Dont Mince Words

I made a hasty decision agreeing to meet John. We’d talked on the phone once and texted for a day, but he was eager and I was bored. I knew I was in trouble when, four hours before before meeting, he asked me how I felt about shorts. “I usually don’t make the switch until after the New Year,” he confessed. This is Virginia and we’ve already had 20-something degree days. While I wanted to tell him to put his big boy pants on, I told him to be comfortable.

An hour before meeting he texted me that he had just gotten home and was jumping in the shower. He had one clean, ironed shirt that he couldn’t wait to show me. At this point, I was in it for the cider and chanted an old New York girlfriend’s manta, “A girl’s gotta drink.”

He was standing in the cider tasting room and he was easy to spot because he was the only 50-something in shorts amongst the 20-something cool kids. “Tah-dah. What do you think? I got the shirt at Fan Thrift,” he boasted. He had on a bright green/chartruse-colored Ralph Lauren button down on with a blue horse on his nipple. Cargo shorts are never a good look on anyone, especially when the pockets are loaded. But the outfit was truly complete with old LLBean duck boats. This was a preppy flashback like I’d never seen. My response was unfiltered, “The 80’s called and they want it all back.” That made the bartender choke on whatever he was drinking.

We sat with our sampler platter and I feigned interest for an hour. After he confessed he had been separated since 2009 and couldn’t get divorced for “tax purposes,” he asked me if I’d like to go to a nude beach. I smiled and said no, naked middled aged people are not my thing. He then asked me to take him shopping. “I know I can do better,” he said. I declined that invitation and suggested he purchase a pair of jeans and up-to-date mock turtlenecks for the winter.  Better yet, maybe his wife can take him shopping.

Not my actual date….

My girlfriends and I joke about fall “hunting” season. This is when all our online dating sites and app inboxes get jammed with men trying to find love before it gets cold. They need someone to make hot wings while they watch “the game” and someone to keep them warm at night.

Two years ago, I took a class with John. He was tall, nice goatee, full sleeves, educated, and funny. But when I saw the wedding band, my thoughts of having a writing partner and bed buddy were banished. Like everything, if you wait long enough, men become divorced or widowed. Three weeks ago, I was surprised when I saw John wrote on POF. We had a few exchanges and when I mentioned the class and how we’ve met, he ghosted me.

I told a neighbor who has taken John’s class. He laughed and said, “you don’t want him. Yes, he’s divorced now, but he’s a crossdresser.” I rolled my eyes. “It figures.” My neighbor proceeded to pull out his phone and show me photos of Cross-John. He does not make a pretty woman. Or maybe I’m too judgy since I lived in West Hollywood and have seen the best drag queens in the world. John was just half assing his look. The wig was bad, the makeup was bad and he definitely needed a stylist. I dodged a bullet, but at the same time I know he’d never borrow my clothes.

I had my first Bumble date in October. This app is like Tinder except only women can write the men. I got distracted and forgot to write Don in the 24-hour window, so he paid to excalate and extend. I owed him a note. Hot to trot, he booked a dinner date for the next night. This didn’t give me time to screen him properly, but you know, a girl’s gotta eat. Before the menus were collected, I learned he didn’t drink and had been married three times. Yeah, I don’t need a guy that has impulse control issues. However, it was nice diversion from my usual Netflix and Dixie Friday night.

I’ve never had a problem being alone, but I truly wonder how much longer I can continue trying to date.

I’ve been internet dating for 20 years. It started with AOL chatrooms and evolved to yahoo groups, listservs, websites and modern-day apps. — all delivering the same, often depressing, experience.

Two years ago, a friend suggested I see a matchmaker. He’d heard she had good results. I figured, why not go old school. I was interviewed and everything sounded promising – she did all the heavy lifting for busy executives who don’t want to cut through the clutter online.

My criteria was simple:

• Male, divorced 45-60
• Kids OK, but better if they can drive or are out of the house
• Educated
• At least 5’10”
• Left leaning, but no god-fearing neocons

When I do this same search online, I get about a dozen guys in a 30-mile radius. My matchmaker has found me five guys in the last two years. The most recent one was 65 and a retired CPA. That’s when I blew a gasket, called her, and asked her if she’d reached the bottom of the barrel.

“He’s SIXTY FIVE. He’s retired, living in the far out suburbs, and looking for a playmate. I’m a working, downtown girl,” I said.

She stammered a little and said that she has broadcast ads running and print in high-end magazines to recruit new members. I told her I’d be dead by the time she’d deliver all the “introductions” she promised. She asked if I would consider a shorter guy. “I have a lot of 5’8”ers.” No to that and no to going to Charlottesville. I shouldn’t have to commute for cock.

Lesson learned: Matchmaker matchmaker ain’t gonna make The Marn a match. Dating is hard all over, no matter the medium. I’m going to stick with my free sites/apps. Or, hey, maybe I’ll meet a guy the old-fashioned way… in a bar.