Dating Myself

I've decided to start dating myself. I came to this conclusion on Saturday mid-morning after dragging my tired ass out of bed to take a walk in my neighborhood. I ended up outside a house that used to belong to Anais Nin, the renowned French writer of erotica. I couldn't see much of the house, but it was comforting to know she had once lived in my hood. I kept walking, working up a sweat on the steep hills. I started to feel better.

The night before, I'd felt like I was coming down with this mysterious multi-week cold/flu that all my friends seem to be getting. I huddled in bed with my iPad binge-watching Jessica Jones on Netflix when the front doorbell rang. I wasn't expecting anyone, and I couldn’t hear either of my roommates making noises about answering it. In my PJs and not in the mood for company at 9pm on a Friday night, I texted them. "Expecting someone?" One responded back right away that she wasn't home, the other didn't answer. The doorbell rang again and now someone was fumbling with the handle. My heart started beating fast. I put my iPad aside and crept out of bed with my cell phone gripped in my hand. I padded into the living room and could hear what sounded like a group of guys talking outside. I thought I saw one of them trying to peak into the window on the side of the house and then a dark shadow ran past the other window towards the backyard. I was shaking now, suddenly and viscerally scared out of my rational mind. I crept upstairs and shone my iPhone’s light towards my roommate's bedroom—the one I thought was home. The light was off, her door open. Not home. Now I was terrified. I crept towards the front door and instead of opening it, slid into the dark garage where I stood on a chair peering out the garage windows into the street. My roommate’s car was in the driveway and there was no sign of anyone outside. I couldn't hear voices anymore. I stood on that chair and shook for a good five minutes, my phone clutched to my chest. I imagined this group of guys casing the house, surrounding it, deciding the best way to break in.

I gingerly stepped off the chair and pressed my ear to the door in the pitch-black garage, listening hard for the sound of breaking glass or jimmying locks. My phone was now sweaty in my palm. Should I call someone? The police? And say what, “someone rang my doorbell”?? Why the fuck was I so scared? It suddenly occurred to me that I didn't know any of my neighbors and that I didn't have anyone to call at a time like this. No nearby friend who would drop everything to come be with me until I calmed down. This made me feel sorry for myself and I almost texted the guy I’d gone on three dates with to see if he was back in town, to let him know I was a damsel in distress and needed his manliness to protect me from whatever perceived danger I was apparently in. Men love that shit! I imagined winning him back with the scenario of the helpless female. Then I imagined the opposite, him feeling put-upon and thinking doesn’t she have anyone else to call? I decided instead to wait it out. I stood in the dark as my breathing gradually returned to normal and I felt the fear slowly dissipate. I decided I was safe and had invented the sense of danger. I returned to my room and finished the episode of Jessica Jones I had been watching (probably the reason I was scared in the first place—the show is terrifying).

The next morning, I had trouble getting out of bed. I watched more Jessica Jones and finished a bag of potato chips before 11am. I started having a general sense of FOMO, so I decided I should probably leave the house. At least take a walk. Exercise usually helps the feeling of ennui that often settles over me these (unemployed) days. Maybe it was Anais Nin's house or maybe it was the fresh air and endorphins, but I began to feel better and I made a sudden, inspired decision to start dating myself. That's right, ladies and gentleman, I decided to stop waiting for that mysterious man to come along and take me on cool dates, and instead to take my own damn self out on some cool dates. If I were dating me, where would I take me? I decided first I would take myself to see City of Gold, the new documentary about LA Times food critic Jonathan Gold. I know my fondness for food and how much I love Jonathan Gold, so I knew this date was sure to please me. Who knew, afterwards if things were going well and I still seemed interested, perhaps I could take myself to one of the restaurants featured in the film? That would be the perfect date for me! I felt better already. Why hadn't I thought of this before? Fuck these men. Who needs em? I'm an only child, I know how to play by myself.

