When D messaged me on Grindr, I assumed he had to be a bot.
D wasn’t just attractive, he was out of my league. He was 28 years old, a lawyer, and enjoyed creative people. That’s what his profile read, anyway.
When I responded, “Hey, how’s it going?” and the response wasn’t, “That was fast!”, I held on to hope that he was real. After brief conversation, he asked me for a drink at Gym Sportsbar on 8th Avenue, and I happily accepted.
Strolling through the bar, feeling a tad self-conscious amongst the beefy men ordering beer, I found D seated at a table in the back. He was just as attractive in person; his short black hair, tan skin and pearly smile made me swoon.
We talked for several hours over several margaritas. D wasn’t only gorgeous, he was interesting and smart. He talked about current events, but not in a pretentious way. He was interested in my writing, and said he liked to write horror fiction in his spare time. I found this adorable. I found him adorable.
As the afternoon turned to evening, and the margaritas hit hard, we both grappled with a decision: We both had parties to go to, but we were both already drunk and sitting across from someone we found attractive. “I want to take you home … but I shouldn’t,” he finally decided. “But I definitely want to see you again.” We exchanged numbers and went our separate ways.
At my party, I couldn’t focus on any of my friends. I’d finally been on a good date with someone who wasn’t a sociopath or an asshole. Not to mention how sexy he was. Had I finally met someone worthwhile? When I left the party, I couldn’t help but text him. “Had a great time tonight. Hope to see you soon!” He immediately texted the smiley-face with hearts for eyes, and my heart skipped a beat.
I spent the next day restraining myself from texting him and coming off too desperate. Around 5 p.m., my phone lit up with his name, and I practically threw up I was so excited. “Can you meet me this weekend?”
Date two. And HE asked ME. “Yes! What did you have in mind?”
“I have a Groupon for a couple’s erotic massage.”
I stared at my phone, taken aback. A second date erotic massage? I felt like I was getting into “Fifty Shades of Grey” territory. If he wanted to go for an erotic massage on the second date, what would the third date be? What kinds of things would he be into sexually?
To clarify, I texted him, “What’s an erotic massage?”
“We get a massage together, and then they get us off.” Clarified.
“If I don’t come, do two guys jerk you off?” He never responded—I guess he didn’t find it as humorous as I did.
So it turns out he wasn’t my Christian—or, rather, I wasn’t his Anastasia. Which is OK. I prefer Disney love stories anyway.
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