Bob

Let me tell you guys a story about my very first online date. Ever. Of all time. Where it all began. And the rest, as they say, is history – or an endlessly frustrating path of hope, excitement, disappointment, confusion, ghosting, and just a sprinkle of creepiness.

I cannot remember this guy’s name so I am going to call him Bob. I choose Bob because I don’t want to overlap on the names of my blog posts and it seems unlikely that I will go out with a man in his 60s who wears Hawaiian shirts and loves Jimmy Buffet. (Is that not what you guys picture when you hear the name Bob? Just me?) At least not until I’m also in my 60s, wearing a lei and drinking a margarita at a Jimmy Buffett concert alongside him.

Anyway, Bob and I met on OKCupid. That was the first online dating website I ever signed up for and it was at my roommate’s behest. I had broken up with my college sweetheart of five years and it was time to get back out there. So I did. Reluctantly so, but I did.

At the time I was waiting tables and worked almost every single night, so I had to set up a weekend day time date with Bob. We agreed to meet at a for breakfast on the Venice boardwalk. I was nervous for my first online date ever. I was also nervous to just get back out there in general after being in a relationship for so long, but I had to leave the nest sometime.

And… I was late for our date. Not horrendously late, but in my twenties I was pretty much 10-15 minutes late to any social engagement, and about 5 minutes late to work. Without fail. But I was charming and an otherwise excellent employee so I always got away with it.

I was just about to text him and let him know my adjusted ETA when he texted me, and let me know that he had arrived. 20 minutes early.

Shit. 15 minutes late isn’t THAT bad, unless you’ve already been waiting for me for twenty minutes, then it’s like I’m 35 minutes late and that makes me feel like a stinking hot pile of garbage.

Not the best way to start a date, with my tail between my legs, rushing around Venice trying to find parking, and hustling my ass over to the café and breaking a sweat in the process. Hi, I’m your late, sweaty date. Nice to meet you, Bob.

I think he could tell that I felt pretty badly about being late because he was kind and didn’t make any snarky remarks. But still, the dynamic felt like he had the power and I had to prove myself to him.

I ordered as quickly as I could and we got to the small talk. Yay!

Bob worked as a tugboat captain, which I found very amusing. That’s one of those job titles I’ve only ever really heard of in cartoons, and I had some questions to ask him about it. He filled me in on his days of running the ship (literally) and towing boats in and out of Long Beach Harbor, and it turned out to be not as wild of a job as I had imagined. He just tugged boats all day. Pretty self-explanatory. We moved on to other subjects.

Bob was a big, buff guy, so it was clear that he kept active. But he did have a bit of that top-heaviness going on. You know, when they have the legs of a gazelle holding up the pecs and arms of the Hulk? Yeah, it was like that.

I studied personal training in college and have always been fascinated by the human body, so we got onto the subject of kinesiology and working out. He mentioned he had torn his ACL a few years back and I asked him how he did it. He did not want to tell me. Like, really didn’t want to tell me.

I immediately thought of all the scandalous ways he could have injured his knee that he wouldn’t want to tell me on a first date.

“Come on, tell me the story!”

“It’s not a good story” he just kept saying.

“The more you say that the better the story gets in my mind. You should probably just tell me. “

He eventually acquiesced, sighed, and told me.

“I hurt it getting out of a chair.”

“Like, you fell out of the chair while you were having sex with someone?”

“No, I was just getting up.”

“Was it a spinny office chair and somehow you lost your balance?”

“Nope. Just a regular chair. I didn’t fall down. I just stood up and tore my ACL.”

“So, you didn’t step on a marble or anything?”

He stared at me.

I blinked. He was right; that was not a good story.

But it did explain the disproportionate top and bottom situation he had going on.

“I told you it wasn’t a good story.”

I laughed.

“You weren’t kidding. That’s a really boring story. You’ve got to come up with something better than that.”

He looked at me like I was crazy.

“Just make something up! Who cares? You could switch it up every time, have some fun with it! You tore it skiing in the Swiss Alps… You tore it having a silent disco outside on the beach… You tore it falling off a yacht… umm, Pirates…???”

My voice trailed off. I was not getting any implication from his body language that he was even mildly entertaining the idea of making up tall tales about injuring his knee. Swashbuckling or not.

It’s possible he thought I was crazy starting in that moment.

Since he wasn’t amused by my wild imagination, we moved on. Turns out he wasn’t amused by much of anything. The conversation was a bit dry, just like his knee story.

He did seem to enjoy mansplaining to me why it was better to sit next to each other at a bar than across from each other at a table when on a first date. You see, ladies, he explained to me that we would have easier access to touch each other and invite physical chemistry if we were sitting next to each other. But since there was a table between us, our physical touch was restricted.

Uh, ya think that was an accident? You don’t have to tell me how to strategically position myself so as not to get groped by a stranger I met on the internet. Women have been utilizing the table as a pseudo-bodyguard/buffer for centuries thank you very much.

But I digress. The date went on a little longer, but it did not improve. When it was time to leave, we split the check and he walked me to my car. I was parked at a meter and we stood on the sidewalk for a moment as we bid each other farewell, forever.

All was well and done, and then we had our awkward goodbye hug. I think it was obvious that I didn’t want a kiss from him because he didn’t try anything. I was in the clear! Until we pulled away from each other after the hug. Bob’s face suddenly contorted and he looked at me like I had punched him in the gut.

“What was that?” he asked me.

“What was what?” I had no idea what he meant.

“That face you made.”

“I didn’t make a face at you.” I genuinely did not make a face at him.

“You just looked at me like, ugh, eww.”

“I sure didn’t.”