City of Gold was wonderful, a love letter to Los Angeles with its vast mosaic of various cultures and cuisines. I decided Jonathan Gold is my personal hero, for he found the one activity he enjoys above all else—eating all the foods—and made a career out of it. Jonathan Gold eats everything. He picks restaurants the way I like to pick restaurants—democratically. He loves equally the highest-end fine dining meal at Providence (LA Times #1 Best Restaurant in Los Angeles three years in a row) as he does the street tacos from the Guerilla Tacos truck. Jonathan Gold is living the dream. He gets paid to eat and write about it! Sitting in the back of the movie theatre on a Saturday afternoon, watching this film—that was a really lovely date with myself. Afterwards, I thought about going to Jonathan’s favorite Thai place, Jitlada, which was not too far from the theatre, but I was due to meet Best Guy Friend and his girlfriend for dinner and another movie, Zootopia. I’m not in the habit of crashing Best Guy Friend’s dates with his girlfriend, but seeing as I’m now dating myself, this was actually more like a double date. And Zootopia, while not a movie I would have gone to see without them, I found absolutely delightful. I was so enthralled that I leaned over to Best Guy Friend in the middle of it and exclaimed in his ear: “This is a feminist parable!” To which he laughed at me.

The next day, Sunday, I went on a three-hour hike with my friend Paula in Topanga Canyon. As we often do on our hikes, we got to talking about the feminist injustices in the film industry and how we sought to remedy them, and soon we were huffing and puffing up the steep hills, red in the face with both exertion and conviction. After we had worked up an appetite with the exercising of both our calves and jaw muscles, we went to Milo and Olive for brunch.

“I’ve decided to date myself,” I declared happily, sweaty and red-faced.

“I think that’s great,” beamed Paula. Paula would also like to meet a man. She is a hot and sexy woman in her 40s who is incredibly talented, fun, smart, and amusing; she has a gorgeous house and an amazing ass. The fact that Paula can’t seem to find someone to date I find equally hard to believe as the fact that I can’t find someone to date. By all accounts, and I say this with the utmost humbleness and objectivity, we are both catches.

I think about the guy I went on three dates with several weeks ago. The last time I saw him he said, “I really like you and want to get to know you.” Then he cancelled our next two dates (because he was understandably very busy) and left town for two weeks without trying to see me before he went. I asked if he was doing the fade away to which he LOL-ed and replied, “No! But to be clear as day, I’m seeking a slow burn. I’m not rushing into anything. But I’m enjoying our time together.” To me it didn’t feel like what we had going was a slow burn. It felt like what so many of these flings feel like: hot and heavy in the beginning and then the flame gradually goes out. I had texted with him on and off since he’d been gone, but now I hadn’t heard from him for a whole week, and I feel like if you really like someone and want to keep the burn going, you don’t just forget about them for a week. Especially since in the beginning his attention had felt constant and intense, texting me the day after our first date that he was “still smiling” and when we had a date coming up on Saturday, rhetorically exclaiming, “Is it Saturday yet?!” I missed those days, I missed the attention and the sense of consistency, the lack of games. Now I was feeling the age-old pressure to not seem too eager, to not text first for fear of seeming more interested than him. How did this happen, I wondered. I wasn’t even sure I was attracted to him in the beginning. I felt like he had worked really hard to fish me out of the ocean and then, once I was caught and in his hands, decided to throw me back. Had I no say in the matter?

It didn’t help that I hadn’t been able to talk to him in person since that third and final date. My ex-boyfriend encouraged me to be honest with him and express what I want, what I need—but how was I supposed to do that on text when I didn’t even know if he was back in town or not? I had preemptively invited Best Guy Friend to come to Dan Savage’s amateur porn festival Hump! with me in case this guy bailed, but it was depressing to think I had to prepare for that. Preparing for disappointment. Why can’t I date someone who is true to his word, who doesn’t feel like a slippery fish who could slink away at any moment? And furthermore, what had I said to turn him off? Sure, I had tested out some feminist rants about abortion rights on him, but he seemed to be able to handle this aspect of my personality—he even seemed charmed by it. Was I really so deluded and unable to read the situation that when I thought he was watching me fondly, he was actually thinking, get me the fuck away from this woman?

