My fingernails are dirty. My apartment is coated in dog hair from the two crazy, NON-paper-trained dogs I’m fostering. I haven’t had a legitimate job since 1996. I don’t shave…anywhere. And I use the word fuck, like, every fucking minute. I’m clearly not appropriate for mainstream consumption. So it came as no surprise that “Jim” didn’t feel any “sexual chemistry” with me after our lovely lunch yesterday.
Let me start over. As you all know, dear readers, I’ve been doing some mad online dating. My recent membership on the cheating people site has brought me a digital landslide of attention and I’ve been juggling married dudes eager to take me…to lunch, to dinner, to bed. It was tough scheduling dates when I wasn’t even in town but now that I’m back from my adventure at Coachella, I’ve got illicit suitors lined up for days.
I met with “Bill” Saturday night, en route to see a friend’s band. I wouldn’t ordinarily “waste” a weekend evening on a stranger but, what the hell, I was already dressed up and out on the town!
We met for beers at 2A, convenient and cheap, though I wasn’t all too happy about a blind date in the daylight. “Bill” was pleasant enough and he was entertained when I regaled him with my previous evening’s swing club story. (I know, poor form to talk about other dates — or so says YourTango — but it was too hilarious not to share!) Apparently “Bill” has been living in some sort of bubble for the past few decades as he was completely unfamiliar with swing clubs. And swinging in general. When I finally asked if he’d ever heard of Plato’s Retreat, he nodded, still unsure. “So people go to these places to…have sex? In private rooms?” No, I told him, in front of each other. He didn’t understand.
We did enjoy each other’s company, even if it would never be a love connection. Or any other sort of connection. However, when my friend Sandra showed to accompany me to see my friend’s band, I felt somewhat relieved. “Bill” was my first real actual married man, if I am to believe the previous three and their purported statuses. (Stati?) He didn’t seem to be hell bent on actually having an affair. He appeared to just be looking for interesting company.
So that was Saturday. I took Sunday off from my dating frenzy because it was a holiday. And I was in New Jersey. (I’d make a crack about the lord resting on the seventh day but I’ve only just begun my married man marathon.)
On Monday I’d arranged to meet “Jim” for lunch. He chose a quiet little spot in the West Village with an outdoor garden in back and, since it was such a warm day, we decided to dine al fresco. Again, I wasn’t all too happy about a blind date by the light of day, but what else can you do at lunchtime? “Jim” was as tall in person as he’d said he was and somehow far more distinguished. His online photo made him appear a little awkward; there was nothing awkward about him as he sat across the table from me. We enjoyed lunch and a frank discussion about online dating, affairs and the complex process behind meeting someone and where it eventually might lead.
During our conversation there was a mention of his having dated models, not in an arrogant way, just matter of fact, and I made a mental note that perhaps I wasn’t quite polished enough for this man. His hands looked softer than mine and his nails were most definitely cleaner! But lunch was enjoyable. After we’d finished eating, we stood on the sidewalk outside the cafe. “Jim” took my hand and, shaking it gently, told me that it had been a pleasure meeting me but that he hadn’t felt any sexual chemistry. He delivered that news quite frankly, looking me straight in the eye. Oddly enough, I wasn’t at all insulted. It was so honest and polite I couldn’t be. But it was a bit sobering.
As I walked away I recalled, again, that all of my successful sexual encounters — or relationships, for that matter — had taken place with alcohol or drugs involved, so it wasn’t surprising that a lunch date in the glare of the noon sun hadn’t resulted in a quickie, or even the desire to meet again. I’m not sure I would’ve said the same thing about “Jim.” He was pretty handsome. And exceedingly tall. His preemptive dismissal of me alleviated any need for me to dismiss him. But I doubt we’d have been a good match.
While some might think “How awful,” my take-away was that this was precisely one of the reasons behind my dating marathon in the first place: This was practice and I was learning not to take rejection personally, something which, I’m embarrassed to admit, I haven’t been able to master in my previous five decades. So though I won’t be seeing “Jim” again, I considered the date a success.