He looked at me sideways; distrusting.

“I guess that’s just my face.” I shrugged.

He stared at me for a second like he wanted to either say something more or just punch me in the face, but couldn’t because I was a woman. I took that as my cue to turn around and walk to my car. Date over. And that was my introduction to online dating.

If only he’d seen the face I made when I got into my car by myself.

Morgan

Morgan took me on my first dancing date. We met on Tinder and he talked about music a lot. He was really into 80s and 90s music, and he really wanted to take me dancing. I love dancing, but I’ve never done it as a planned first date activity. It’s kind of like sex; not typically something I PLAN to do with a stranger on a first date, but if the opportunity presents itself and I’m in the mood, then so be it.

But this was different. This was a planned evening of dancing with someone I had never met. I didn’t know if he would be a good dancer, a bad dancer, or if he was all talk and wouldn’t actually want to dance at all. To be clear, I don’t really care if someone is a bad dancer as long as they’re into it and having fun. I’m no Beyoncé by any means but that doesn’t stop me from dancing pretty much anywhere I go.

I agreed to the dancing date. I appreciated that he wanted to do something specific and share a bar with me that he knew and loved. The only thing I was wary about was that this bar was in Chinatown, which is not close to me. Or him. And if I’m going dancing on a first date, I’m probably going to have some drinks. So when the subject of transportation came up, we decided to share a Lyft to save the money on two separate ones. We both live in the valley so it probably would have been between $25-$35 each way. Morgan offered to come to my place and I would hop in his Lyft. Or that’s what I thought.

Morgan drove to my apartment and texted me that he was out front. I thought he was just going to be in the car and I would run down and hop in. I had not planned on him driving his car to leave at my place, because that would mean we would definitely be sharing a ride back. Oy. Since he’s a stranger from the internet I was not about to invite him into my apartment to wait for the Lyft, so I told him I would be right down.

When I got downstairs, he was waiting on the steps for me. He was dressed well; not fancy, but good for a downtown dancing date. Black jeans, black t-shirt, black leather jacket with some studs on it somewhere if I remember correctly. He had light hair and eyes and was a few inches taller than me. He was cute. We hugged hello and waited on the curb for our ride.

Now, part of the reason I was so wary about sharing a Lyft is because this meant our date would be bookended by an additional 30-40 minute drive. If it’s going well, that’s fine. If it’s not going well, 40 minutes in the car with a relative stranger can feel like FOR-E-VER. Of course I told myself that I had the option to call my own damn car from downtown if I needed to get out of there, but I generally like to have my own ride for first dates.

Once we were in the car the conversation flowed pretty well. I kept thinking it must have been funny for the driver to hear us on what was so clearly the very beginning of a first date. I always wonder about the kind of shit that Uber and Lyft drivers witness in their cars. I’m always amused if I’m sitting near a couple who are obviously on a first date. Anyway, things were going pretty well. I was feeling optimistic when we finally arrived in Chinatown.

First we went to a cocktail bar because the dancing hadn’t started yet. I ordered a Manhattan because it’s classier than ordering straight shots since it’s in a martini glass with a cherry, but it’s basically straight shots. He liked that I ordered whiskey. Guys always do. Or at least they say they do, but really I think it scares them a little. If a woman orders a vodka soda or a Cosmo, they don’t even blink. Whiskey? Whoa, curveball. I swear they look at me differently; wondering how and when I developed such a dauntless taste for the dark stuff, and what else it says about me…

We had a couple drinks and then headed next door for the dancing. It was supposed to be 80s pop/synth dance night, which sounded good to me. And it was! The DJ was awesome, the dancefloor had enough people on it to feel like a party but not so many that you were constantly getting clipped by elbows or “accidentally” groped by dudes passing by. Morgan was a good dancer and we were having a great time. He would grab my hands and dance with me and we would have a moment, then we would separate and dance a little sillier. He was showing me the right amount of attention without smothering me. I know I sound like a diva right now but it really is a delicate balance.

We danced for about 45 minutes and then went outside for some air. At this point it was around 11:15. We sat for a few minutes until the cigarette smoke became too much and went back in to dance. I told him I’d like to leave around midnight, which meant we still had plenty of dancing left, and he flashed me some puppy dog eyes as if to say “So soon?” Relax, we still have an hour.

We went back in and danced some more. I was kind of expecting him to make a move or try to kiss me at some point but he didn’t. Which was honestly fine. I was having fun. And sometimes once you have that first kiss, people feel like they have to keep kissing you every five minutes and then it becomes too much.

After a while I started to get tired. It was midnight and we had done a lot of dancing, so I was ready to go. Morgan was not. I told him I was just about ready to head out and he asked to stay for “just a couple more songs?” Okay fine. A couple songs later, I said I was ready again, this time over a yawn. Not on purpose to be rude, just because I was legitimately tired. He didn’t want to go yet. I told him that I genuinely did not mind if he wanted to stay and dance some more; that he didn’t have to leave with me, but I was ready to go. He didn’t like that idea. But he also wouldn’t stop dancing.

By this point it was somewhere around 12:15-12:30. I started to get annoyed. He pulled me outside to the patio. “Maybe some fresh air will wake you up!” he said cheerily. No bro, It’s just late and I’m ready to go. I was trying to stay cheery too but I was exhausted and just wanted to go home. Plus I had that thirty minute car ride home in the back of my mind.

Morgan heard a song come on and perked up. “I love this song! One more?” I agreed and we went in to dance. The song ended, and I was ready to go. And he still wasn’t. I told him again, in a very calm, friendly, not passive aggressive tone (I swear) that I was tired and going home, but I still didn’t mind if he wanted to stay. He did not take the offer. He grabbed my hands again to dance some more. Nope. Not three times dude. I’m going home.

