The Saturday Night Date

Let's get some answers to the basic questions out of the way...

Yes, he showed up wearing flannel.

No, he did not shave.

No, he is not in an open relationship.

I did not specifically ask if he programs computers, but I suspect the answer is no.

No, he did not ask for anal sex- yet.

Yes, he has a criminal record.

And no, my 59th first date was fun, but not good enough to end the two and a half year saga.

Also, as he revealed in the first five minutes of conversation, he has a child!  Baby mama and I share the same first name.

Criminal records, children, beards, and flannel are far from turn-ons but aren't on my list of dealbreakers either.  So why is it that I had a good time-one of the best times I've had on a date in Seattle- but don't see a relationship blossoming?

It is the Seattleishness, the awkward, nervous, lack of self-confidence that permeates my dates in this city.  It is the fact that when I invited him up to my apartment, he anxiously sat on my couch for fifteen minutes talking to me and touching my leg before I became exasperated and said "Am I going to have to kiss you first or can you do it?!?"  It is that he kept apologizing- for swearing in conversation, for not sending a followup text message soon enough, for not knowing a good bar to go to.  I've never been in city where men said "I'm sorry" so often for things of such little consequence.  It's impossible to adequately explain male Seattle culture in words, but residents here know what I'm referring to.  There is a skittishness, a hesitancy to take action that makes me lose interest quickly.  I am a planner and a dreamer, a person who tries to live every moment in life with a purpose.  With the exception of the man I was seeing a year ago, I haven't found that quality in my dates.

Will I see him again?  Probably.  I still had fun, and I will give it another shot.  But my instinct tells me that it won't last, that I will lose interest and move on to find what I'm looking for. 

I will end up going on a 60th first date.
 

It's Happening!

My date with Photographer tomorrow night has a special significance to me.  For the first time, I will be going on a first date on a Saturday night.  My weekend nights are precious, and I never schedule a date on them unless I am reasonably convinced I will enjoy myself.  A shitty Tuesday evening is forgivable; a waste of a Saturday evening is tragic.

Will my high hopes be dashed when he shows up twenty minutes late wearing flannel?  Can I overcome the beard?  Is he in an open relationship and looking for a girlfriend who he sleeps with when he's bored of his wife?  Does he program computers on the side?  Is he going to ask for anal sex the first time we hook up?  Does he, like most men I end up dating, have a criminal record?  Will my 59th first date be good enough to end this two and a half year saga?

I'm excited to find out!


 

You Had Me At "Photographer"

That night at Lo-Fi was remarkable for a second reason: I met a man.  In person.  Holy fuck, it can happen.

He was standing by the wall of the club and my friend asked me what I thought.  "I think he'd be cuter if he didn't have a beard," were my exact words.  That was all she needed to hear.  She declared herself my wingwoman and opened with the most asinine pickup line I have ever heard...  "So, do you like 90s music?"  At a 90s dance party.  Whatever works, I suppose.

He immediately bought in.  "I LOVE 90s music!"  No shit.  We all paid $10 to be inside a club blasting Ace of Base, so that was a given.  In an effort to change to a less awkward topic, I asked him what he did for a living.

"I'm a photographer." 

The universe froze in time.  I didn't care about the beard anymore, I wanted to run away with him and lie under the stars and talk about life and love and our greatest fears.  Instinctively, I knew, that if we went on an actual date, I would have fun.  Photography lends itself to a world view that is similar to the perspective of someone who blogs about dating.  There is a predisposition to analyze moments, to participate in life's drama while remaining oddly detached.  It's the same reason that I love working in healthcare.  I mentally noted, then tried to push out of my mind, that my favorite Brooklyn one-night-stand was a photographer too.  I did not find it entirely coincidental.

When the topic of travel came up, he told me that his first trip outside the country was to Nigeria.  For the first time in wayyyyyy too long, I was intrigued.  The general picture of a man I would be interested in fit perfectly, and I wanted to get to know him better.  He was fun (90s night!), creative, adventurous...  All he needed to fit my type was a criminal record.

At the end of the night, as my friends and I were heading out, he asked me if I remembered his name.  "B___," I said.  "Right!"  He perked up a little.  "Well, R____, would you want to get a drink some time?"

YESYESYESYESYESYESYESYESYESYESYESYESYESYESYESYESYESYESYESYESYES

is what I thought as I did a happy dance inside my head.

I tried to play it cool, as though this happened all the time.  "Yeah, that would be fun."  We exchanged numbers.

The waiting game is on.  Two days have passed without hearing from him, and we're heading into Christmas which makes a followup text less likely.  But if he's good at dating, which I hope he is, he knows to make a woman sweat it out.

My New Dating Statistic

Last night at Lo-Fi, while getting my groove on to 90s hip hop, I ran into a man I went out with on a single date, which brings me to a total of ELEVEN random run-ins in Seattle with men I dated.

I have also been on eleven second dates, meaning...

If we go out on a first date, we are equally as likely to run into each other randomly as we are to go on a second date. 

We are also three times as likely to randomly run into each other than go on a third date.

 

The Regrets Post

Heading into 2014, I have regrets.

I regret that when I told the man I was dating last winter to send me a text message if he didn't want to keep seeing me, I didn't specify NOT to send a breakup text message on the second day of a week long trip to Maui. That really blew.

I furthermore regret that I blogged about details of our sex life while we were dating, although I don't regret it enough to not put the post back up in a future entry. That will probably happen soon.

I regret all of the times I had sex on a second date.

In fact, I regret many of my second dates.

I regret sleeping with the man in New York who lived on the Upper West Side. The night before I'd had a really wonderful evening with a different man, and having sex with a banker who I didn't connect with only 24 hours after spending the night with a cinematographer in Brooklyn made me feel lonely and cheap.

I regret that I only seem to meet men off the internet when I am on vacation in New York.

I regret beards and flannel, obviously.

I regret that I don't have the straightforwardness to end bad dates within 20-30 minutes by politely saying I'm not interested and that I instead spend 60-90 minutes on dates with men who think I'm having a great time.

I regret that last year, when a man who spent the night went through all of my prescription medications while I was asleep, I didn't tell him that was totally inappropriate and a violation of my privacy.

I regret paying $100 for a match.com membership. Do I get a refund if the biggest "success" I had off their website was second-date sex with a man who I never talked to again?

I regret Microsoft and Amazon.

I regret polyamory because it's really weird.

I regret one of the two fourth dates that I have been on since my last relationship. The fourth date that I don't regret is with the man who broke up with me via text message while I was in Hawaii.  A functional relationship was not meant to be, but a fourth date absolutely was. 

More OkCupid

My date tonight was wearing a blue and red sailor jacket and asked me for a prescription for Adderall.

Back to the Birthday Boy

Let's go back to "E___", the man who I met at a party a few weeks ago who was chivalrous enough to walk me to the door after fucking me but not enough to get my contact information.

A couple weeks passed, and the sex was still on my mind. It was good! So good, in fact, that I became depressed about the thought of returning to mediocre sex with some man who I had minimal interest in. I have had a decent amount of partners in the last two years, and only a few of the men stand out in my mind. He was one of them.

I rationalized that he would have gotten my number had he wanted to see me again, but then I remembered that this is Seattle. Men don't ask for phone numbers here! They sit at their computers, reading through dating profiles with their plastic rimmed glasses and send out messages like "Hey, I listen to NPR too. Let me know if you want to grab a microbrew and discuss which local farm has the best organic kale."

So on the off chance that he had been interested in seeing me but didn't have the basic social skills to ask for my phone number, I got his number from our  mutual friend, swallowed my pride, and sent him the following text ten days after I'd last seen him:

"Hey, this is R____. Want to hook up?"

The reply was immediate. "I would. I'm out of town until Saturday. I'll text when I'm back."

He contacted me at midnight that Saturday, and I headed over to his apartment. When I arrived he offered me a drink, and we tried to have a conversation.

"How was your week?"

"Good, I got promoted at work," he responded.

"Oh that's cool, what's your new job?"

"Basically I manage a larger server for the data processing of the PDF bitmap file that links to the interface of web user bandwith."

Okay, I may have paraphrased a little, but the point still stands. I stared blankly. "What's a server?"

"Wow," he said. "We have nothing in common... Want to hook up?"

I absolutely did.

Moral of the story? Here it is, absolute proof that men in Seattle have a serious problem asking for phone numbers.

What is with these men?!?!?

I went on a date with a really great guy this weekend.  He was clearly a kind person, had left a cushy job at Microsoft to work on political activist projects in Seattle to try and make his own difference in the world.  He was vegetarian.  He was outdoorsy.  He, like me, feels out of place with the new growth of wealth in the Seattle area.  He longed for a more diverse community and shared my excitement about the recent election of a socialist to Seattle city council.  He was unbearded and unflanneled.  So many pluses!

