tongue with his, then straightens, looking down at my face.  My heart beats faster and I feel my cheeks blush.

“Would you like to see me again?”  He asks.

“I would.”  I rest my head against his chest.

“Good,” he says, releasing me. 

After I’m in my car, he turns to walk home.  The last view I have of him is him turning back to look my direction as I turn into the street. 

We exchange a little text the following day and the next morning my phone chimes.  “Are you available to meet again this week?”

I’m excited about him and at his interest. “Good morning.  I am.”  Then I say, “Did you save anyone from their own stupidity last night?”

As soon as I hit send I wonder how that will be received, somehow knowing that I should’ve thought more about my response before I replied.  Nearly immediately, I realize that I don’t really know him well enough to follow-on to what he was saying about his own profession.  It occurs to me that he could have had a difficult night, or worse, just lost a patient. 

He never replies.  Later, I send a bumbled apology and say that I hope he has a good night.  Still, he doesn’t reply.

I continue to think about him over the following week.  I stare at a pair of concert tickets I bought.  I purchased the pair so that I could invite someone to go with me, but still haven’t asked any of my friends.  I think of Adonis.  ‘It’s worth a shot,’ I decide.

“I have concert tickets for Thursday night, would you like to go?”

That evening he replies, “Sorry, I’m not going to be able to do that.”

He is polite enough not to leave my invitation hanging - at least I know I’m clear to invite someone else - but doesn’t say anything to further the conversation.  The message between the lines is clear: he isn’t interested anymore.

I’m crushed, not because he did anything adverse, but because I’ve managed to kill what seemed like genuine interest on his part with one ill-advised text.  I realize the possibility exists that he fell off the face of the planet for some other reason, but find that unlikely.  On one hand, I think that if one text is enough to kill his interest, then maybe it was too fragile.  On the other, I realize that in the early stages of dating things like that are all one has to go on.  It’s unfortunate, but I understand.

The lesson? Don’t respond impulsively to texts.  They matter.

An Energetic Evening

I went to a singles event.  I’ve been to them before, but I rarely go.  Why not?  Well, I’m not an aggressive woman when it comes to dating and, frankly, the few men I’m interested in at singles events are usually cornered quickly and not allowed to come up for air, much less glimpse other women.  They usually end up with some woman shoving her tongue down their throat and then the pair of them disappear, and I curiously wonder how long that little fling lasts while I wander through conversations that never go anywhere. 

This event, however, I came across while doing some philosophical and meditative searching.  It sounded like more than your average alcohol-swilling or approach-a-stranger-and-rapid-fire-conversation event.  The basic idea was to do short, partnered meditative exercises in a rotating group.  My curiosity propelled me to register.

The event was great.  The night opened with a bit of breath work and intention-setting, and each person took a turn introducing him or herself.  We each drew a question card from a stack to read and answer for the rest of the group which began a series of friendly discussions.  The process was unobtrusive and set a relaxed tone. 

After the ice breaker, the men made a large circle and the women formed a smaller one inside the men’s circle facing their male partners.  The structure was simple: do one activity and then the inner circle would rotate to the next partner.  

The night progressed through a series of activities of five to ten minutes each.  Some of the activities were looking your partner in the eye for a designated period of time without speaking; some were to take turns telling your partner about a specific meaningful aspect of your life; others were to dance together or give a massage.

I had noticed HIM at the start of the evening, and couldn’t decide whether I thought he was attractive.  He was, but there was something seemingly scoundrel-ish about HIM.  Perhaps it was that he had a bandana tied around his head all evening that made it seem like he had something to hide.  Halfway through the event, I found myself face-to-face with HIM.  I hadn’t really given HIM much consideration, but the activity for our turn was for the man to get on one knee in front of the woman and take her hand in his.  Each partner was to make eye contact with the other as they felt comfortable.  We did. 

We each looked deeply into the eyes of the other person, but neither of us said a word after our initial greeting.  It wasn’t lost on me that this particular activity resembled a proposal.  At first I thought it a bit gauche, but the facilitator talked through a narrative about being able to meet the masculinity or femininity of the other person without judgement.  As I looked at HIM, I realized that there wasn’t anything scoundrel-ish about him.  Maybe there was something behind his eyes that he was shielding, but it felt more like the way someone protects their own vulnerability than anything untoward. 