I didn’t think so. But I honestly didn’t know what had happened. And the not knowing was making me nuts. I didn’t understand a guy’s impulse to work so hard to woo a girl only to lose interest in her after three dates. Why would he have treated me like this could develop into something if he knew he didn’t really want it go anywhere, or he wasn’t sure? Why not play it a little cooler and not say things like, “I really like you” and “let’s sail to Hawaii”? Or was this all in my head? Would I receive a text from him any day now stating, “I’m back in town and I want to see you!” Somehow I doubted it. It felt like it was over. And I felt once again disappointed, and tired of feeling disappointed by men. Was this what he meant when he said sex was a contract and women got hurt—was he warning me that I might get hurt? Is that what had happened?

“I just don’t want to start over with someone new,” I told Paula. “This guy already knows everything about me.” She laughed, but it was true. I was tired of small talk, of the whole getting to know you rigmarole. We had cut through so much of that, and that’s what I ultimately liked most about him. We got to the real shit. By the third date, I felt he knew all my secrets—such as they are. Was that too soon? Did I say too much? Did I show too much of myself? Was I just really bad at dating? I guess this was possible; I didn’t have a lot of experience. Or rather, I had a lot of experience with first dates and sex, but not so much with second and third dates. Was it possible I had actually become something I had been called once by a man: undateable? And what did that even mean?

I brought in girlfriend reinforcement to analyze our text chain. I showed my friend Cheryl how we’d had a flurry of flirtatious banter back and forth on Monday, and then I hadn’t heard from him for a week. On Sunday night, I was watching a great documentary called The Mask You Live In about the culture of masculinity boys are raised with in this country, and I thought it might interest him based on some of the conversations we’d had. I texted him the recommendation and didn’t hear back. Now it was Monday night and we still had plans to see the amateur porn fest on Saturday.

Cheryl expressed feeling lucky that she never had to date in the age of texting. She’s been with her boyfriend since back when people used cell phones to call each other, when people used to communicate, and if you stopped liking someone you couldn't just ignore their texts. I could tell by her text suggestions that she had never done this before, never played these games, and that she’d been in a LTR for a very long time. She encouraged me to ask him if he was still coming with me on Saturday night, seeing as we were now within a week of the date. I texted him and he responded: “Fuck I’ll be in New York! For work.” Although I knew in my gut that this was coming, it still blew my mind. I invited him to this event, he said unequivocally yes, I asked him when he wanted to go, he picked the date, then he not only made other plans, but also neglected to tell me about them? Would he have ever told me? I flashed back on something I had said on our second date.

“We shouldn’t make too many plans.” I said this out loud, as though channeling, as though warning myself from the future. I didn’t know at the time where this piece of advice was coming from, but clearly I’m more intuitive than I’ve been paying attention to.

Inexplicably, I found myself relieved by the confirmation that he wasn’t coming. At least I wasn’t waiting anymore. I had my answer. That was it. The end of the road. I thought about what to write back, I consulted my girlfriends. A sampling of my favorite suggestions:

“Third time. Not so charming.”

“Put a fork in you. You’re done.”

“You owe me $25.”

I decided to give it a beat. I didn’t want to respond in the moment from a reactive place. I wanted to be honest. But I also didn’t feel like writing him a novel via text with all my thoughts and feelings, about how I felt disrespected by his lack of consideration for my time, for my schedule. I also didn’t feel like calling. Somehow his lack of remorse made me feel like he really didn’t care to hear from me, and this made the thought of calling him absolutely sickening. Part of me wanted to never write back and to never talk to him again, but as we all know, I’m bad at letting things lie. I got into bed and tossed around. I couldn’t get comfortable. I wanted to express myself, but I didn’t know how. I opened my phone and deleted our text chain. Then I considered blocking his number, so I wouldn’t know if he ever wrote me again and therefore wouldn’t feel compelled to respond. Instead, I deleted his number. I lay back down. Still couldn’t sleep. I sat up in bed. Searched his name, he came right up—of course, the iCloud makes deleting numbers absolutely impossible. I wanted to keep it simple and sweet. Express myself eloquently and succinctly. Really get the point across but in a relaxed way that read: I will be over you in five minutes. “Wow. That’s disappointing,” was what I came up with. I felt okay about it. I haven’t heard from him since.