But, per usual, I wasn't interested, so when he asked me out again I sent him a kind message assuring him that I had a good time but just didn't feel a romantic connection.

Then for the second time in a month, I received a rejection of my rejection:

"I don't usually do this but I think you should consider a second date ... We have a lot of conversational & intellectual chemistry. If you're lucky, you might learn to snowboard ;) We might also become friends. That's my 2 cents."

What the fuck?!?!?  I said no!  No!  No!  No more bad dates!  No more sitting through awkward dinners where I have no chemistry with the person across from me and keep thinking about how I'd rather be rewriting my senior thesis from undergrad!  I don't want to date you!  MAKE IT STOP!!!!!!!

......................................................................................................................................................................

In other news, I have new dealbreakers:  Alcoholism and Borderline Personality Disorder.

Free At Last. Again.

Recovering Alcoholic was fired from his job last week, and I lost interest in sleeping with him.  The two weren't related at all except for being unfortunately timed in the dark days of late November in Seattle.  I had been planning on transitioning the physical intimacy out of our relationship, and then he told me he lost his job.  Fuck.  I felt a sense of responsibility to a man who I specifically never wanted to be responsible for, an absurd obligation to have sex with him to make him happier.

I was busy and he was busy and our schedules didn't align until yesterday.  He texted me and said he wanted to spend the night.  I reluctantly agreed.  Then he sent the following text:

"Get me whiskey.  I am over it tonight."

"Um," I replied, "that's a joke, right?"

"Nope.  Too much.  I need a break.  Been smoking too.  Being sober doesn't help.  Same mistakes, more hurt.  Not worth it."

Any microspore of sexual desire I had left, any miniscule shred of wanting to be intimate with him completely dissipated, and I became afraid.  He was, for the first time since I'd known him, having a breakdown.

I called him immediately.  "Hey, I feel really bad and I want to be supportive, but you need to calm down.  I don't think that it's a good idea for you to come over."

"So we can't just hang out and have sex?"

"No.  You're not in your right state of mind.  I don't feel comfortable in this situation. I think we should meet in a public place...  Let's get tea."

He sighed, apologized, and agreed.

Let me say, first of all, that this man was given a shitty lot in life.  No one asks to be born into an abusive family, to have to relive a childhood of trauma in your mind daily and go to therapy just to try and function as a normal human being with a job and friendships and a sense of self-worth.  Considering the horrible upbringing he had, I think he's accomplished a lot.

I listened to him pour over his emotions for half an hour.  He slept with a coworker, he said, and he got attached to her.  He knew she was in an open relationship, but he stupidly thought it would develop into something more.  She called it off, wrote "we're just not physically compatible" in an email, and he became distracted at work, wasn't doing his job, and got fired.

"I'm not good at anything.  I should just move back to the Midwest and drink all day and have shitty sex with a woman I don't love and have kids that I don't care about and beat my wife...  Everyone hates me."

And this, blog readers who work outside of medicine or mental health, is a classic example of borderline personality disorder.

"I want to be clear," I said, "I don't hate you.  I want to be your friend, and I want to be supportive, but this relationship is going to change.  We shouldn't be having sex."

"Yeah, that's fine" he replied.  "I'm so fucked up with sex, I shouldn't be having sex either."

Great!  Everyone was in agreement.

I continued, "I'll be around if you need someone to talk to, but it won't be as much as before.  I'm going to need a lot more space."

He said he got it.

I officially ended the relationship I was never in.
 

An Outside Assessment of the Situation

My friend who is single and equally frustrated with dating in Seattle lured me out to Ballard last night with the promise of hanging out with two men who she recently met and described as "fun."  I trust her judgment, and fun sounded better than doing laundry by myself on a Saturday.

They were physicians, and it showed.  We were in the company of the only two men in the Kangaroo and Kiwi who weren't wearing flannel shirts.  Have you ever met a doctor who wears flannel?  Exactly.  They paid for our drinks and cover charge at a nearby club, and I didn't argue because it was one of the few times I have been out with men who make more money than I do.  I usually fight to make things financially equal along gender lines, but when a man makes more than $200,000 I forgo my feminism for socialism.  A wealthy man spending money on me promotes income equality, I rationalize.  It's Marxism for dating.

My friend had great chemistry with Man #1, and Man #2 and I had a pleasant time with absolutely no romantic connection.  After midnight, Man #2 received a text message from Man #1 requesting some time alone with my friend.  We laughed and launched into our own conversation about dating.

"You know what your problem is?" he asked.  "You're dating in the wrong city."

No fucking shit.

"I can tell just by meeting you that the tech guys aren't your thing."

I found it odd how I didn't know this man at all, yet he was spot on in his appraisal of me.

"Don't move to Portland or San Francisco, it's the same thing.  Or L.A.- God you'd hate dating in L.A.!"

He thought for a moment.  "You know where you'd do well?  Brooklyn."

He was right, and I wanted to cry.

"But I love Seattle!  I want it to work here.  It has to!  I need the mountains!"

I spent ten years trying to get back to this city as an adult.  I've lived in Atlanta, Boston, Vietnam, Ghana, South Korea, Guatemala, and a town of 2000 people in central Washington.  In every city I made friends and adjusted, but in the back of my mind I knew that my home would forever be sandwiched in between Puget Sound and the Cascades.  I never doubted that I would succumb to my Northwest roots and return here to live.  Take away the alpine forests, and a part of me is missing.

"Yeah," he said.  "You're gonna have to give up the mountains.  You're gonna move to Brooklyn and find yourself meeting someone and staying there."

It was pointless to argue, I knew, but Oh My God do I want him to be wrong.




 

A Good Time

Yet this isn't a sex blog- it is a dating blog.  The two are easily confounded.  I wish that they would come together more often because sex when you are dating someone, when there is the hope of a relationship on the horizon, is great.  Sex for the sake of sex leaves me feeling a little lonely over the next week.  Depending on the circumstance, I either wonder what I did wrong for him not to contact me again or I feel like a slut for sleeping with someone I'm not that into.  Or a little bit of both.  The aftermath is never as fun as the process unless, of course, you are dating and you plan on doing it again.

So back to dating, which usually for me does not involve sex.  I went on three dates with the same man recently.  It was great!  He was awesome and we had a ton in common.  We did not have sex.  In fact, we didn't even kiss.  We met for a drink on date #1, went to a concert on date #2, and made dinner together on date #3, all for the purpose of getting to know each other to see if romance developed.

It didn't, but I'm okay with that because it was a good time (see blog title!).  He was interesting and I took away from our conversations some knowledge that I may use in the future.  If I run into him on the streets of Seattle I'll probably remember his name, and I'll say hi.  This is what I had thought dating would be like when I started several years ago.

Success!  It's all relative.

 

The Birthday Boy

If I know you off the internet and I see you this week, you will notice a bite mark on my chin.

"I think you'd like E___," my friend said.  "He's a little weird."

She had invited me to E___'s birthday party at a Capitol Hill bar, but I couldn't tell if I liked him because he was 100%, certifiably trashed.  He called me Sarah for the first thirty minutes of our conversation, and I patiently corrected him until he got it right.  We didn't have much of a coherent discourse, but I liked his body.  It was strong without being bulky; the hipster tattoo sleeve looked good on his arm.  We drunkenly flirted until he said "I really want to kiss you right now," and then we sealed the attraction. 

"I like your face.  You're pretty," he said.

"Is that all you like?"  The alcohol was kicking in full force.  "What about my tits?"

His eyes popped open.

The midnight hour of his 30th birthday was approaching and he said he wanted to spend it making out with me in his apartment.  He couldn't find his wallet, but a woman had just referenced her breasts and he had his priorities.  Four hours later, as we lay in bed sobering up, he would worry about where his wallet was.  At that moment it was an afterthought.

Then the bite happened, followed by bruises, culminating in fun, consensual, rough sex that I was shocked came from a website administrator in Seattle.  Time passed quickly and before knew it, it was 4 am.

"I'm gonna head home," I said.

"What?!?"  He looked at me like I was crazy.  "Why don't you spend the night?  I'm really enjoying this."

"I'm having a great time too, but I'm just not comfortable sleeping here.  And it's my policy.  I never want to wake up in the morning next to a strange guy and have him regret what happened the night before."

"That's a weird policy," he said.

In the back of my mind, I remembered the man I met in New York.  I had told him the same thing and he laughed.  "I think that's an excellent policy," he had assured me, "but it's 4 am and you're welcome to stay."

The hour was the same in the Seattle encounter.  I was willing to do the walk of shame.

I started to get dressed and he did too.  "What are you doing?," I wanted to know.

"It's a thing called chivalry.  I'm walking you to the door.  Maybe you need more men to do this for you."