It was 12:45 at this point. I told him it was late and I had to go. I thanked him for the drinks, told him I was calling a Lyft, and turned to walk out of the club. He followed. I told him he didn’t have to. He insisted. I found my Lyft and he came with me. Great. By this point, I was just annoyed with him. I had told him three times that I wanted to leave, after a solid two hours of dancing, mind you, and he didn’t want to let me.

This date had been great and, up until this point, I was fully planning on seeing him again. But then he ruined it by not listening to or caring about my needs. It was like when you have a delicious meal at a restaurant and the waiter just never brings your check. You are happy and full, pleased with the experience, but then you can’t go home, and now you’re just mad. It KILLS it. And now I got to spend 30 minutes in the car with someone I was annoyed with, instead of going home on my own in the car and thinking about what a great time I had on our date.

Morgan still wasn’t done dancing. He asked the driver if he could put music on. “This is my favorite band” he said as he put on Chromeo. Which was cool, I liked the music. But then he turned it ALL THE WAY UP. It was so loud I thought the driver was going to get pissed. He seemed a little annoyed but didn’t do anything, so I asked Morgan to turn it down a little bit. He turned it down the most infinitesimal amount possible and then sidled over to me for a backseat dance party. Nope. I was done an hour ago. I’m not in the mood for a 1am dance party in a stranger’s car. I was hoping to be asleep by now. Or at least on my couch in my pajamas eating popcorn.

He kept trying; leaning towards me, singing to me, getting close to my ear. I shifted my knees towards the door and stared out the window. I was not entertaining this anymore. This guy, once again, was not reading the room. He could not have cared less about how I felt or what I wanted. He only knew that HE wanted to keep dancing, and so he did.

When we finally arrived at my apartment and got out of the car, I wanted to dart inside before he could make this night last any longer. Morgan was trying to make plans for next time. He didn’t appear to have any idea how over it I was. He hugged me and I knew he was going to try and kiss me so I gave him my cheek real quick, then broke out of the hug. I walked up my steps as he turned on his seductive voice and said something along the lines of “Can’t wait to do this again.” I let my door shut behind me as I gave him a cursory smile.

20 minutes later (almost 2am), Morgan texted me.

“Had a blast ;)”

I did not respond. The next morning he texted me again.

“Shame you had to be early today… I would have liked to keep you up a bit longer last night…”

That’s funny; I never said anything about having to be up early in the morning. I just wanted to go home. I’m guessing he told himself that, because why else would this woman not want to stay out until 2am on a Thursday? With ME?

“I wouldn’t have lasted any longer anyway. I was way too tired.” I responded. To which he replied,

“Hah, well, we’ll just have to work on your stamina”

I did that thing where you laugh involuntarily but are also so skeeved out you make a weird face and shudder a little bit. And never texted him again.

Justin

A few years back I met a guy named Justin on Plenty of Fish. At least, I’m going to call him Justin because this date happened so long ago that I don’t actually remember. But there is one thing that sticks out in my mind: The nickname. Let me explain.

I met Justin at a wine bar in Hollywood for drinks. We had been chatting on POF for a little over a week and he was pretty forward about wanting to get together in person. He gave me his number right away but I had stuck to messaging on the app, so he didn’t have my number. I agreed to meet him for a drink. When I parked, he messaged me via POF to tell me he was there and would meet me out front. As I walked up, I saw a tall, slightly bearded white guy wearing a cowboy hat. And boots. Bold move. At least in LA, or anywhere outside of Texas, really. He smiled when he saw me coming and greeted me with a big hug. I was slightly overwhelmed by him right away, but I also had not been on too many online dates before so I chalked it up to my own general apprehension.

We went inside the bar and he picked a high-top counter towards the back for us to sit. He didn’t ask me if I liked that spot, just told me where to sit. It felt a little pushy. Mostly because he picked the most uncomfortable bar stools in the whole place, (especially when one is wearing a dress) and I would have suggested literally any other seat, had he asked. But he didn’t. Not that big of a big deal, but it did sort of set the tone for the date.

We sat down and the waitress came and grabbed our order. I got a glass of wine, he got a beer. And then we talked. Well, I should say, he talked. A lot. I learned everything there was to know about this man, including the fact that he was not actually a cowboy. He told me about his childhood, his high school experience, how he joined the military after high school, and pretty much everything up to present day. He worked at The Improv comedy club doing lights and sound, which I thought was pretty cool. I tried to ask more questions about that but he clearly preferred to talk about his military experience. I have the utmost respect and gratitude for his service, but I can’t relate to it on a personal level so it turned into him talking at me for about an hour straight.

I would nod and say “Uh-huh” or “Wow” or “What?!” at the appropriate times, and he would just keep talking. Sometimes he would acknowledge that I had in fact spoken with a small nod of the head, or curling up the corner of his mouth just the slightest bit. So you CAN hear me… But he just kept talking. I felt like I could have been a wall, or a chalkboard, or more likely a mirror, and he would have just kept talking at me all the same. He clearly wasn’t looking for feedback or any sort of back and forth. It was almost like he had rehearsed all of this and he had to power through it before he forgot it all. Like a monologue. By the time I finished my wine he had barely touched his beer. Hard to drink when you’re talking nonstop. I ordered another glass of wine.

