Dont Mince Words

I can write good headlines. I can sell you shit you didn’t know you needed. I can write a lead that will get an editor to call. And I can write a cute note about your OKCupid profile that will make you click the reply button or swipe right.

Greg was the first guy EVER who matched me 96 percent on OKCupid. That just means we had similar quiz answers. But his profile was hilarious. I was inspired to write him which I don’t like to do. I don’t chase men. My mother taught me that one. But she’s dead and my boobs aren’t getting any perkier, so I’m changing my ways.

My opener was “You are like me except you have a penis.” I know. I know. But he wrote back and we eventually met for dinner. He wasn’t a super available guy with two teens and a business, so I didn’t see him again until he came up on my Tinder prospects. I knew that headshot. His profile stated he was looking for “Someone like me, except with boobs.” So, going out with me got him a good edit. I got a salmon salad.

Tinder recently changed its algorithm but today I wasn’t so sure. Raul, an ex- from 14 years ago popped up. I thought I reached the end of the internet when LinkedIn recommended I friend my ex-husband. Maybe I’d circled back around today. I messaged Raul and told him about my WTF Tinder moment.

He decided to change his location to Richmond thinking he’d eventually run into me. “I thought you would show up after 100 swipes. You were the first one! I said to myself, ‘that ho.’ You are the face of the fucking Richmond dating scene,” he messaged to me, through Tinder, after he kiddingly asked what I was wearing.

So, after two years here, I’m still single. Clicking and swiping has made me the face of Richmond dating.

I’m an optimist, right? I have to be given I’ve been internet dating for 20 years. But if something is too good to be true, it probably is. Right?

Ralph was a good match according to OKCupid. And he was my type of guy – cut to the chase and don’t waste time. We exchanged a few messages, talked on the phone, and three days later we had a date. A good date. It had been a long time since I’ve met for a drink and four hours later I actually wanted to still talk to someone.

During the next few weeks, I learned more about Ralph. He was 44 and didn’t want kids so he had a vasectomy. Never married. He went to one of those private west end schools and grew up on an estate on the river. He was attentive and communicative and eager to book dates. My girlfriends were cautiously optimistic for me. “The mask will come off. There has to be something wrong with him,” I explained.

You learn a lot about a man by the company he keeps and by the way he lives. I jumped at the opportunity to come over to Ralph’s house for dinner. When I drove up , I hummed the theme from Dallas as I passed the front gate houses then rounded the corner to see Southfork. It was a large house, but not what you’d expect a single guy to choose to live in, monied or not.

When I went in, I was shuffled to the sun room where his friend was. Ralph went back to the kitchen to finish the food. I surveyed the scene and in seconds figured out I was in the House of Mom. Gardening books. Bird feeders. Stacks of catalogs. Stamps. Envelopes. The other shoe had dropped.

I learned he lived in the basement; his best friend was in the chef quarters. His mom is a smart woman. If I were in my 70s, I’d love to have two men around to help me. But not my son. The boy needs to go learn to fly on his own. Be his own man.

I gave Ralph the soft let down by phone and casually mentioned living with his mother was going to hurt his long term relationship prospects.  “I know,” he mumbled.

This is funny because my OKCupid profile has a line that states, “You should contact me if you are an emotionally evolved male who doesn’t live with his mother.” I added this when I lived in Los Angeles. The recession forced a lot of people to move home. Ralph didn’t get to the bottom of my profile. He’s also dyslexic.

Not a dick pic!

Nothing makes me feel more alive than visiting New York. It also gives me an excuse to wear all my black t-shirts.

After I arrived in Penn Station, I helped five people with directions. I told the last person I had not lived there since 2003. “Wow, you just really look like you know what you are doing…like you live here.” That’s probably the best compliment you can give someone who has moved away and misses elements of New York.

I was above ground less than 30 minutes, walking down 14th Street, when a guy six feet away from me says, “Wow, you are a MILF. I need to get to know you.” While I am no mother, I will happily own the F part of that acronym. We exchanged numbers, I suggested getting a drink, and he said he’d text me (like a good Millennial would).

This small act by a horny Brazilian boy reminded me what I miss most about New York – real men. Men who do not hide behind screens but actually nut up and talk. It’s refreshing. I can’t tell you the number of times I’ve heard similar stories from girlfriends who visit New York. Invisible in one place – noticed in another.

I didn’t expect boy to text me, but he did the next day. We didn’t connect for that drink and he said he was “sorry” that I didn’t live there.

Several days later I was back in Richmond trying to enjoy my first Tinder date. It was over when he whipped out his phone to show me photos all his grandchildren. I’ve reconciled where I live. I haven’t quite accepted the dating pool I have to work with.