It occurred to me, as I left his apartment, that a far more chivalrous move than putting on pants and walking down a staircase would have been to thank me for a good time and get my contact information, which he didn't ask for.  But I am able to take good sex for what it is, and I will leave him with the birthday gift of believing that the ultimate act of chivalry after sex is accompanying a woman to the door.

Three Months

I have been sleeping with Recovering Alcoholic for three months now- my longest running romance in the last 2.5 years- and we are not even dating.  In fact, ever since I told him on our third date that I didn't see a relationship developing, we have not met up anywhere outside of my apartment.  I would describe it as a "booty call +".  It is more than sex.  It is far less than a relationship.

I was having a bad day and found myself drinking alone at a bar doing a crossword puzzle.  I wanted company and although I wasn't in the mood to have sex, I sent him a text message asking him to meet.  I missed his familiarity.  I needed him to sit next to me, to let me rest my head on his shoulder.  He is kind and supportive, and while his personal life is messy, he has been respectful of limits and avoided bringing his baggage into our non-relationship.  At that moment, there was no one else who I wanted to be with.

He had other plans, he said.  I was disappointed.

We met up late that night, at an hour given by God for the sole purpose of booty calls.  He went through the usual motions- unbuttoned and unzipped, pushed a little here and nibbled a little there, but he could tell my crappy day weighed on me and my mind was elsewhere.

"You just want to be held, right?"

I nodded.

"That's okay, I can do that."

And he did.

 

The Man Who Made My Head Hurt

My friend and blog reader had a party last night and clued me in beforehand about a man she wanted me to meet:  "I think he's your type!  He's a social worker.  He does have a beard though..."

She knows me well.  I met him and he was, for the most part, a pretty good guess at someone I would be interested in, with the obvious turnoff of copious Seattle facial hair.  We spent a good chunk of the evening talking, and I soon placed him in the category of someone-I-would-go-on-a-date-with-and-possibly-sleep-with-but-wouldn't-consider-dating-long-term, which begs the question of why I would consider dating him at all.  I don't think I've figured out a satisfactory answer for that recurring query, although whatever the truth is involves at least 80% boredom and a healthy amount of desperation.

"You're single, right?", he asked.  "I mean, we've been talking for most of the night now."

Being single has become so integral to my identity that I can't imagine ever answering that question with a response besides an exhaustive "yes."

I told him I blogged about my experiences dating in Seattle, and he seemed intrigued.  "Can I get on your blog?"

"Well we'd have to go on a date first."

"Yeah, that's what I'm asking you."

Sweet!  I love being asked out on dates from men I meet in person.  Not only is it flattering, but on a higher level it gives me hope that we live in a world where people take chances and don't hide behind the safety net of a computer screen.  I will always, always say yes to a man who asks me out who I didn't meet online, even if I don't think I'm interested.  It may not be a love match, but it is likely to be a decent time, and I am on a mission to encourage the organic dating process in Seattle.

It was getting late and I excused myself from the conversation to say goodbye to some friends.  I returned to say I was heading home, and I asked him if he wanted to get my number.

He shook his head, "No."

HUH?!?!?!?

"I'm not really looking to date right now."

Clearly if he had been interested in me, he would have been looking to date.  That's the way romance works.  But for the love of a God that none of these Pacific Northwest atheist men believe in, if you don't want to go out with a woman, DON'T ASK HER OUT AND THEN FIVE MINUTES LATER TELL HER YOU DON'T WANT TO GO OUT WITH HER.  That is passive aggressiveness at its worst!  It involves being so passive about not wanting to date someone that you overcompensate by being aggressive and ask them out even though you're not interested!

Am I laughing, or am I crying?  Sometimes I can't tell. 

What Do Men Say After Sex?

Last night after having sex, Recovering Alcoholic gave me a compliment:

"Jesus you're great in bed... And you're very kind too."

I laughed out loud.  It was sweet and honest, spoken at a vulnerable moment.  Which got me thinking about the other things men have said to me in the post-coitus minutes.  Here are some winners:

 "R___, you are so hot. I can't get enough of your body.  You are so fucking hot!  But you're also SO FUCKING emotionally unavailable.  I just can't read you."

"Just out of curiosity, how would you describe the taste of my cum?"

"I'm sorry I'm so quiet."

"Can you give me a back massage?"

"Who does your taxes?"

"I want some pie."

"I'm sorry I'm not gonna cum.  I did a lot of coke."

And my all time favorite:

"I love you.  I mean, I love your pussy."


 

Three Reasons

How could I have forgotten the third and final reason a man gave to me for not wanting to date me?!?

"I don't have anything against interracial dating in general, but I don't want to date White women."

I did not argue.

Also

For the record, I don't know a single woman alive who would try and convince a man who explicitly said he wasn't interested to date her.

There are two reasons given to me in the last few years by men who didn't want to date me:

1)   The other woman he was seeing was younger.  And he really loved her kid.

2)  "You talk too much."

The first reason came from my last boyfriend who I was in love with, and it tore me apart.  I was 29 and too old, and I had spent the previous 11 years of my life successfully using birth control.  I would have been his choice had I not taken Plan B after those stupid encounters when there was no Plan A.

The second reason came from the man I dated last winter who asked to cum in my ass the first time we were making out.  So who is the one who talked too much?

I thought these reasons were ridiculous, but why would I ever try to convince someone who wasn't interested to date me?  They had moved on, and I had to as well. 

Not Taking No For An Answer

My 55th first date did exactly what all men who are interested in a woman should do.  He followed up promptly the next day with a text message saying he had a good time, and he asked me out again.  The only problem was I wasn't interested.

I thought long and hard about how to break the news to him because he didn't strike me as the kind of gentleman who would back down easily.  I consulted some male friends and fellow internet daters, and we decided on the following response:

"Hey, thanks for meeting up!  I had a fun time but the chemistry just wasn't there for me.  But good luck in your dating search!"

Short, polite, and gives a specific reason to help with closure.  I thought that would do the trick.

Nope! 

"Well I have to say I'm disappointed... I don't usually create chemistry on date #1...  It comes later with me.  So I'd like to say give it more time."

Time is one thing I don't have.  I'm 31!!!!!  My ovaries are dying, my hair is graying, my boobs are starting to sag, and I'm fighting an aging metabolism to maintain a physique that will still get me laid.  Also chemistry, by definition, isn't something you "create."  It's there or it's not.

I wrote back and explained that I usually know on the first date if I'm feeling it and that I've regretted when I kept dating men I wasn't that interested in.  I hoped to close the exchange with a piece of optimism:  "Again, I did have a good time and I hope you find what you're looking for!"

He had to have the last word.  "Well then we are talking about attractiveness cuz yeah that's instantaneous.  You're not attracted to me/I'm not your type.  It's all good."

The irony was I was attracted to him, and had I not already been sleeping with a man I'm not that into I would have endured another evening of offensive statements with the hope that maybe I'd get laid at some point.  But thanks to Recovering Alcoholic I'm good on the casual sex front and I'm not that interested in needlessly adding more partners to a list that seems to be exponentially expanding.

I let him have the final text message.  I've got the blog :-)
 

Number 55

I agreed to go out with my date tonight because of a single sentence in his OkCupid profile:

"I am NOT like your typical Seattle man."

He was born and raised in New York.  I had to give it a shot.

Points scored for showing up on time, shaving, and avoiding flannel.

But as he talked nonstop and didn't ask me a single question about myself the entire evening, I found myself thinking he could use a few tips about Pacific Northwest passiveness.

At some point he gave his opinions on humanitarian aid:

"I have a friend who's going down to Honduras to work in a village with Doctors With Borders or some shit like that." 

Yes, he said Doctors With Borders.  I did not mistype. 

"I mean, it's so dumb!  He's not gonna save anyone and he's just gonna get himself killed in the process.  He'd be better off making a few million dollars and bombing the shit out of whoever's in charge because their government isn't doing anything to help them."

My thoughts exactly.

A New Way to Meet People

Another great thing about being single is when you go to clubs, your friends will purposefully knock you into any man standing without a woman by his side.  If you apologize and try to go on your merry way, you will be knocked into him again.  A conversation is warranted by the fourth or fifth time you've been forced to bump hips.  It's a very mature way to meet people at age 31.

And then the man will laugh and say something like this:

"Your homegirl is awesome for getting you out there.  I wish more people would try that technique.  I'd love to help you out, but I've actually got a girlfriend."

It was worth a shot.

Back to America

I came back this week and sent a text message to Recovering Alcoholic to check in:  "Hey, how's it going?"

His response?

"My balls are aching."

Keeping it classy.

There Is An Upside

I separated from my travel companions in Turkey a few days ago and became what I am most used to being- a solo female traveler.  This is the 27th country I've been to and the 13th that I've experienced on my own.  The loneliness set in as I checked myself into a hotel and I thought, "Is this my destiny in life?  To always travel alone?"  Never have I traveled with a significant other.