Now, grown up me now knows that I shouldn’t have ordered that wine because it sent the signal that I was enthralled by his stories and wanted to stay longer and hear more of them. But little me (you know, 25-year-old me) just needed a glass in order to have something to do with my hands. This guy was talking so much I was trying not to fall asleep. Maintain eye contact. Head up. Don’t yawn. I needed something to keep me busy, alert. Not that wine made me alert, but the prospect of having a glass in my hand that would spill were I to fall asleep mid story did. I drank my wine. He blabbered on.

Then came an unusual moment that has only ever happened on this date. Justin decided that we should give each other nick names. I laughed it off. Don’t you have to know someone to give them a nickname? He was serious. I said “You don’t know enough about me to give me a nickname,” and he just laughed that off. I’m a fan of nicknames in general and I give them to my friends all the time. I have different nicknames from different people as well. I think nicknames are great, but they usually happen organically. You can’t just look at someone you barely know and give them a nickname because you want to. Well, you can, but it’s probably not going to be one that they’ll ever use again.

But he was set on it. He looked into my eyes, then looked me up and down, smirked at me, and said “I’m gonna call you Tiger.” He sat back, crossed his arms, looking pleased with himself. “How you doing, Tiger?” He looked at me waiting for praise, for me to say “Oh my gosh! It’s like you know me!” But I didn’t. Because, come on guys, it was pretty lame. Tiger is a nickname for a child, not a grown woman. It’s what a 1950s Dad would call his son when they were playing catch in the backyard. It’s like Sport, or Kiddo, at least in my mind. “Go get ‘em Tiger!” is the only thought in my head when I hear the nickname Tiger.

I looked at him, unimpressed. “How’d you come up with that?” I queried. “I don’t know, I just did.” He was so satisfied with himself. And unfortunately for me, the nickname stuck. He called me Tiger for the rest of the night. Looking back, maybe he forgot my name halfway through and decided to give me a nickname as a cover? If that’s the case, it was a smoother move than I realized. But I’m gonna go ahead and make fun of him for it instead, cool?

Once he finished his beer and I finished my wine, I got up to go to the restroom. When I came back, he was not at the counter anymore. I thought he had ditched me at first, and was feeling a bit relieved to be honest. But then I saw him waving at me from the couch. He had taken it upon himself to move over to the couches and order me another glass of wine. Damnit.

Some of you might be thinking “Well that’s sweet, what’s wrong with that?” and find me ungrateful. But here’s the thing; this was a first date. I hadn’t spoken two words and this guy hadn’t checked in with me, hadn’t asked me anything about myself, hadn’t gauged whether or not I was enjoying myself. He just moved to the couch and ordered more drinks because HE wanted to. It was a power move and it made it much more difficult for me to just say good night and walk out the door. If we had been dating for a while and he knew that I enjoyed his company and would want a third glass of wine, then yes, this is a thoughtful move. But on a first date, when I didn’t know him, it just felt like he had decided for me that I was going to stay.

I made my way over to him reluctantly; scouting the door to see if I could sneak out without him seeing me. I would never actually do that because I’m not a dick, but the thought crossed my mind. When he saw me he put his arm out and motioned for me to sit next to him, rubbing the couch cushion. Like, right next to him. Real close. FYI dudes, this is another creepy move when you do it to someone you barely know. I just looked at him for a second. “I got you another glass of pinot” he said, trying to tempt me to sit down. “I have to drive, you know” I reminded him. He dismissed that as if I had told him something completely irrelevant. “Just sit with me, come on, Tiger.” I quelled the urge to throw up in my mouth and went to the bar to get a water.

I came back and warily sat down, placing my purse in between us. I had it between his thighs and mine, very much on purpose, so that he couldn’t scoot any closer to me. And you know what this motherfucker did? He picked up my purse, moved it, and literally said “Let’s just get this wall out of the way here” as he reached over me to set it behind me on the couch. Again, gentlemen, and ladies for that matter, READ THE ROOM. This is a recurring theme in my stories and I hope it will make at least one person more cognizant of the fact that a date is a two-person activity. It’s not all about you and what you want.

Once he moved my purse, I tensed up a bit. I was just trying to maintain my personal space. My bubble. He did not pick up on that. He put his arm around me and tried to pull me into him, and I ducked out from under his arm and sat back up. “I’m good like this” I said. He chuckled at me, looked at me like I was a horse that needed to be broken. I could see it in his face: Challenge accepted. Oh no.

He began his second monologue of the night, occasionally putting his hand on my thigh, or scooting closer. I continued to rebuff his advances and would scoot a tiny bit farther away from him each time. I was getting dangerously close to the end of the couch. Once I finished my water, I told him I needed to go home. I tried to leave quickly so as to avoid the cumbersome walk to my car and subsequent farewell, but he was too quick. He had already paid the bill and he jumped up to walk me out.

As we walked to my car, he put his arm around me. “This was really fun, Tiger. We should do it again sometime.” “Thank you for the drinks” I deflected. We arrived at my car. I started to walk around to the driver’s side but he grabbed my hand, pulled me towards him, and kissed me. I pulled back quickly. “Okay have a good night” I murmured as I turned away again. I walked around the car and as I opened the door to get in, he said “I’m gonna call you, Tiger. You better believe it!” I laughed as I saw the realization come over his face that he didn’t actually have my number. “Oh wait, you have to call me! You better call me, Tiger!” I laughed some more as I waved and drove off into the sunset. Well, down Sunset Boulevard anyway.

Epilogue: One of my coworkers at the time was a comedian who performed at the Improv regularly. She asked about my date and when I told her that he worked there, it turned out that she knew him. I told her how the date went and she laughed. A lot. She asked him about the date the next time she saw him and got quite a different version from him. According to Justin, I was nervous, shy, and immature; not uncomfortable and disinterested. He said that it was kind of a turn off and that he wasn’t really interested in seeing me again. Cool cool. The feeling is mutual, Tiger.