Childhood Crush: Part Two or How I Got My Gold Back

I see Childhood Crush once more before he heads back to San Francisco. He comes over on Sunday afternoon for a couple hours before he’s due somewhere for dinner. Again, I feel unclear about what he’s doing here. He doesn’t want any coffee; he doesn’t want to sit outside even though it’s a beautiful day; apparently he wants to hang out in my room. He seems anxious, like he’s waiting for something.

He sits on my bed and tells me about his fucked up family. He calls his mother, “the neediest woman in the world.” She is always broke and asking him for money, and she never pays him back.

“Once I had to borrow $10,000 from my dad to give to her,” he tells me. “She is not his favorite person.”

His dad is a pretty famous writer who remarried a much younger Chinese woman and now has two kids with her. I wonder how his father could hate the mother of his first born child, and also see how that could really fuck up said child.

“Me and my dad don’t get along,” says Childhood Crush, but it’s also clear that he really looks up to his father. I know from my mom (still living in the small town where we grew up) that there is also a history of neglect there.

I can’t help but draw the parallels between Childhood Crush and Gaffer Guy. Another wayward Man Child, Gaffer Guy also didn’t respect his mother and had a kind of hero worship/loathing for his rich and powerful father. This I see is a recipe for disaster with young men.

“No wonder you’re so angry,” I say, playing the therapist. I actually enjoy hearing the more personal details of his life. It’s far more interesting to me than the laundry list of his professional achievements. I realize we are both in a transitional phase of our lives, we are both bored and wanting change, and we are meeting one another at this specific moment for that very reason. Perhaps to show us both what we don’t want anymore—letting go of old habits.

He gets up and starts pacing around my room. He eventually sits down in my desk chair. He asks me to close the blinds because the sun is shining in his eyes. It’s very warm and I can feel myself getting sweaty. My face feels hot and I think it must be bright red—it gets redder as I think this. He tells me about the friend he’s staying with, who is at this very moment getting dumped by his girlfriend. He won’t tell me how his friend knew he was going over there to get dumped.

“Man, I told him he should just break up with her first.”

“Maybe you’re not the best judge right now,” I laugh. Considering he’s still reeling from getting dumped himself eight months prior.

“He’s my friend but he’s kind of a pussy.” He tells me about how his friend can’t fix anything around the house.

“Men should be able to fix shit,” he says. I have to agree.

“Just like women should be able to cook something,” he goes on. I laugh.

He says his friend is “stuck on the models.”

“You should know about that,” I say.

“Nah, I’m done with models.”

I have to say his history of dating models makes me feel weird despite myself. He seems generally obsessed with hotness and youth. He talks a lot about “hot girls.”

He opens my bedroom door.

“Where’s the bathroom?”

While he’s in the bathroom, I lie down on my bed. When he comes back, he lies down next to me. It’s almost time for him to leave for his dinner. He stares at my breasts.

“How big are your boobs? D cups?”

I laugh.

“No, C. I actually wore a 36-B most of my life and then I got fitted a couple years ago and the lady told me I was actually a 34-C. It was awesome. I gained a whole cup size that day!”

He continues to stare, unamused by my story.

“Was that uncomfortable?” I think he means being told I was a cup size larger than I had thought my entire life leading up to that point, and I start to respond when he interrupts me.

“No, I mean wearing the wrong bra size.”

“Oh, no. I don’t think so. They’re pretty similar.” I realize we often have moments like this, lost in translation—on a fundamental level, we don’t understand what the fuck the other is talking about.

“If you want, after your dinner you can come back here and we can have sex in this bed.” I smile at him.

“Fuck later. How about right now?” He chuckles.

