Have You Had a Worse Date?

I have changed identifying details of my nonsense to keep myself from being sued.

Remember those “Spot the Difference” activities from Highlights? How many of my Dating Dumbs¹ can you count?

The Date

It was a late summer evening in my late 40s. I combed what was left of my hair and excitedly rolled my boobs up into my Date Night Bra.² I don’t recall how long I had been on Bumble. Yet, I had finally figured out how to interpret a profile. I had matched with Alain, an attractive French man with progressive keywords. One of his profile pics was of an open hand next to what might have been a belt, and I didn’t know what that meant exactly, but whatever. I had finally escaped a dead marriage before my hormones ran out.

Not knowing what was cool or hip anymore, I had let Alain (no last name) choose the location for our first date, a wine bar in the East Village. I was in a car crossing the Manhattan Bridge into Chinatown when he texted asking what drink he could order for me. I had no interest in being roofied, yet I didn’t want to hurt his feelings, so I swerved by texting that I would choose after I sat down and saw the menu. 

Alain texted a candle-lit photo of the wine list. I didn’t ask the driver to take me back to Brooklyn.

As the car pulled to the curb, I was beset by nerves. While I had posted photos of my entire body and make-up-free face, first meets were still anxiety-ridden. Will he like me in person? Will he look like his photos? Unfortunately, even men use pictures from the previous decade of no sunscreen use. Thankfully, Alain looked exactly like his photos. He kissed me on both cheeks and explained La Bise as though I hadn’t been raised on 3 O’Clock Movies featuring Omar Sharif. 

We settled at the bar, and I admitted I was a bit of a francophile over our first glass of wine. I confessed to believing horror stories from my fellow Americans before my first trip to France and my delight upon finding that Parisians were lovely people. “Of course, everyone was nice to you,” Alain said, “ You are gorgeous.” 

Obviously, I agreed to a second glass of wine. We shared our dating foibles. I mentioned I chose Bumble because I was too old for Tinder. Alain told me I was ridiculous. This led me to ask about his profile photo of his spread palm. Alain waived it away and said it was “Nothing,” but it got him banned from OkCupid.

When I finished my second glass, Alain refilled it with his remaining wine. He told me a funny story about how in his teenage years, the older women in his apartment complex came to call him The Satisfyer. The temperature outside was dropping, and Alain asked if I wanted to go to his place. It happened to be just upstairs.

Sitting on Alain’s couch, I was flattered when he offered me a glass of the expensive champagne with the yellow label. He poured his glass halfway but mine to the top. He turned on my favorite album. I told him I couldn’t believe he read my profile and remembered that I love Massive Attack. “But of course,” he said, tapping a pack of cigarettes on his thigh. “Do you mind?” I replied, “Of course not,” although I loathe smoking. Who am I to deny a cigarette to a Frenchman? We talked through the open window as he smoked on the fire escape. I was no longer a Brooklyn Mom. I was young and free in Manhattan. When I returned from my reverie, Alain was in the middle of a story about having to clear out all the sex toys from the spare bedroom when his parents visited. He told them the sex swing was a sculpture. 

I was sure he was a great choice after not being touched in five years.

He sat next to me on the black leather couch. His kisses were smoky but electric. He invited me to his bedroom, and I happily followed. This was it. It was happening! 

“Tell me what you want.”

What did I want? I wanted passion. And orgasms. But could I instruct a stranger to help me get there?

So I giggled. Because I was nervous. But Alain didn’t know that. From his perspective, I laughed just as my hand landed on his crotch.

I felt him fall flat. He said he was no longer feeling well. Clothes were rearranged, and it would be a 20-minute wait for a car. Alain handed me an Evian bottle at his door and said, “I refilled it from the tap.”

The Lesson

Don’t do dumb sh*t like going to a stranger’s apartment. And don’t beat yourself up when you do dumb sh*t. Was he wrong for trying to get me drunk? Absolutely. Yet, on my way home, I sent Alain an apology text explaining he was my first date in almost twenty years - because no one deserves to be practiced on without their consent.

Be honest about where you're on the dating continuum. Ask potential dates to be gentle, commiserate, or join you on an escapade. 

If you are dipping your toe in after a long absence, you may need an actual world reset. Try as many first meets as possible.³  

For those of you with tons of recent dating experience who are having trouble finding the right fit, try casting a narrow and specific net. In addition to only dating men with cats, I matched with my (now) boyfriend when I set my search radius for half a mile. It was ridiculous. And necessary. I’m a solo parent, and with my workload, I wouldn’t even transfer subways to date Pedro Pascal.

Every date, even the disasters, brings you closer to what you seek. But always get a first and last name first. 

My inbox is open!  

XOXO,

Lateefah

Spotted in the wild this week: 

FLR = Female-Led Relationship, most often associated with Kink Culture and terrible sitcoms starring Hot Shrews and Dumb Dudes

1. Imagine a musical stinger like on Law and Order.

2. Date Night Bras and Magic Dresses are a must. For my fellow New Yorkers, visit Peggy at Orchard Corset.

3. First Meets vs. First Dates will be covered in a fun future newsletter.