I have not seen another woman traveling alone in Turkey.  I am the odd number in groups, three couples and I'm the 7th person.  I sat by myself at breakfast and was relieved when a family of three joined me so it looked liked I belonged.  At 31, I feel too old for this level of travel independence that I embraced when I was 20.

Turkish people have questioned me too:

-"Are you traveling by yourself?"
-"Yes."
-So you don't have anyone with you?"
-"Yes."
-"Really?"
-"Yes!"

The above conversation happened at a coffee shop where I stopped in for rice pudding.  The (male) owner was intrigued and summoned his friends to join the conversation.  In broken English supplemented by hand gestures, we talked about American rap music and stereotypes of foreigners in addition to basic things, like our jobs.  After thirty minutes the owner uncorked a bottle of wine and in another thirty minutes, a second bottle.  They exchanged some words in Turkish and then translated that they would like me to come to a "pigeon house" with them to drink more and have a bonfire.  By now it was 11 pm.  "Don't worry," one of them said, again in faltering English.  "I call my friends- girls- so you won't be alone."

Regular readers know that I would have gone with them even without the other women.  They seemed like nice men around my age, and I didn't sense an alterior motive.  I would have missed out on so many of my past experiences if I traveled with the caution that my parents and guidebooks suggest in situations like these.  Still, the offer to invite women along was appreciated.

I drove the man's car because I was the sober one.  I may be dumb enough to go with random foreign men on unknown adventures, but I'm not dumb enough to do it wasted.  We left the city and the road twisted into the foothills of central Turkey.  "Slow, slow, slow, now left," he said, and I turned onto a dirt road on a plateau over the city.  There were no street lamps, not even the moon to light the way, only stars.

We climbed down a ladder onto a ledge and one of the men broke out a flashlight.  He shined it into the rock face behind us, illuminating an arched doorway cut into the cliff.  We walked into the "pigeon house," which was in fact a cave home that had been formerly occupied by hundreds of birds and their droppings.  It had been impeccably cleaned since then and comfortably decorated with sofa cushions and tapestries.  The old pigeon nests in the walls had been turned into bookshelves for political theories.  The home belonged to a friend of a friend, they explained.  Why he wasn't there, I don't know.

That night I sat at a bonfire on the cliff ledge with these two men, their female friends, and later a Russian and a Polish backpacker.  One of the men- the one who barely spoke English- kept smiling at me.  He was cute and I had no problem smiling back.  At one point, as I stood at the edge of the cliff in awe of the brilliance of the stars, he came behind me and grabbed my shoulders to playfully scare me.  I jumped and my arms flew into the air.  When I turned around, my hand fell into his.  It stayed there for a few seconds longer than it should have until he interlaced our fingers and brought his arm, with my hand in it, around his waist.

It was the first time a man had held my hand since that night in New York, five months ago.  I had flashbacks and had to catch my breath.

Nothing happened between me and the Turkish man that night.  I became tired and so they drove me back- or rather I drove us back- in the cafe owner's car.  At some point I remember two horses standing in the road blocking our way.  The men got out and led them out of the car's path.  It was at that moment when the absurd greatness of the evening hit me:

I met new friends in a foreign country and in the span of four hours had an unforgettable experience stargazing next to a bonfire on a cliff overlooking a thousand year old city, an evening which culminated in me being designated driver of someone else's car on a Turkish country road that was blocked, at 1 am, by loose horses.

And how did this incredible night all start?  The same reason that I was wrought by loneliness earlier in the day:

I am a single woman.

It's all relative

I'm writing this off the Mediterranean coast, sitting on a terrace by the side of a pool on a perfect, 70 degree night, eating fresh figs and sipping Marmara beer.

The men here are beautiful.  They are stylish and walk the streets with confidence, dark and handsome, slim, wearing sports jackets to dinner or drinks with their girlfriends.  I'm attracted to nearly all of them.

And yet somewhere in Turkey, I know there's a lonely 31 year old woman who sits in cafes by herself and looks around sadly thinking, "If only men in my city would stop washing their hair, gain 30 lbs., wear flannel, and grow an unruly beard."

An OkCupid First

I received an interesting OkCupid message recently:

"A friend of mine turned me on to a blog written by a woman your age who seems to match a lot of things in your profile that I find alternately hilarious and off-putting. (more hilarious) So taking the risk of looking l like a creep (and I guess being a little bit of one) I decided to see if I could find her if for nothing more than a chat... SO anyways, I guess I thought I'd see if I at least found the actual author of The Fourth Date because it has made for some awesome reading."

My first thought was "Holy shit, people read my blog?"

Followed by "Holy shit, people read my blog!!!!" 

And concluding with "Holy shit, please don't let my parents/grandparents/patients read my blog."

Because I'm not proud of so much that is on this website.  I don't write to brag about crappy, meaningless sex I'm having or my complete lack of connection to men I'm encountering.  I wish, so desperately, that this was different.

I write for several reasons. 

The first is because I find dating to be fascinating.  In its essence, two people lay their hearts and souls on the line and hope that the other person will not only accept who they are, but love them for it.

The second is that what I write about is, for many of us, the reality of dating that goes unsaid.  There is a lot of loneliness mixed with casual sex, hope followed by letdowns, confidence boosts tempered by fears of inadequacy, all strung together by brief, human connections that are so few and far between.

The third is because these experiences merit documentation...  I look back at my first blog entry and remember the moment two and a half years ago when I found out my last serious boyfriend cheated on me.  Love, honesty, respect, future plans came crashing down when he was tagged in a Facebook post as someone else's boyfriend.  A Facebook post!  How could I not start a blog after that?

But rest assured, for readers who don't know me, I'm a pretty normal person.  I don't think most people would meet me and connect this blog to my life.  Yet it is 100% real, which just goes to show how crazy dating can be.  Ask any dater over age 27 what their experiences have been like.  We all have our own stories.

Nothing Happened Last Week...

...with the exception of my ovaries shriveling as I continued to sleep with Recovering-Alcoholic-Who-I'm-Not-That-Interested-In and ignored multiple OkCupid messages from a 45 year old dad.

Did He Respond?

The answer is no!

Which is so much more upbeat and exciting than The answer is no.

Either way, I have some Dating 101 advice for this man and any other daters out there:

If another human being takes time out of their life to go on a date with you, unless they did something horrible (eg: stole your wallet, hit a pedestrian with their car and drove away, spit on a homeless person asking for money...), it is courteous to respond and let him/her know you're not interested.  I always do.  We are adults and should know by now how to politely handle rejection.  Ignoring may seem easier, but it's rude.

Then again, the skill of rejecting someone does get better with practice, of which I have a sufficient amount.

 

The Art of the Post Date Text Message

He messaged me first on OkCupid, and I couldn't believe it.  "We seem to have an amazing amount in common," he wrote.  That we did.  Cute!  Jewish!  Doctor!  Outdoorsy!  Bilingual!  I felt like there was a catch, but I agreed to go on a walk around Greenlake and kept my expectations low.

We met up yesterday, and I was shocked.  He was indeed cute, Jewish, a doctor, outdoorsy, and bilingual.  I had no idea why he was single.  As we made our way around the loop, I found conversation to be easy and we had a ton in common.  For the first time on a date, I was with a man who could have an intelligent, informed conversation about the Affordable Care Act.  Stars were aligning!  I thought he was awesome.

Then as the date was ending, he walked me to my car, gave me a hug, and said "Alright, see you later."

Uhoh. 

I know "see you later" because I say it all the time when I have absolutely no intention of seeing the person later.  If a man wants a second date, he usually closes with something along the lines of "We should do this again" or "I had a good time.  Could I see you again?"  This was my 54th first date, so I am getting pretty damn good at telling if a man is interested.  I was 99% sure he was not.

Maybe he thought I wasn't interested and therefore played it cool?  I second guessed myself.  I met up with three friends later that day, all of whom had used OkCupid in the past, and the two men in the group assured me that "see you later" meant nothing.  "Guys get nervous," they explained.  "They don't know what to say or what they're doing.  It's really awkward."

I still doubted his interest, but I had hope.

We all agreed that I should send him a post date text message indicating my interest and leaving the ball in his court.  They said I needed to keep the text short and simple and to send it between noon and 1 pm the following day.  Timing was important so that I appeared interested but not desperate.  A morning text message would imply that I thought about him after waking up, which obviously is too soon.  I needed to make him think that he was an afterthought, yet communicate that I did think about him.  Subtext is everything.

After debating the perfect wording for a few minutes, we settled on the following sentence:

"Hey J____, just wanted to say thanks.  I had a good time yesterday."

I texted it to my friend so I wouldn't forget the exact wording by the time it needed to be sent.