He remains next to me and puts his arm under my shoulders. We start to kiss and he takes my breast out of the top of my dress, sucking on my nipple. The exchange feels oddly sexless, as though performed from a sense of duty rather than any real impulse. He awkwardly crawls on top with his arm still under me. It feels like a lazy choice—exerting as little energy as possible.

He gets between my legs.

“It’s pretty sweaty down there,” I warn him, half-jokingly, but actually I’m serious. I can feel the heat and moisture between my legs.

“Oh.” This seems to interest him.

I go to pull my dress over my head and he says, “No leave it on, I like the dress.” He fingers me a little bit and then takes a condom out of his pocket and starts fucking me without taking my underwear off. He buries his face in my neck and pounds into me. I try to slow him down—he keeps pounding. He kisses me, his whole weight pinning me to the bed. He doesn’t look at me. Eventually, without a sound, he comes. And it’s over. He rests his face in my breasts for a moment, and I pat his back. He gets up and takes off the condom, tying it off and dropping it in the trash. He pulls on his jeans and heads for the bathroom. I fish the condom out of the trash and wrap it in a tissue. That familiar feeling of post-coital disappointment washing over me.

“Sorry to bang and dash,” he says when he returns. I walk him downstairs and kiss him goodbye.

“I’ll give you a shout later,” he says and bounds up my steep driveway.

I don’t see him again before he leaves. When he’s back in San Francisco, he texts to ask if I used the rest of my fancy condoms yet. I realize he thinks, probably from things I’ve said, that I’m constantly fucking random guys when the truth of the matter is he probably has a lot more sex than I do. I wonder if this is the reason the sex felt like he was masturbating inside of me and also why he didn’t go down on me at all—because he thinks I’m a slut, and not necessarily in a good way. My response to his text is to send him a picture of my boobs. I can’t explain this except to say it turns me on to do so.

I’m on a hike with my forty-something friend Paula and I tell her about Childhood Crush.

“Did you get your gold back?” She asks.

I just stare at her, a quizzical expression on my face.

She explains: “When you’re young, you admire people and look up to them because you think they’re special. But it’s actually not them. It’s you. You’re projecting all your good stuff onto them because you’re not ready to hold it yet. So, I wonder if you got your gold back from him and realized what you thought was special about him was actually you.”

This idea had never occurred to me before. She explains it's from a book called Inner Gold by Robert Johnson, and offers to lend it to me.

“I wish I had known that for the last 28 years of my life.” She nods.

“And the answer is no—I didn’t get my gold back from him.”

When I was younger I remember my mom warning me about sleeping with guys too fast, not for any punitive reason but because she said, “one tends to fall in love with men when you have sex with them.” At the time I took this to be a very old-fashioned idea, and until recently I’d considered myself immune to this cliché notion of sex-induced female attachment. But I suddenly understand what she means. I think there’s something chemical that happens to a woman when she has sex with a man. Maybe because they literally put their things inside us, inevitably some remnant is left behind. A glue that binds us to them, despite ourselves. It must be biological, because it feels completely out of my control. It makes sense—in nature if a male has sex with a female, it is to impregnate her and her impulse then would be to keep him around to help provide for the baby. Right? This is the only explanation I can find for the fact that after I have sex with a guy, I can’t stop thinking about him. No matter if the sex is good or bad or whether I like him or not. I find that it takes a couple weeks for this to cool off—and often the more I don’t see him, the more obsessed I become. When I see the guy, usually it’s disappointing. By that point I’ve made up so many stories in my head, his real life presence can’t possibly live up to my expectations.

Now that I know there’s perhaps a biological reason for this cycle, I can stop being so hard on myself about it. Or perhaps, practice not having sex right away. This could be the solution to my problem—if I don’t have sex with douche bags, I won’t think about them so much. It’s too late for Childhood Crush, but a good lesson for the future. I’ve had my fair share of bad sex, and as I age, it too gets old. It’s no longer worth the emotional roller coaster it causes. I feel like at this point my expectations are so low that if I met a man who was interesting, attractive, funny, and remotely good at sex, I’d fall in love instantly. Now that’s a scary thought.