As we searched each other’s eyes, I relaxed and realized that part of my thoughts about HIM at the beginning of the evening had more to do with the fact that he was one of the only men there that I actually thought might be someone I could date.  I recalled that he had mentioned a hobby of his that I also enjoy.  I realized that I was put off by his quiet, observant masculinity – one of the very things I might like to find in a partner.  I had found it easier to dismiss HIM from the start than to be open to finding out whether HE was a good match for me.  In that moment, I wondered whether I might be quietly sabotaging myself in my dating endeavors. 

I also couldn’t decide whether HE was trying too hard, but decided that judging too quickly can lead to incorrect conclusions.

We gazed at each other until the facilitator told the men to stand.  I placed my hand over his heart, smiled, and then rotated to the next partner. 

The last activity of the night was to sit quietly with your partner, letting them touch you however both of you felt comfortable – platonically. I spent the final minutes of the evening entwined in the arms of a man I never saw or spoke to again, but it was wonderful just to be held.   

At the end of the event the women were able to indicate privately the men in which they had interest.  Afterward, each woman’s contact information was made available to the men in whom she’d indicated interest.  Men who felt mutually could reach out.     

HE did. 

Miss C – ‘Twas a delight and honor to behold you, be in your presence and feel your gaze.  Care to rendezvous over a drink?  I know the perfect place for sipping a black currant cabernet beside a glowing hearth.  

‘Wow,’ I think.  “Yes, please,” I utter to the silence of my living room.  I quickly reply.

That would be lovely.  It was wonderful to meet you as well.

 As I get ready for bed, instead of sugared plums, I have visions of a fireside date dancing through my head…

Clandestine Man

Cue the Mission Impossible theme song.  Then, switch your mental image from Tom Cruise doing some death-defying spy awesomeness to Gene Hackman’s very capable character in Enemy of the State.  No, wait.  He’s too deleteriously capable.  Shift to the image of the used car salesman wannabe spy in True Lies.  Yes.  Perfect. 

For those not well versed in spy movies, think of your typical house wife out to dinner with a guy who tells intriguing tall tales of the narrow scrapes he’s managed to survive.  Picture him driving her around in a peppy convertible sports car and then, after dropping her off from her risqué, but non-intimate interlude, be bopping back to the small used car lot where he actually works and putting the ‘for sale’ sign back in the window of said convertible. 

An international man of mystery?  Perhaps it was his dream to be.  I met Mr. Clandestine online after he responded to my profile.  This guy excelled at putting just enough information out there to make a flood of questions run through my brain – none of which he would answer, of course.  Yet somehow he managed to be a good conversationalist, despite the fact that he wasn’t revealing much of anything about himself.  He did say that he had moved to Austin from New York state and was working as a drummer with a local band.  He also said he had worked for a bank up east and had done well enough to get his own place. 

I asked him for photos of himself; he sent me an artsy, slightly grainy one of him wearing sunglasses.  It was several years old, but still looked like him, he claimed.  Why not new photos?  Apparently, he insists on using an old flip phone that doesn’t do pictures. 

While he clearly wasn’t transparent, he was articulate, intelligent, and cute.  I figured that if we wound up meeting it would at least be an interesting interaction.  Most importantly for me, what he said he was looking for in a partner seemed to match with what I was seeking.  However, keep in mind that I had armed him with that information in advance with my profile page, so that doesn’t amount to much.  At this point you might be wondering why I was having this non-conversation with the nondescript conversationalist.  The answer is simple.  I wasn’t really talking to anyone else. 

After a few weeks, as I was tiring of the banter, I asked him several direct questions about himself.  He didn’t want to put the answers in email.  I asked about texting and he said that texting on his phone was tedious because he wouldn’t upgrade to a new cell phone due to the ease of tracking that newer phones had embedded in their software. I threw up my hands.  You can’t get to know someone who won’t actually communicate.  I told him so.

He invited me to meet.  I didn’t have much else going on for the particular weekend in question so I agreed.  Call it my version of people-watching.  I insisted on meeting in a public place.  We agreed to meet on a Thursday evening at a casual neighborhood bar on the east side. 

I appear at the appointed time and place, and park.  The bar has a generic façade on a poorly lit street and next to where I’m parked there’s a construction zone for a new high-rise building.  There aren’t many people around and I’m uncertain that this “public place” is a good set-up.  As I’m considering the situation I watch several people come and go from the bar.  They are up-beat, professional-looking types with an average age in the 30’s, which suggests that this place manages to pull of the aloofly understated vibe common in many of Austin’s trendy watering holes.  Fair enough. 

