Dont Mince Words

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.

Steve Martin/King Tut

“Girl, look at that red hair and that gray stripe. Wow. And those toes. Yeah. I’d like to suck on those. You taken? Cause I’d like to take you?” said the black guy in front of me at 7-11. Hard to believe just 20 minutes prior, I was playing Super Mario Cart with a 7-year-old who just wanted to beat me… and did.

I was 11 years old when I found out I was black man catnip. My mother, brother, and I were in a very, very long line to see the King Tut exhibit at the National Gallery. Waiting was boring, so I asked my mother if I could duck into the wing next to us and look around. She let me go by myself. As I walked around, I noticed the black security guard following me. When I dead ended and turned back around to rejoin my family, he was in front of me. He looked at me up and down. I didn’t understand why since I wasn’t in People’s Drug trying to steal candy. He then told me he liked my “chest.” I was 5’6” and a C-cup at the time, but I was still 11 fucking years old. I got the yucky, this-doesn’t-feel-right feeling and ran out of the wing.

Since that time I have dated several intelligent and handsome black guys. Their game was more evolved than commenting on my hair, boobs, or feet. Today’s guy gave me the creeps, and not because he was buying a 12-pack of Miller High Life at 10 a.m. His tone and delivery made me flashback to an experience I had forgotten about and never told anyone about.

If you want to take me on a Sunday, quote Steve Martin and buy champagne.