"Oh no no no," she said.  "You need to end it with an exclamation mark!  You don't seem excited at all.  It sounds somber."

I thought an exclamation mark would make me sound too eager, I explained.  I was hesitant to take her advice so I asked the two men their opinions.  It was unanimous: "Definitely an exclamation mark."

So the sentence changed to "Hey J____, just wanted to say thanks.  I had a good time yesterday!", therefore completely altering the meaning of the text and hopefully sending me off into romantic bliss for the first time in two and a half years.

Don't worry, I'll keep you posted.

I mean, Don't worry, I'll keep you posted!

A Little Self Reflection

I have been seeing Recovering Alcoholic for about a month now.  Not dating- I made that clear a few weeks ago- but seeing casually.  He comes over about once a week.  We talk, cuddle, have sex, talk some more.  I was honest with him that I don't see a future, but I'm enjoying the short term potential.

Why has this man, who self-admits he is somewhat of a disaster, kept my attention?   I have been on dates with countless men who, on paper, are great catches.  They are wealthy and successful with their careers and personal lives.  They don't have mental illness or addictions problems.  They are solid boyfriend or husband material for most women out there.  But they are also clueless about social issues I'm so passionate about- poverty, race, gender, global movements...  When I think about men I have connected with over the course of my life, they all have this social awareness in common.

I'm not talking about being politically liberal, because all of my dates are.  This is Seattle, and we are in our 20s and 30s.  Last November when WA state experienced the triple whammy of an Obama win, marriage equality, and legalization of marijuana, thousands of my generation flooded the streets in the Pike-Pine corridor, celebrating into the wee hours of a Wednesday morning with marching bands and pot.  I could hear the raucousness in my apartment a mile away.  Two years of living in Seattle as an adult, and I have not met a single Republican.

One can be politically progressive and unaware of the reality in the world, however, and this is the category that most of my dates fall into.  Some of them can be quite offensive without realizing it.

Like the Expedia marketing manager who lives in one of the new, posh, $$$$$ buildings on Broadway and explained his choice of apartments by raising up his pinky finger and saying "I'm in the 1%" with a smile and a wink.

Or the accountant in Ballard who, when I told him what I did for a living, asked "Don't you get tired of all the people taking advantage of the system?"

Or the IT guy who told me I had "major street cred" because I went to a bakery in White Center.   Buying a pupusa in a non-white neighborhood?  I live on the edge.

Most recently, my 53rd first date, a data analyst, asked me about my opinion about healthcare inequality.  "So, do you think poor people have more illnesses?"  You're a mother fucking data analyst!  Have you not seen any data on this in your 33 years of life?!?  Analyze this:  No Second Date.

I know that not everyone has a career where they go to work and actively try to fight injustice in our system.  I do.  More than anything else in this world, my job defines who I am.  Men that I connect with understand the social issues that propel me every day, sometimes because they come from disadvantaged backgrounds themselves. 

Lack of societal awareness: another dealbreaker.  Alcoholism and mental illness, not so much.


 

Did this just happen?

I went on a walk tonight and walked right past a man I dated a year and a half ago, the one who shook me when I ended things.  I had literally uttered the following words to him that I hope to never repeat: "Please don't hit me."   He told me he loved me as I shoved my feet into my shoes and got out of his home as quickly as possible.  We are both Jewish and live in Seattle.  You might think paths would cross, but we haven't seen each other since.

He was sitting in a Capitol Hill bar with two friends I'd met, looking out the window onto the street.  We made eye contact, and then he looked away.   His friends saw me too, and for a brief second everyone was aware of the intensity of the situation yet we all ignored it.  They continued their conversation.  I hesitated and almost entered the bar to say hi, but the voice of reason carried my body away.  I am all for getting along and being friends with men I've had relationships with, but it seemed like a lose-lose situation.  This one needed to be let go. 

31

I turned 31 in a manner similar to how I turned 30, drunk on boxed wine, camping with two friends alongside a river in the North Cascades National Park.  Western medicine says I have four more years to bear a child without the diagnosis of "advanced maternal age," but I've learned to stop counting. It will happen, or it won't. I refuse to compromise my life because of a timeline.

The next day I went on a third date with this new man. Third dates are a rarity in my world- there have only been four in the last two years. Fourth dates, for which my blog is named, are even more elusive. There have been two, and one of them was a mistake.

I learn from my mistakes, though, and I have promised myself that I will not continue to date people any more when I see no future. The issues that show up early on are the same issues that break the relationship down the line. I see the red flags, and in the past I have tried to convince myself that I can look past them. I'm not doing that any more. When dating is right, it's right, and when I've been in love in the past I've had no doubts.

I showed up to this man's home, a sober house with three roommates. Decor was sparse and consisted of mismatched Craigslist couches and a television. I was thirsty, and he handed me a glass of water with floating green foam. We drove in his 1998 Honda Civic to a friend's potluck, and as the car lurched over Phinney Ridge I knew I couldn't do it any more. I felt like a snob, but I realized in my 31-year-old heart that I wanted something different.

We were about to make out, lying on his full-sized mattress on the floor of his room, his lithium and lamotrigine bottles visible on his bookshelf, when I told him that I had to be honest about my reservations. He listened to me and said he understood. "I know I'm weird," he said. "You're looking for a whole person, someone who has interests and has their act together. I'm just not there."

I nodded.

"So the question," he asked, "is where do you want to go from here?"

"I'm happy with this," I responded candidly. "I want to spend time with you, and I want to have sex with you, but I just know it's not going to progress to anything more serious on my end.  I don't want to lie to you and have you think this is something it's not."

He told me I was awesome, and then we had sex. As it turns out, men are cool with keeping things casual as well.

Which One of Us Has the Psych Disorder?

We made plans for a second date.  "What are some thoughts as to things to do?" he texted, feeding right into a major pet peeve of mine with dating Seattle men...  You are the man.  Take charge.  Tell me where to meet and what time.  Make a reservation.  Buy tickets.  I'll be there.

I didn't respond right away, and after a few hours he offered a suggestion:  "I sometimes do a meditation thang on Sunday if you wanna."

Ahhhh, nothing makes for a better second date than sitting in silence with a large group of people.  Yet as weird as the idea was, I was intrigued.   I had never been on a meditation date, and options for activities are limited when dating a recovering alcoholic.  Boring is a dealbreaker, and that he was not.

On a gorgeous Seattle Sunday afternoon, we met up at Cal Anderson Park pre-meditation to actually speak with each other.  Conversation was easy, and it quickly turned sexual.  "Let's see what questions I can ask you to try and make you feel uncomfortable," he challenged.  "What's your favorite position?"

It takes a lot to make me feel uncomfortable, and that didn't even come close.  I told him my favorite position, and he told me that it could be better modified with one leg over his shoulder.  I laid down on my arms in the grass, and he said he liked the way my ass looked.  This went on, for half an hour, back and forth, two people flirting and testing boundaries, of which we seemed to have few.

"I have an idea," I posed.  "We clearly want to have sex with each other, so let's see if we can go ten minutes without talking about sex and we can figure out if we want to spend time with each other too."  He agreed, and I set the timer on my phone.

A tortuous ten minutes passed and the timer went off.  "Can we make out now?" he asked.  We rolled on top of each other in the park, second daters in their early thirties, completely sober.

We never made it to meditation.  I invited him back to my place to watch the sunset on the roof, and when he suggested I give him a blowjob I told him I didn't want to be intimate on the second date.  He was respectful and said that was fine, then he came into my apartment and I changed my mind.  We had sex on my bare mattress.  I had underestimated my libido after three months of celibacy and had left my clean sheets in the laundry basket thinking I wouldn't need them until a third date.  The chemistry couldn't wait for a well-made bed.

Yet something felt off the entire date.  Chemistry is crucial for me, but it only takes dating so far.  Red flags abounded, and I have dated enough to know not to ignore that sinking feeling in my chest that screams something isn't right.  Maybe it was the alcoholism, or the dual diagnoses of bipolar and borderline personality disorder, or the fact that he said he'd had ten partners in the last three years and hadn't used a condom once.  Or maybe, MAYBE, I am finally becoming wary of dating men that have criminal records.  But when he left my apartment, I felt the same feeling that I've felt over and over again the last few years, with few exceptions.

Apathy.  If he contacts me again, I'll see him.  If he doesn't contact me again, I won't care.  Two years of dating.  Who is the crazy one?




 

Standards Met!

All that was on my mind for the 1.5 hours that I sat in a bar with my date last night was that I would have sex with him if he asked me to.

He had been in jail before, had a history of drug addiction (now clean), was an atrocious speller, lives in a sober house with three roommates, and makes about $25,000 a year.  A slough of dealbreakers for most women, but my readers know me well.  He was fun, and I was interested.