Steven

This is the story of my very first Tinder date.

I had been on online dates before but hadn’t tried Tinder yet because of its reputation for being more of a hook up site. (And I’m a lady, duh.) Of course after, oh I don’t know, three dates? I grew tired of Plenty of Fish and OkCupid so I decided to dip my toe into the wonderful world of Tinder. I will say, there are a lot more options on Tinder. It seems to be the one default app that all single people have. This doesn’t mean that there is better quality, necessarily, just greater quantity.

I was a bit apprehensive about meeting up with someone from Tinder and having them immediately try to have sex with me. As far as I knew, that was all Tinder was. The digital Red Light District. Don’t come in here unless you’re ready to take your pants off. Don’t get me wrong, I never wear pants at home. My roommate literally texts me when she has people coming over to make sure that I’m decent. But on a first date with a stranger? That’s a different story. My friends convinced me that there were some people on there actually just looking to get to know you. “If you’re on there, there have to be some other decent people on there too, right?” Fine. I’ll try it. “And if you do decide to take your pants off with a stranger, so be it!” Don’t push it.

I matched with a guy named Steven who seemed friendly, cute, and harmless in a good way. He had blondish hair with a beard and light eyes. He suggested a hike for our first date, which in retrospect I might not do again but it seemed like a good idea at the time. It was a surprising choice and I didn’t feel like he would be putting the moves on me on a hike as much as in a bar. He suggested a place called Castle Peak out in West Hills. I had never been there but I was open to a new hiking spot so I agreed and we made a date.

I drove out to West Hills on the day of the date with that all too familiar feeling of I-want-to-take-the-next-freeway-exit-and-turn-around but somehow resisted it. Power through Kel, if nothing else you’ll get a nice walk in the sunshine. Steven texted me and told me he was already there, so I looked for him when I parked and walked over to the trailhead. Steven spotted me first and walked over to greet me. He was quite a bit shorter than I had anticipated. This again.

Now, Tinder doesn’t require you to put your height on your profile so it’s just part of the gamble. I usually feel like it’s rude to just flat out ask someone their height, because if they tell you they’re short, now you look like an asshole if you don’t go out with them. (I know, who cares if someone you’ve never met thinks you’re an asshole right?) But I’m assuming that a lot of women do flat out ask men for their heights, because there is this pattern of men begrudgingly putting their height on their profile, followed by a snarky comment like “because that matters apparently.” One guy even put “Oh and I’m 6ft, for all you shallow women out there.”

Let’s get one thing straight; yes, your height matters to shallow women, but it also matters to tall women. I’m not exceedingly tall, but I am 5’7” which puts me at 5’10”-11” in heels. I don’t wear them that often but I like to have the option without feeling like a giant. I don’t need your passive aggressive height listing to make me feel bad about the fact that I’m not 5’2” and 100 pounds. If you don’t want to put your height, then don’t. Pouting about it on your profile is not a good look.

Anyway, back to Steven. He found me in the parking lot and reached out to shake my hand. I always hug when I first meet my date instead of a handshake for a couple reasons. First, I want to see if I like hugging you. Is it awkward? Are you leaning into the hug? Are you uncomfortable with this amount of physical contact? Are you being creepy and trying to grab my ass right off the bat? You can tell a lot about a person by hugging them. But I also like to hug them to set the tone that this is a date, not a business meeting. Especially a day date. I used to work as a server most nights so I had to do a lot of day dates. They already feel less romantic and starting off with a handshake really doesn’t help that cause.

Steven seemed a little tense when I hugged him, like he wasn’t ready for physical contact. Who’s the sexual predator now? We exchanged niceties and then headed up the trail. It was a hot day and it was a bit of a rocky and dusty trail, not exactly lush and green. I soon came to realize that was on purpose. Since I had never done this hike and didn’t know the trail, I asked him a few questions about it to get the conversation ball rolling. He answered my questions briefly and moved on. Not unfriendly, just a little nervous, maybe? But I could tell the conversation would require a bit of effort on my part. So I asked him some easy questions to start. Work, where you from, etc. He just seemed distracted; kept looking around and at the ground.

He picked up a rock and held it out for me to see. And then, he started talking. Like, really talking. He was telling me all about the rock and what type of sediment it is and how old it must be and on and on. As it turned out, geology was his passion; and rocks were his jam. Once he started talking about them, he didn’t stop. As we walked, he would pick up different rocks and show them to me, keeping some in his pocket, leaving others. He pointed out a rock formation and said that it had veins of gold in it. I made a joke about him panning for gold and he looked me dead in the eyes and said “I do pan for gold.” I looked at him curiously, waiting to see if he was fucking with me or not. He wasn’t. I was on a date with a 49er. You know, the ones the football team is named after, not Jimmy Garoppolo, unfortunately for me.

He then went into the details of how one pans for gold. He was squatting down on the ground, showing me his form, explaining that normally there would be a pan in his hands but “you just have to picture it,” and then pretending that he had found some gold in his pan. I played along with him since it was the most excited I’d seen him yet. I asked him if I could have the gold he had just “found,” as a token of our date. He looked at me like I was nuts. Oh, that’s too much?

Once the demonstration was over we continued down the trail. I tried to restart the conversation with some regular topics. Well, just not rocks. I had a rock collection when I was a kid and I know my birthstones are pearl and alexandrite, but that’s about the extent of my knowledge on the subject. I asked him about his other hobbies, and when he started talking about rocks again, I specified. “Anything not rock-related?” He was stumped.