I go in and scan the room, as my eyes adjust.  There are a few people sitting at the tables up front, and one of them looks a little reminiscent of Mr. Clandestine in his grainy sunglasses, but I’m not certain whether it’s him and he doesn’t display any recognition to me – I had sent him my photos. 

I walk to the bar and order one of their signature drinks.  As the bartender makes it, I look around the room again and I don’t see anyone looking at me.  The man at the table near the front is staring at something in front of him, not looking around like he’s waiting for someone.  I conclude that my date isn’t here yet.  As I choose a place to sit the door opens and closes and when I look up I see that the man from the front room has left the building.

I slowly consume my drink, waiting for Mr. Clandestine.  He doesn’t appear.  I feel a bit like an unclaimed passenger waiting in a forlorn terminal as I finish my beverage.  I have a rule: one drink and I’m out.  I understand that sometimes things happen and someone can be a few minutes late, but if I’ve had enough time to have a drink or an appetizer and my date hasn’t shown, it’s done. 

I’ve been stood up.  I set my empty glass on the bar as I leave.

As I close my car door, my phone rings, but when I pick it up to answer the screen says “No Caller ID”.  I don’t answer those calls.  As I drive away, my voicemail beeps.  I check the message and it’s from Mr. Clandestine.  He claims that he was there and I didn’t show up.  I’m annoyed, but I can relate completely to the feeling of being stood up.  We could still meet, however, I have no ability to call him back because there is no phone number.

We exchange several emails over the rest of the evening.  I’m reluctant to meet him now.  However, he describes where he was sitting and what he was wearing and I realize that he was the man sitting alone at the table in the front of the establishment.  I ask why he didn’t approach me and he claims that he didn’t recognize me either.  I’m nonplussed, but we re-schedule for Friday.

When I arrive after work for happy hour the next night, the street and bar are much busier.  The place is bustling and he greets me when I arrive.  I note that he is dressed all in black, with nothing to distinguish his appearance.  We get drinks and he spends the next 10 minutes explaining why he doesn’t drink the type of beverage that I have selected.  We chat politely and he asks several questions of me about my previous relationships and my circumstances.  I’m open and genuine, but his questions seem a bit outside the norm for usual get-to-know-you conversation and I hold back information.  I turn the conversation toward him.

What are his used car salesman tall tales?  First, he tells me how he saved his ex-girlfriend from her cycle of getting high and having sex with whoever happened to be present and shaped her into a woman who was able to maintain a stable job at a local hotel.  While this is admirable, the manner in which he tells it belies a certain co-dependence that I’m not seeking.  Nor, thankfully, am I in need of the same variety of salvation. 

Next he tells me about his travels in his van across the United States from New York to Texas and that he transitioned from living in the van to renting a room.  The room is out from town and his rent is bartered for handiwork on the house.  However, the landlord is not an ideal roommate and he feels has asked him to do too much work for his rent so now he’s looking for somewhere else to alight while he sleeps in his bandmate’s garage between practices.  What happened to the place he did well enough to afford?  He claims that he bought the house, but put it under his ex-girlfriend’s name because he didn’t want his name recorded on the title.  Then, he gave it to the ex-girlfriend when they parted ways.  Hrmm. 

I’m skeptical in more ways than one.  Throughout his escapades, he insists on living off the grid, with no text or email, and clandestine caller ID.  Somehow the one thing I’m certain about is that I know nothing about him – probably not even his real first name. 

The best I can tell, he is a fringe individual with delusions of paranoia who lives in his van when he can’t mooch a place off someone else.  The worst, is that his bank success involved some kind of heist and now he’s on the lam.  Or, maybe he’s up to some other nefarious no good.  Either way, I’m not interested.  Mr. Clandestine, the great written conversationalist, has nothing to offer me, and more than that, sounds ripe to latch on to my life if I’m so willing.  I am not. 

Duh-duh-duh-da-na .  Duh-duh-da, NO. 

Nope.  Nuh, uh!