I have two standards that a man must meet to move on to another date:

1)  I have to want to have sex with them.
2)  I have to enjoy spending time with them when we don't have sex.

For the majority of dates, my minimal standards at not being met.  But this man was different.

He asked me if I'd ever consider being a stripper.  "I mean, it's not on my list of things to do, but I can't say I'd definitely never do it."

"So what are things you would never do?"

That is a tough question.  I don't like absolutes, and I'm down for most anything.

I paused for a solid twenty seconds.  "I'd never do heroin.  Probably wouldn't do meth either."

He didn't pause at all:  "Well would you do a heroin or meth user?"

Hot.

He reassured me that he'd never actually done heroin or meth, not that it mattered at this point.  It was the first time I'd felt any sort of connection from an OkCupid date, and I was not going to be picky about silly things like IV drug use.

I was, however, very concerned about his beard.  Could I ever kiss him?  Why men take a gorgeous face and cover it with facial hair, I will never understand.  Beards have been solid dealbreakers for me in the past, but having just signed a contract binding me to Seattle and its dating scene for two more years, I realize I have little choice in the matter.  Men in Seattle have beards.  I want to date men.  Until I leave this city, I have no choice but to adapt.










 

Fifty. First. Dates.

The man who became my 50th first date should have been my 38th.  He asked me out on OkCupid around the same time that the man I was dating last winter ended things because I "talk too much."  I agreed to meet up in February, and then he changed his mind:

"After I re-read our messages and mentally processed that you blog about dating in Seattle. I got to thinking, someone who blogs about about dating is probably not looking for something long term; which I am. I've been doing this online thing for about 8 months and I've noticed a lot girls (maybe guys too) don't take online dating seriously. I know that's painting you in broad brushstrokes, which is totally f'ed up. But over the last couple months my instincts have served me well."

Okay, no problem.  I knew he was wrong.  I AM looking for something long-term, but I wasn't going to argue.  We went our separate internet ways.

Then last week, I got another message from him:

"Oh, I remember you! I bounced on a date with you because you write a blog about Seattle dating... How's the blog coming?"

The blog is still going, and I am still dating.  "Did I miss my shot?", he asked. Nope, I give plenty of chances.  I agreed to meet up.

He was no dating virgin either.  In the last year he'd been on over twenty first dates, but we had different methods to the madness.  I search for chemistry, while he preferred to move slowly and see if a relationship naturally develops.  I think they are both reasonable approaches.  Relationships mean different things to different people and there is more than one way to build a future with someone, but one thing I have learned about myself is that if I don't want to take my clothes off on the second date, there is a problem.

We spent most of the date exchanging stories and sharing our disappointments.  "You know what's horrible?," he said.  "I don't even get excited about these any more.  When I first started I would get all nervous before meeting a girl and now it's just another thing to do.  I'm here with you now, I've got another one of these on Thursday, and I don't really care."

Fifty first dates.  Let's say that each date lasted approximately 1.5 hours.  That is 75 hours, over three days of my life, that I will never get back.  And what do I have to show for it?  A blog.

#50 and I had nothing in common besides crappy love lives, but he was still easily in the top ten first dates I've had in the last two years.  He could hold a conversation, he was funny, he was attractive, and I think he will ultimately find someone who fits him well. 

I gave him this website address, so he will read me publicly thanking him for a non-shitty Monday evening.  It wasn't a love match, but I have had far worse encounters.  I know he has too.

On to #51.

Latest OkCupid message:

Shalom. I've been scrolling people throughout the day, and yours stuck out as most interesting and attractive. It would be a treat to be able to correspond with you, possibly someday meet. I take things slow, but have a strong feeling we'd connect rather quickly. I think it would be great to see if I'm right. I'm as harmless as they come. Be well.

It is taking me all I have not to respond with all the reasons that he has horrible intuition about the "strong feeling we'd connect rather quickly."

To start, the message begins with an ancient Hebrew salutation that NO ONE USES any more except for people outside of Israel who don't speak Hebrew.

Then his username starts with the word "geek."

The first sentence of his profile references a "new found zest for life."  Blah.

He says that he could never live without his iphone.

He is 37 and says he is looking to date women ages 21-35.  Fuck that !  You can't date a woman your own age?

I'm gonna go sit by myself in a bar now.
 

Am I Undateable???

Is the question going through my head over the last week.  The man from speed dating never responded to my email and I sent out several OkCupid messages without hearing back. 

True statement: In the last 12 months I have slept with six men.

True statement: In the last 12 months I have held hands with one man. 

And so the insecurities that plague all single women in their thirties set in.  I need to lose weight.  I should be less slutty.  I should be more slutty.  I need to be more outgoing/quiet/artistic/scientific/geeky/chic/athletic.  I should get a PhD.  And an MD.  I'm only fluent in two languages- why don't I speak a third?...  No man is ever going to love me!!!

Then I calm the fuck down and remind myself of two things: 

1)  I am awesome.

2)  With one unfortunate exception, my exboyfriends are awesome.  And so is the man from New York who was only man in the last year to hold my hand.

It has been two years since I was in a relationship, but finding a partner takes time when the standard is awesomeness.
 

Speed Dating

Speed dating sounds like the lamest way ever to meet a date, but I've been single for two years so I will leave no rock unturned.  In the age of internet dating, when I meet a man in person and know within ten seconds that I'm not attracted to him yet have to feign polite interest through a round of drinks, the efficiency of meeting twenty men for five minutes each has an appeal. 

I had very, very low expectations for the evening, and as we rotated through our speed dates my apprehensions were met.

"I work at Microsoft."

"I'm an engineer at Boeing."

"I'm a project manager for Amazon."

And on and on and on.

Fortunately, I had anticipated this situation, so I came prepared!  Fucking shoot me if I had to sit through two hours of geeks talk about their jobs and lives in Woodinville.  I made my own icebreaker questions:

"If you could commit a crime and get away with it, what would you do?"

"Bank robbery," said every man, except for one who said "casino robbery."  He got extra points for creativity.  My answer?  Human trafficking.  (Anthropology major in me:  Let's help our fellow humans find a better life in America!)

"If you could go back in time to any year of your life, what year would it be and why?"

Best answer:  "I would go back to age 15 and would study harder so I could get into Harvard and be more successful."  Oh dear God.

"If you won 100 million dollars, what would you do with it?"

-"I'd invest it and make more money."  I had zero interest in dating him, but would he like to be my financial advisor?

And so the evening went.  I became increasingly exhausted meeting single man after single man, trying to string together coherent conversations.  Then a man rotated to the seat in front of me who piqued my interest.

I could tell from his name that he was Israeli.  "Are you Jewish?"  Yes.  "Me too!"  He was attractive with a nice smile, and when he told me his job I heard the word "environmental" and was sold.  I don't remember the other words that followed, but we only had five minutes on our date and I had to make a snap judgment.  Cute, interesting, possibly outdoorsy, definitely Jewish...  Out of the twenty men I met that night, he was the only name I wrote down on a piece of paper to hand back to the speed dating host.

And of course, as fate would have it, my single friend who accompanied me to speed dating wrote down his name as well.  We decided all's fair in love and war, and if necessary we'd have a threesome.

The way speed dating works, for those unfamiliar, is if two people write down each other's names, it's a mutual match.  The hosts send you an email later with contact information of the person you matched with, and you take it from there.

"Did he feel a connection too?" is the big question that loomed over my mind for the next day.  "I thought he liked me, but maybe he's just nice to everyone."  I like to think that I'm good at reading men and figuring out when there is interest, but you never know.

Two days later I received an email from the speed dating host.  "Fabulous news!  I have a mutual date-mate match for you!"  It had his contact information.  My friend came up empty.

Two More Years

I got loan repayment.  Contract signed.  Two more years in Seattle.

Maybe in that time period shaving one's beard will become hip again.  A single girl can only hope.

Big Decisions

Sometime in the next week, I will get a letter telling me if I've been awarded a loan repayment contract for working as a medical provider at a low-income community health center.  If I'm offered a contract, I commit to staying with my employer for another two years and my student debt will be eliminated.  If I'm not offered a contract, I have two choices:  1) Stay in Seattle and reapply next year.  2) Move to a location where I am more likely to be awarded loan repayment.  Two major cities that I would live in are on the list: New York and Chicago.  And every time I go to New York, I get laid.

This has been weighing on me for the last month.  With every disappointing date I go on I get more and more anxious to leave, but as Seattle heads into summer, I remember why this city is so fucking amazing. 

We have naked bicyclists on parade at a solstice festival, yo!  By popular vote, we legalized the marriages of all people, gay or straight,  AND allowed their friends to legally get stoned at their weddings!  We have bike paths and green energy and composting!  We have shimmering lakes, mountain ranges, an incredible urban park system!  Sustainable vegetarian restaurants!  Amazing music!  Orca whales!  Farmers markets!  Killer pho!  Gorgeous drag queens!