So I started talking about myself, hoping we would find a subject in common. I told him a story about riding my bike when I was a kid, asked him if he had a bike. He did. That’s all he had to say. Onward. Food! I asked about his favorite types of food. He seemed paralyzed by the question so I babbled on for a minute about sushi and self-serve frozen yogurt. Nothing? Okay… Sports! Let’s try sports. I asked him if he played sports growing up. I told him I played softball. Do you like baseball? “Yeah it’s alright… Oh see this rock over here…” He wandered off to grab another rock and show it to me. This guy was killing me. I felt like I was on a hike with an eight-year-old.

I stopped trying. I decided to just walk, enjoy the view and the hike, and smile and nod whenever he showed me a rock. He was sweet, but so oblivious. At least he wasn’t paying attention to how sweaty I was getting in the 90 degree weather. I tried to ask him how much longer the hike was going to be without it coming out like “Are we there yet?” He said we were about halfway. Oh joy.

We came to a pretty cool cave, enjoyed some panoramic views, and headed back down the loop. I wish I could say that I retained all of the information about rocks that Steven bestowed upon me, but I did not. And it really showed on the second half of the hike, which turned out to be the pop quiz section of our date.

Steven would pick up a rock and hold it out for me to see, like a child who’s caught a caterpillar and wants to show you. Then he would look at me expectantly, waiting for me to identify it. Yep, looks like a rock to me. I would look at the rock, back at Steven, shake my head and shrug. He would look disappointed for a split second, but then excited because he got to answer the question himself. It was like a round of Jeopardy when there’s an entire category you know nothing about. I wasn’t even buzzing in and he still expected me to answer. Why are you still asking me? Clearly you know the answer and I don’t. I didn’t know there was going to be a lightning round on geology at the end of our date!

We made our way back down to the parking lot and I was ready to get in my car and go home. Steven asked if I wanted to get lunch. I told him I had to get going. He was disappointed, which surprised me. Maybe if you’d let me keep the non-existent gold… It was another one of those moments where I felt like we had been on completely different dates. For me it was awkward and I had no intention of seeing him again. (And I honestly thought the feeling was mutual.) But he was like “Hey that was fun!” Part of me wished the date had gone well because I could have ended with a terrible pun about how “this date rocked!” But, alas, I’ll have to save that one for another 49er. (Here’s hoping Jimmy G is on Tinder…)

Danny

If something seems too good to be true, it probably is… I’m an optimist so I don’t typically subscribe to this particular belief, but sometimes the pessimists are right.

This particular time, I met a handsome man named Danny on Plenty of Fish. He had piercing blue eyes, blonde hair, a strong jawline, nice muscles… you know, the whole package. He was so good looking I was surprised that we matched. Some of his photos looked like modeling shots but he also had some “I’m a real boy” shots that looked pretty good so I listened to my vagina and swiped right. Yes, men, women think with our genitals sometimes too.

Danny messaged me right away and I was thrilled. We chatted a little bit and he asked me out to dinner. Nice. A dinner invite? That never happens! Usually it’s drinks at best or just a general query into “hanging out.” I accepted the invite and we made a date.

The day of our date arrived, and I was actually excited! Usually when I make first date plans with someone I’ve met online I am debating whether or not to cancel all the way up until the moment I meet the guy. But not this time. I texted Danny to let him know my ETA and he said “Great, I’m already here. I’ll see you inside.”

We met at a cute bar that is small enough you can see the whole interior from the front door. Since Danny had told me he was already there and knew I would be walking through the door at any moment, I assumed that he would spot me first and greet me right away. Nope. I walked in, looked around, and saw a couple of groups of people gathered here and there. There was one guy by himself in the middle of the room but he had thinning brown hair and looked nothing like Danny, so I kept scanning the room. The bar was backlit with red lights, the walls were dark red, the leather booths were red. It was a cozy, intimate spot. I saw the groups of people enmeshed in their conversations; no one peering out from the group as if they were looking for me. I saw no Danny.

I was puzzled. Was I at the wrong bar? I did another scan of the room, growing more uncomfortable by the second. I felt like everyone in the room was watching me get stood up, even though no one was actually paying any attention to me. Except for the one guy by himself. He looked at me, looked away, looked at me again. I’m flattered bud, but I’m here to meet someone. Then he looked at me one more time, cocked his head to the side like a confused puppy, and took a step towards me. “Kelly?” he asked, seemingly confused. “Yeah?” I replied, definitely confused. “It’s me, Danny.”

I didn’t believe him. I was legitimately perplexed. He looked nothing like the person in the photos. I looked exactly like mine, and he had the audacity to question whether or not I was me? I just stared at him. “I’m Danny, from Plenty of Fish” he tried again. “I’m your date.” A short silence while I processed this information. “You’re Danny?” I blinked. “Yes I am.” I just looked at him some more. This guy looked at least fifteen years older, five inches shorter, thirty pounds heavier, and a whole lot balder than the online version of Danny. I had been tricked.

Now, for those of you who don’t know what it feels like to be catfished, let me paint a picture for you. Imagine you’ve had a couple drinks and you’re leaving the bar at 2am. You had some water and your last drink was a while ago, so you feel confident that you’re good to go and that this drive home will go well. But then there’s a DUI checkpoint up ahead. Oh shit. Oh shit. Am I good? You start to wonder. Panic a little. Your palms are sweating (you might notice this as a recurring event in my dating stories, the ol’ sweaty palms.) You want to turn around and go back the other way, but they’ve already seen you so you can’t very well just turn around and speed off. You freeze, panic a little more, question every decision that’s led you to this moment, and then concede. You pull into the checkpoint because you really don’t see any other option, and settle in for the consequences. Except in this case, the DUI checkpoint is your date! Yay!

