Dont Mince Words

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.

When the Tinder app launched, I was living in Santa Barbara where the dating population was either college-age or retirement age. I didn’t see the point. Imagine my surprise when a girlfriend visiting from Florida admitted she met her long-term boyfriend there.

“You have to get on it,” she said.

I still subscribe to the belief that dating is hard all over. I don’t care if you are in Los Angeles, Kansas City, or Richmond. You hit a certain age and, statistically speaking, there’s not a lot of good stuff out there. But whatever, I signed up for Tinder as another social experiment.

During the last two weeks, I’ve been matched with 11 guys within an 18-mile radius and five contacted me.

• 3 started a conversation, I responded and haven’t heard from them since
• 1 was moving to Richmond soon
• 1 asked if I was naked

So much for a killer app. The experience is the same as if it were 1996 and I was in an AOL chat room. You have to weed out the boring to find the interesting people.

I’m still waiting.

Brian found me online. You know I’ve all but given up, but when digital me reels in a live one, I still have to respond.

After the usual rapid fire round of screening questions, we determined we were both looking for a relationship – nothing casual. We graduated to texting, then live phone on Monday night. He was on a business trip and wanted to coordinate lunch near my office on Friday.

Every morning and evening Brian texted something sweet and continued to emphasize how he couldn’t wait to meet me. He had been in Richmond two months and had not found anyone cool. Wednesday night he texted me unusually late and I let him know I was just wrapping up some west coast work.

B – “I’m a man whore”

Me – “Who’d you fuck?” I responded just screwing with him.

B – “The 19 year old waitress working at the restaurant. She just left.”

Did I mention Brian was my age?  So, 1) yuck and 2) yucky. I texted him back my standard line that I judge men by their actions not words and it appeared he wanted casual, so I’d have to cancel lunch on Friday.

I pulled the hook out and threw him back in.

Next.