And last night, when I was post-solstice parade trashed at 10 pm and I found myself lying alone on the grass in Gasworks Park, watching the sky turn pink over Lake Union and light the rooftops of Capitol Hill, and my friend drove over to pick me up and drive me home because I was too drunk to keep walking, I realized that I have pretty incredible friendships here too.

The weird thing about being single is that when everything else is going so well in your life, you still feel unfulfilled.  I could not ask for a better career, friendships, or life in this city, but a part of me constantly feels empty.  That I should feel unsuccessful or like a failure because I'm not in a relationship makes no sense.  Yet I do.

Loan repayment or a boyfriend.  One of two things will keep me in Seattle.  I'll find out soon.
 

The Best of OkCupid

Messages in my inbox, in their entirety... 

 

1)"Hello there, I enjoy traveling too!, most recently to Scandinavia ((Sweden,Denmark, Norway, Finland) how about you? What are your fav cuisines?? Mine are Thai, Greek, Indian."

You like Thai food also?!?!?  I always pick my dates based on the food they eat.

2) "hello what are you doing tonight?Im at home with no plans i \m in west seattle get back to me let me know whats up?"

Sounds promising.  Dropping all plans to meet this one.

3) "why did chicken cross the road?"

Best pickup line EVER!!!!

4) "Hey"

Second best pickup line EVER!!!!

5) "hey sexy whats up"

You had me at "hey"

6) "U look incridable with the curly hair :)"

I was shooting for incredible, but I'll take incridable.

7)  You are super cute.  Do you mind if I pleasure myself to your photos?

Sounds like you already did.

It Could be Worse

My dating life isn't the only one that is sucking in Seattle.  A good friend of mine has been doing the Craigslist and OkCupid scene for the last year without success.  She had a particularly bad date this week, which I asked her to sum up in a one-sentence text message.  For your reading pleasure...

"Polyamorous man looking for a 'secondary' partner for an emotional bdsm relationship whose name is in fact his World of Warcraft username." 


 

Mr. Polyamory

On a Saturday night at Golden Gardens, celebrating a Jewish holiday with a beach bonfire and singing, I locked eyes with a man who then came over to talk.  He introduced himself and explained that he wasn't Jewish, but he likes to take the number 49 bus from the central district to Golden Gardens with a bag full of musical instruments to find people to jam with.

Ponder that last sentence for a moment, and tell me it's not the most Seattle-ish thing you've ever heard.

We kept talking and then he paused when his cell phone rang.  He glanced at the number and said, "Oh, it's my lover."

I was a bit confused, thinking that I misread his social cues, until he explained that they were in an open relationship.  She, naturally, is a doula and labor and delivery nurse.  "We take care of each other," he elaborated.  "Do you have a lover?"

"No," I said.  I don't have a lover, I don't have a husband, I don't have a boyfriend, I don't have a friend with benefits or even a decent date.  I am completely single.  Thanks for the reminder.

He asked if I wanted to jam with him.  How could I refuse?  I played the shaker while he played his homemade didgeridoo made out of PVC pipe decorated with handpainted Aboriginal patterns.

The chill of the night on a Seattle beach set in, and I decided to head home.  We exchanged numbers, and then next day he sent me a text message asking to see me again.  He gave me three potential evenings that he was free, all at least two weeks in advance.  "Why are you so busy?," I asked.

"I'm not that busy.  I just have so many wonderful people in my life to share my time with."

Oh God.

He invited me to a dinner party at his home the next night.  I wasn't planning on going, but I had a date earlier in the evening that was so painfully boring I decided I needed some entertainment afterwards.  Quirkiness I can handle.  Boredom is a dealbreaker.

I showed up at his home in the central district, where he and five of his White friends were smoking pot and celebrating the night with their own tribal drum circle.  I joined in again with the shaker, and as the howl of the didgeridoo filled the room he started chanting:

I will sing this song for you
So you know my love is true
Music goes into our soul
When we all smoke a bowl

I remembered I had a job to be at the next morning, and I left.

He called me the next day to chat.  I asked how his day was, and he responded "I just had a really good conversation with my roommate about white privilege.  I hadn't thought about that in awhile." Said by a man who painted his own Aboriginal symbols on a PVC pipe and called it a didgeridoo.

A week later, I received the following text: "Greetings from the green man!  Care to join me for a spring Beltane celebration this Sunday?  Noon at Ravenna Park.  Dress festive, you could win a crown!"

I was in Chicago for the week and had never heard of Beltane in my life, so I declined.  That was the last I heard of him.  I trust that he is being taken care of by his lover.


 

Geography

I went out with a lawyer in his late 30s last week.  Things were looking promising, by which I mean he looked like his internet pictures and could hold a conversation.  Then the following happened...

Me:  "I'm a vegetarian, but I'm not super strict about it.  Like, if I'm in another country where vegetarian food isn't available or I can't communicate in the language, I'll eat meat."

Lawyer:  "So basically you'd eat meat anywhere outside of the US or Canada?"

Me:  "Well I speak Spanish, so it would really have to be outside of North and South America."

Lawyer:  "Oh.  But in Argentina you'd be able to eat meat!"

Me:  "Um, they speak Spanish in Argentina."

Lawyer:  "Really?  What's the country in South America where they don't speak Spanish?"

Me:  "Brazil.  They speak Portuguese."

Lawyer:  "Are you sure?"

Yes.  I'm sure.
 

Update on the Social Worker...

... who didn't want to date me because of my hypopigmented skin but didn't see any problem with fucking me.

We hooked up once more and discussed a possible friends with benefits situation.  I was ambivalent.  On one hand, it was easy, available sex.  On the other hand, the sex was so technical and completely devoid of emotion that I didn't know if it was worth it.  He was a fun, intelligent guy who I was attracted to, but I was starting to lean more towards "friends" and away from "benefits."

I went to the gym one Saturday morning, and we talked about going on a run together after.  I arrived at his place wearing yoga pants and sweaty from my previous exercise class, ready to keep the workout going.  He invited me in and before I knew it started kissing me and maneuvering his hands over my sports bra.

It was the least sexy I'd felt in a long time.  I hadn't shaved, hadn't showered, was wearing underwear from the day before, and had just finished an intense workout session.  I told him no, that I felt unclean and not comfortable enough to have sex.  I wanted to stop.  He kept teasing me, kissing my neck, moving his fingers down below.  I said no again.  He didn't stop.  I was physically excited, he could tell, but my heart wasn't in it.  After a bit of back and forth, me resisting and him persisting, my voice became more firm.  "I really don't want to do this.  I don't feel right.  I'm saying no."

His response?  "Well, do you want to suck my dick?"

YES!!!  How did you know?  That is what I've been dying to do all day!  Nothing fulfills me more than sucking the penis of a man who I'm not dating.  Did they teach you that when you got your master's degree in social work?

I said I was leaving, and he became upset:  "I just don't see why people can't get their act together about sex!  We're both single.  We're both having a horrible time dating.  We have a good time together.  Why is sex such a big deal?"

I had been very polite until this point, but my patience wore thin as my voice grew louder.  "I DO have my act together about sex.  I'm saying no.  That doesn't mean I don't have my act together.  It means I don't want to have sex with you."

He sighed and then spent the next hour telling me about how frustrated he was with sex, with dating, with race.  I didn't care at this point but I sat there and listened to him process everything out loud.  He asked me if I understood what he was saying and I said yes, even though I had tuned out long before.  I had made my point clear, and he was free to do what he wanted with the information.

A sixty-minute diatribe later he paused, and I said I was leaving.  I walked out, which I should have done an hour before, and left him to contemplate why I wasn't sucking his penis.

The stereotype that women need to process relationships and don't want to let go while men move along easily is a stereotype I wish to counter.  When this same man sent me a text message last July, the morning after we had sex, telling me he didn't want to date me, I said no problem.  When he called me seven months after sending that text to ask for a favor, I said sure.  When he invited me over a month later and told me he didn't want to date white women but would gladly hook up with me, I went with the flow.  Then, when I told him I didn't want to be "friends with benefits," we had to have an hour long powwow about our feelings?

I told a man who I'm not dating that I didn't want to have sex.  How did that turn into an hour long counseling session?

Back to Reality

I returned to Seattle and opened my email to find a message from OkCupid about a man looking at my dating profile: "SirGeekyMcDork is checking you out!" After a kickass weekend in New York where I felt a solid connection to a man for the first time in TWO FUCKING YEARS, I nearly burst into tears. It summed up dating so perfectly in this city. Seattle men own their GeekyMcDorkiness like a badge of pride; social awkwardness is often rewarded with significant career success. The ability to program computers lands you a hefty salary at one of a million startups. It pays, literally, to be a nerd.