“You look pretty different from your pictures.” I started, tentatively. “Oh really?” he replied, acting surprised. “Yeah, like really different.” I looked at him expectantly, raised my eyebrows a bit the way parents do when they’re trying to coax the truth out of their children. He gave me nothing. I just had to spell it out. “Like a completely different person. Is that really you in your pictures?” I had never been this straight forward with someone right off the bat and it terrified me but also felt amazing. Until he lied to my face. “Yeah, that’s me.” “You sure?” I gave him one more chance to fess up. He didn’t take it. “Yes I’m sure. Those are pictures of me.” I asked him if they were old photos, he said maybe a couple years but nothing crazy. So that was that. He was sticking with his story, and I had officially been catfished.

I didn’t really know what to do after that. I thought that if I had the balls to ask him straight to his face about his catfish photos that he would give it up, but he hadn’t. So what’s my next move? Stand there and argue with him? Leave? I somehow felt like I couldn’t just leave. Just felt too mean. So I stayed. He had offered me dinner, after all. At least there would be food.

We walked over to the bar to order. There were no menus, no food, and it became clear to me that there was not going to be any food. So much for the dinner invite. Another lie. Cool. He asked me what I wanted to drink. I asked him what he was having. “Oh I’m just having water. I have an early flight in the morning.” This just keeps getting better.“Well I’m not going to drink alone so I’ll have water too, I guess.” He turned to the bartender and ordered two waters with such attempted swagger I’m pretty sure he thought he was James Bond ordering a martini, shaken, not stirred. We drank our waters standing at the bar. Talk about a dream date, am I right?

I was determined not to be shallow and to give this guy a chance. I somehow thought that I was the asshole for not finding him attractive, when in reality he was the asshole for lying on his profile AND lying straight to my face. So we talked. I asked him some typical first date questions and all I learned about this guy was that he had a lot of money and his pilot’s license. His father had some big banking company in Switzerland and Danny was supposed to take over it, only he wasn’t sure if he wanted to go back to Switzerland. He told me he was a pilot and that he wasn’t just boarding a flight in the morning, but flying the plane. Okay that’s pretty cool. I don’t know how to fly a plane.

The non-shallow part of my brain was trying really hard. But then he would say something else about his extravagant lifestyle and how much money he had spent on his last vacation, or his collection of cars, or his private plane, or blah blah blah. You would think that would trick the shallow part of my brain into liking him, but it didn’t. I’m not a gold digger by nature so it really just turns me off when people lead with their money. That’s nice, but what else is interesting about you? Are you a happy person? Do you like your job? Do you have friends? Any hobbies? Or do you just work at a job you hate all the time and fly around on an empty private plane because you have no friends?

I kept trying to steer the conversation away from money and he just kept steering it right back. The guy had nothing else to say. Nothing to contribute. Not a joke, not a story, not a compliment, not a question about myself. I was underwhelmed. Unimpressed. Bored. Sure, I had initially disliked this guy because he lied to me and was not as attractive as his profile had promised (well, not even the same person really), but I had stuck it out and tried to give him a chance anyway. And he had showed me that he had nothing to offer but money, which at this point I didn’t even believe that he had. It didn’t matter to me if he did, I was never going to see this guy again.

I excused myself to go to the bathroom and immediately called my best friend. She didn’t answer. How dare she! I texted her. Multiple times. I was in there for a few minutes, waiting for her to reply and give me an excuse to bail. But she didn’t. I was going to have to handle this myself. And then I had an epiphany: I could just leave. I did not owe this guy anything. He didn’t fly me here on his plane. I was not being held here against my will. He hadn’t even bought me a drink (not that that would mean I did owe him anything, but you know what I mean.) I had already sat there talking with him for forty-five minutes trying to find a connection and I had failed. I was a grown ass woman who didn’t need my best friend to call with a fake emergency. This didn’t mean I had to be rude or sneak out, but I could absolutely leave. And so I did. I walked out of the bathroom, told Danny that it was nice to meet him but that I was going to take off, and he said okay. He told me to have a good night, and I left. I was straight forward with him and he reacted kindly.

I exhaled deeply as I walked out of the bar, smiling to myself. Not in a mean or petty way, but because I was proud of myself; proud of how I handled the situation. I had been so worried that Danny was going to be mad at me, guilt-trip me, insist that I stay, or call me a bitch for leaving that early. But he didn’t. I treated him with respect and he responded with respect. This might seem silly to the men reading this, but it’s something that women think about a lot. When we reject a man, we play out every reaction they could possibly have in our heads before we decide how to handle it. Most men are respectful, but some are not. And the ones who are not can be unpredictable and scary.

Lucky for me, he was just a catfish and not a predator. He let me go. So I stopped by Trader Joe’s on a Friday night, all dressed up with nowhere to go. I bought myself some wine and cheese and snacks and headed home, just in time for that made-up emergency call from my best friend.

Tommy

This one time, on Hinge, I met a boy who seemed cute, funny, and a little quirky. His name was Thomas but he went by Tommy. He was tall with brown hair and brown eyes. Tommy and I made a date for 7:00 on a Thursday evening, which just so happened to be Valentine’s Day. No big deal. We were going to grab drinks at Tommy’s favorite bar in Culver City. I vaguely remembered the bar by name when he suggested it, and did not particularly want to go there. I had been once years before and was not a big fan. I tried to suggest an alternate location in Santa Monica and all he said was “This is pretty close to the west side.” Hint not received. Onward.

I don’t live in Culver City but I was going to an open mic nearby anyway so I could just head straight to the bar afterwards. I was all set to drive to the bar when Tommy texted me.