Today and Tomorrow

I’ve been absent the last few months while I have been focusing on other aspects of my life.  The truth is that I’ve taken a bit of a break from my blog, and from dating, although the stories I share have taken place over several years and there is plenty of fodder to nourish my writing.  As I get back to it, I want to share a post I wrote last year when I preparing to start this blog.  Some may think it a bit sad, and I debated whether to write, and then whether to post, this entry.  However, the dating scene is a bit of a roller coaster, complete with twists, turns, ups and downs.  To make it seem like I don’t have difficult times on this ride would be to give a false sense of my reality.  Here goes.

Today I just feel sad.  And it’s a very consuming sadness.  Tomorrow will be a new day.  This evening might even be a whole better evening, after I write this, but right now I’m sad.  I’m still thankful every day that I’m out of the relationship I was in - my needs were not met in it.  I’ve been single for several years now. I’ve watched my ex-husband marry a former friend.  I see the joy that other people take in their relationships – it makes me smile. I’ve taken comfort in the wonderful friendships that I have, but today I feel lonely.  Today I’m painfully aware that I lack the companionship and love that I see others finding in their partners. 

For some reason over the last few days I’ve been thinking a lot about the few men I’ve met who I really liked, but with whom things didn’t work.  I wish things were different, but despite initial chemistry, best intentions, and attempts otherwise, they aren’t.  I’m many wonderful things, but that doesn’t mean that everyone I want wants me, or is a good match for me. 

Two men keep trapesing through my brain.

The first man I met post-divorce that I really liked snuck up on me, even though I was looking.  I met him at an online dating site, but I didn’t have very high expectations.  Truthfully, after my marriage my belief in my ability to be a good judge of character and pick someone worth being with was shaken.  I thought he had perhaps embellished himself, the way people often do on a resume.  He hadn’t, and I was pleasantly surprised.  We are both intense people and things were intense between us quickly - too quickly.  It freaked us out a bit.  For my part I wanted to date, maybe even exclusively with the right man, but I wasn’t necessarily looking for a serious commitment.  I tried to keep his attention; but it was awkward and probably I shouldn’t have.  For his part, his profile said that he had been seeking something casual.  Maybe he was never really open to me from the beginning.  Whatever the causes, we failed to launch.

The second I went to meet for coffee after a light workout, not dolled up, not primped and polished.  I had liked his profile and our conversation, but I was skeptical - perhaps because of my string of first dates that held no promise.  He was lovely.  He was attentive and interested.  He loaned me his jacket when the weather was colder than expected.  He walked me to my car and kissed me, and I thought, ‘Maybe, just maybe’ to myself as I smiled.  He and I dated for about two months, but we wanted different things.  We had conflicting schedules.  There was chemistry, but our needs did not align well.  We had dissimilar thoughts on having to accommodate children, and I have children.  Simply put, we were just mismatched.  He and I are still friends and he is an attractive, wonderful human being – we’re just not right for each other. 

Recently I have thought about both of these men a lot. Who knows why.  I self-reflect, but there isn’t much left to puzzle out where they’re concerned, and I don’t feel the need to re-play and re-analyze events.  Maybe it’s the phase of the moon, or the current astrological energy.  More likely, it’s because the last man I went out with turned out to be another dead end and then texted me that he met someone great – someone else great.  Likely, it’s because it’s just too easy for the mind to turn back from the latest sour patch to a path that seemed so sweet – if only for a time.

Today I emotionally stumble.  Tomorrow I will stand. 

People ask me how I find the courage to get up and try again.  It’s simple.  For me the alternative is worse than the short-term failure.  To sit down and not get back up means accepting the status quo, accepting that I don’t get to find the joy of a relationship, that I don’t get to receive romantic love.  I refuse to accept that.  So, I get up and try again. 

If you find yourself where I am, here’s how you get up.  Embrace the way you feel today.  I don’t mean wallow endlessly, but honor it.  Honoring where you are allows you to be human, to be imperfect.  Do those things you must tonight and let the rest of the list wait until tomorrow.  Find something that comforts you: a friend to chat with, a favorite movie, that peaceful cup-o-tea or soothing bath.  Even if it feels like a guilty pleasure to indulge in it, give it to yourself.  Let your tears fall if they must.  Just be where you are today….and go to bed a little early if you can.

Tomorrow, you wake up.  You take a deep breath and throw back the sheets.  You put your feet on the floor.  You think about one thing you’re going to accomplish today and you set the intention that all things are possible.  You re-affirm that, in time, you will find what you need and want. Honor today and leave it behind tomorrow.  Tomorrow is a new day.