Single men in Seattle outnumber single women, but this statistic hasn't worked out in my favor. Dating has been a classic clusterfuck of "the odds are good but the goods are odd." When I moved back to Seattle, I didn't expect dating to be this hard. It is a city that I know and love, and I felt like I fit the demographic perfectly. I thought that within a few months to a year I'd be able to find a man with similar interests. I pictured a possible boyfriend as a mountain climber who leans vegetarian, drinks beer, votes Democrat, and can pull off a pair of corderoy pants. I never thought or cared about the career he might have, but as I continue to date unsuccessfully I notice a definite pattern in the men I'm not interested in: They all work in tech.

The technology industry employs most of the single professionals in Seattle, which bodes horribly for the dating life of a woman who bought her first cell phone in 2011. It's gotten to the point where I search for potential dates on OkCupid by profession. Healthcare professionals jump to the top of the list, followed by teachers, social workers, musicians, baristas, bike repairmen, students, or really anyone who doesn't work in information technology. I simply can't stomach the geekiness.

One More

And then on my third night in New York, I slept with another man.

Just kidding.  That would be slutty.

New York Delivers a Second Time

Once again, to recap, there have been two years of bar hopping in Seattle with no dating success. 

One could argue that the Seattle social scene isn't horrible, that it was complete chance to have met the man from the previous post in New York in a bar.  And I would agree, if it hadn't been for the fact that I met another man in a bar on my second night in New York.  One man=chance.  Two men=R____ needs to consider relocating.

The man on night #2 noticed the hamtza hanging on my neck and went in for the kill.  "Oh, you're Jewish!"  Yes, yes I am.  We didn't have much in common besides our tribal affiliation, but he was outgoing and cute in a dorky yeshiva sort of way.  Not really my type, but I saw potential for a good story so I stuck with the conversation.  Why not?

This was a Type A, Long Island, formerly modern orthodox Jewish man who, within the first 30 minutes of talking to me, expressed his love of kink and Fifty Shades of Grey.  Still not my type but he sounded fun, so I exchanged numbers and we made plans to see each other the next night.

I thought we'd meet up for drinks, but he clearly had another vision for the evening.  He called me on the phone, "I want you to get in a cab and pick me up on the corner of 19th and Park.  I live on the Upper West Side.  We'll go there."

We started making out in the cab, and when we paused I saw the street numbers go higher and higher.  The heart of the city seemed far away, and I became nervous.  I playfully asked to see his ID, and I texted his name and address to my friend "in case I disappear tonight."  Then I told him, as we held hands in the cab, my limits:  "I don't want to have to seek medical care because of rough sex.  Don't kill me.  And NO ANAL."  

The cab driver pretended to ignore the conversation.

At his apartment, with his roommate watching tv in the next room, the sex was as I had expected:  Fast, rough, and not that interesting.  My partner was a 5'6'' MBA graduate with a name so Jewish it made Shmuley Shmulowitz sound like Santa Claus.  Physically it was fine, but the emotional and psychological component so key to intimacy was completely missing.

During pillow talk, we discussed financial planning and stock options.  He recommended I get an accountant.  I said that was probably a good idea.  He advised that I switch from Vanguard to Merrill Lynch and that I ditch my credit union for a national bank.  At that point, I realized it was time to leave the Upper West Side.  I missed Brooklyn.

If this man had offered me money for a cab back, I would have taken it.  The evening felt like a transaction, one that was going to leave me a $40 taxi ride poorer and had no real fulfillment.  I couldn't stop thinking about the first man I met.  Casual sex is so easy to find- especially as a woman- but the real human connections are few and far between.

Let's Start Again with a Success Story

I have been going to bars as a single woman in Seattle for nearly two years now and can count on one hand the number of men who I have met.  Actually, I don't even need fingers to count with, because that number is ZERO.  Two years of putting makeup on and doing my hair and trying to look cute and available has led to zilch as far as finding romance through public alcohol consumption.  Then in my first night of a vacation in New York, out with two friends drinking cocktails, three men near us folded their conversation into ours.

I won the position lottery as the most attractive was sitting next to me, and my friends went down as the best wingwomen in history for occupying the other two.  Eight million people in New York, and we connected.  He had a fascinating job that didn't involve a computer science degree and took him all over the world.  He spoke Russian and French.  He practiced yoga and followed a mostly anti-inflammatory diet.  Above all, he asked me appropriate questions about my life and seemed to care about what I had to say.  Anyone who knows me and has heard me bitch about dating for the last two years in Seattle would have recognized that he was a straight-up match for what I'm looking for.  Then, after an hour of me falling in love with a stranger in a Brooklyn bar who seemed pretty perfect already, he told me that he was raised loosely Jewish and is now atheist.  The perfect kind of Jew!  I think I ovulated.

He was born in 1968; closer in age to my parents than to me.  Other things that happened in 1968:  Martin Luther King was assassinated.  The Tet Offensive.  The 911 emergency telephone service started.  Richard Nixon won an election...  He would have been out of my age range on OkCupid, but who cared?  I felt chemistry.

We exchanged numbers, and I prayed to the dating gods that he experienced the magic too.  Was I too young for him?  Too Seattle crunchy?  Too curly-haired Jewish woman sassy?  Too short?  (I am 5'1'', he at least 6'4'').  When he responded to my text message the next evening, I knew I was in.  We met up at the Bedford station after midnight, and he delivered on a great date.

Bar in Williamsburg.  Wine.  Intelligent, easy conversation.  Chemistry.  Codeine pills (I like my men fun!).  He did not wear a flannel shirt nor sport a bushy beard.  The DJ played MGMT and when he saw my head nodding to the beat, his face lit up.  "Want to get our groove on?"  He pulled me up to dance. 

I was having an awesome time, and I took a leap of faith that the following question would not offend him:  "What were the 80s like?"  He became a legal adult while I was watching Rainbow Brite, before I knew the alphabet.  I asked if he was too coked out to remember the 80s, and he laughed.  Once again, I like my men fun.

We left the bar to walk to his place, and he looked me in the eyes, said my name, and took my hand in his on the sidewalk.  The decision to hold hands- to transfer the emotional connection into a physical one- had more meaning to me than I'd like to admit.  It was the first time a man had held my hand in over a year, and as far as I was concerned, was practically tantamount to a marriage proposal.  There have been dozens of horrible dates, a modest amount of casual sex, premature requests to fuck my ass, but no hand-holding.  I knew in my heart that I was unlikely to see this man again, and I  Lived.  That.  Moment.

Like any 44 year old man who is experienced in dating, he knew how to balance the hand-holding in the street with hair-pulling in the sheets, and I was totally content.  As we laid in his bed afterwards, I wanted so badly to ask him how often he was finding what he was looking for with dating.

He volunteered the information without me asking.  "R______, I knew within the first ten minutes of meeting you that we'd end up having sex.  My last relationship ended six months ago, and I haven't been with anyone since.  It's just so hard to find that connection with someone, and then it was so easy with you..."  He trailed off.

I sighed as two years of dating flashed before my eyes, and my heart broke a little.  "I know."

He said I could spend the night, which I declined.  My time with him had been so perfect; I couldn't bear the thought of waking up sober with morning breath and frazzled hair and needing to awkwardly start our days.  He offered to give me $20 for my cab ride, a well-intended move that made me shudder.  "There will be no money exchanged in this transaction," I joked, "the drink was enough."  I thanked him for the offer and walked back, through Brooklyn, at 4 am.

The next day he sent me a text.  "Thank you for last night.  It was great and fun. I don't know what you came to New York looking for, but I hope I was able to give it to you."  He had no clue.

It wouldn't have worked out, I know already.  There was a significant age difference, for one, that allows for a fun night but creates a power dynamic that would make me uneasy in a relationship.  Moreover, there was a cultural divide.  He was East Coast classy and composed, while I am a born-and-raised free spirit of the Pacific Northwest.  I was surprised he was attracted to me to begin with and thought he would do well with an art curator or a fashion designer, not a community health medical provider who drains black tar heroin abscesses and tries to reassure her delusional patients that bugs are, in fact, not crawling out of their skin.  He needed a slim, attractive, cultured woman who could appreciate the best of what New York has to offer; I dream of solo-hiking the Pacific Crest Trail, and there is nothing that makes me happier than sitting atop a mountain peak, grit and sweat all over my face and hair.

Yet years from now, when I look back at this late 20s/early 30s time period that may well extend into late 30s/early 40s or may never even end, that night is how I want to remember dating. When it is good, I make connections with people from different backgrounds who teach me lessons and add their stories to my own narrative.  If I'm lucky, I experience the inertia of a possible relationship starting to build and the hope that two people feel as they begin to discover each other.  I fail so often, yes, but these brief success stories propel me to try again because they remind me that connections can still be made.

I just need to find them in Seattle.