Hey, is it alright if we push it back to 7:30? Finishing up some work.

Cue hard eye roll. Pushing back our date thirty minutes before we’re supposed to meet up? Bad form. But I did have an errand to run so I said sure, ran my errand, and got to the bar at 7:25. I sat right by the front door and waited for 15-20 minutes. Not exactly sure how much time passed while I was re-reading the menu chalkboard but I did decide I was going to have a $5 Old Fashioned if my date ever arrived. I sat by myself, holding back yawns, jerking my head every time someone walked through the door. And then finally, cue Tommy. He walked in, looked directly at me, and as I raised my hand to acknowledge him, he continued to look around the room. I sat there and watched it happen, amused, waiting for him to circle back at me. He didn’t. I was tempted to just let him walk past me and sneak out the door but instead I said his name and he looked at me like I was a stranger. Which I guess I technically was, but still.

We hugged awkwardly and headed towards the back room. This bar was his choice so I followed his lead. I was wearing high heeled boots so naturally he chose a standing location, ignoring all of the vacant booths dotting the horizon of the mostly empty room. Easier to make a quick getaway I supposed, so I didn’t protest. Tommy went to grab drinks at the bar and I started to go with him but he set his keys and phone down on our standing table, which strongly implied to me that I should stay behind and watch his things. He returned with an Old Fashioned for me and a shot and a beer for himself. We cheers’d and he downed his shot. And so began the forced conversation that I could barely hear.

Tommy kept mumbling things about his tech job, using jargon that I didn’t know. I asked him what he meant a couple of times and after the least helpful explanations he could muster, he kept using his tech jargon anyway. I stopped asking for clarification. I did ask “What?” at least three times because I simply couldn’t hear him over the music. After the third time he had made no effort to either speak louder or enunciate, so I just stopped listening. My feet hurt. I shifted back and forth, trying to find a more comfortable stance and also stay awake. He was droning on about work, a trip he took to Denver once, and how he hated basically everything. I would smile and nod, or roll my eyes disapprovingly at whatever subject he was judging at the moment. I figured I would ride it out and leave after my drink, but then the situation escalated.

As he was telling me how lame something else was, he started touching his nose the way one does when they think the might have a booger hanging out. For the record, he did not have a booger hanging out. You’d think that would be a good thing but believe me it was not. Since he apparently had not yet discerned whether or not he had a booger, he decided to start rooting around in his nostril. Yes, he started picking his nose. Index finger straight in there. Not a glancing blow either, but left it in there for a few seconds AND CONTINUED TALKING. I took a sip of my drink, looked around, anything to avert my eyes. I looked back and he had finished. Phew. He was ready for another beer. Did I mention it was Valentine’s Day? Because it was.

Off to the bar he went. I checked my phone. Only 10 minutes had passed.

How is this possible?! I started taking bigger gulps of my Old Fashioned. Tommy came back from the bar with his beer. The “conversation” resumed. I tuned out again as he droned on some more, until I saw his hand reach for his nose again, and my senses were suddenly heightened. I had laser focus, my heart was beating faster, and I felt my armpits dampen.

The sight of him picking his nose had triggered my fight or flight response. I was thisclose to turning around and running out of the bar without a word. But social constructs kept my feet firmly planted on the concrete floor, where I was still standing in my high heeled boots. This time there was no foreplay. He went straight in with his index finger, and looked me dead in the eye while he did it. He kept talking as if nothing weird was happening, like this was how he carried on conversations all the time. I began to wonder to myself, does he just do this? Did no one ever tell him that you pick your nose in the privacy of your own bathroom or maybe your car in a pinch?! I almost said something; “You are aware that I can see you right now, yeah?”

Finally, he lowered his hand. Finally, I exhaled. Oh no, he only lowered his hand to his mouth. He is now picking his teeth with the same finger he picked his nose. I don’t know if that counts as picking your nose and eating it but I do know I had to get the fuck out of there. I took more gulps of my drink, checked the time, started unzipping my boots to make a run for it. He kept talking. I must have seemed eager to leave because he asked me what I was doing the rest of the night. “Going home.” “Oh. Well I just got a text from my boss.” He turned his phone to prove it to me, as if I would object to him ending this regrettable date.

He told me he had to go home and finish some work. That’s right, the guy who pushed our date back half an hour at the last minute because he was finishing up some work, works from home. Cool. I told him it was no problem and tried to show him how genuinely not offended I was. “Let’s hang out next week though” he said. I looked at him, puzzled. He offered to walk me to my car. I protested. He insisted. I don’t know why he offered in the first place if I wasn’t allowed to decline the offer anyway. We got to my car, I gave him a cursory hug and as I pulled away, he kissed me! I had just watched this guy pick his nose and possibly eat it, so I was disenchanted to say the least. But even more so, I was ambushed! Read the room Tommy. Nothing about this date suggested that you should kiss me.

I turned away to walk to my car and he pulled on my hand. “So let’s hang out next week, yeah?” He asked, as if there had been any semblance of joy on this date. “Um, I’m out of town until Wednesday.” I replied as coldly as I could. “Okay so Thursday or Friday? I’ll text you.” I just looked at him with a very bewildered, likely unpleasant face, and turned to go to my car for a second time. Then he kissed me AGAIN! And he would have kept kissing me had I not turned my head to give him my cheek as I unwrapped his arms from my waist and stepped off the curb directly into oncoming traffic. Just kidding. But almost. I was wearing high heels after all.

The good news? There was no traffic, I was home by 8:30, and he never texted me again. Oh, did I mention this was on Valentine’s Day?