BATTLING BOTS (Damn Scams - Part 2)

First time for everything. Today someone accused me of being a robot. Not, in person. That would be particularly awkward. Online. On the most popular gay “dating” app. 

 

I’ve been back on dating sites for a couple of months now and, boy, my age is playing more of a factor than ever. I’m 59. I don’t lie. I see guys who do—they say they’re 48—and the photos either look to be from the previous century or they show someone who is pushing 70. In no world—including the virtual version—can they pass for 48. Not even close. Shave a couple years if you must, but lopping off decades is never going to lead to anything in your favor. I’m not trying to be mean. Aging is humbling to me, too. But some of my contemporaries need a good head shaking. 

 

In fact, just state your actual age. Why start something, however casual, by being dishonest? Let Pride extend beyond just being gay or queer. If we’re supposed to be accepted for being ourselves that includes as our older gay selves. Ageism exists in the real world and it seems more brutal in our “community.” It needs to be confronted, but it starts with older gays being real with themselves.

 

There. Said it. Will say it again, no doubt, but for now I’m stepping down from my soapbox, no cane required, no sudden calf cramp. 

 

I’m finding that a number of guys considerably younger than me are sending messages. This is highly suspect from the start. Why is somebody a quarter of a century younger sending me a message? I mean, 35 isn’t exactly young but, dammit, it’s a long, long way to 59.

 

What happens is these guys will send a little, meaningless text. Actually, meaningless texts seem to be the opener for virtually every message, regardless of age, motivation or the number of framed degrees one has stuffed in the back of the hall closet. (The movie Bros keeps this as a running joke with “Sup?” supposedly sufficing as a conversation (or something else) starter.) 

 

Unfortunately, I—one of those idiots with degrees in the closet—have no clue how to respond to a meaningless text. No momentum from the outset. It exasperates me. This is lazy. This is communication diluted to the tiniest puddle, the kind that’s easy to step around or over and get on with the day. Words mean so much to me. As an introvert, I have little tolerance for idle chitchat. These lame openers aren’t even that. They aren’t even “chit.” 

 

I don’t play by the rules. I text full sentences, a whole string of them even. I try to add a question at the end to offer the person something of substance to respond about. Nothing seeking opinions on what’s going on in Gaza or even thoughts about Dua Lipa’s new album. Something “lite,” connected to their profile if at all possible. (Please write something in your profile. Anything.) Here you go, I’ve given you a topic. Go with it.

 

I’m not meant for Grindr. It may have nothing to do with age.

 

But back to bots…

 

There’s something distinctive in the meaninglessness of the texts from these young ’uns. The messages, while generic and saying absolutely nothing, have just enough beyond lazy-boy “sup” and “how r u” to stand out in their similar formality:

                   Hello, how are you doing today? 

                   hey how are you?

                   Hello, what are you looking for?

                   Hello, how are you doing

                   Hello, how are you doing today?

 

Three texts in a row:

                   Hello, I hope you have a nice day.

    Hello, I hope you have a nice day.

    Hello, I hope you have a nice day.

 

The photo—always just one—shows a pretty/handsome Asian man. Exceptionally so. I can tell even as I adjust my glasses, lean in and squint at the thumbnail pic. He looks like he could be in a high fashion print ad. Decades younger, gorgeous and he’s messaging me. Well, isn’t this flattering!

 

Louis was my first. He texted within twenty-four hours of my opening an account. 

The bot welcome wagon. Oh, Louis! Wowza!

 

Thirty-five…hmm. 

 

If I were a narcissist, I might have nodded my head, smiled and thought, “Yep. I’ve still got it.” 

 

But I’m not. And I never had it.

 

Still, I was feeling mighty bruised about being summarily dismissed by my ex who happened to be four years younger than me. Couldn’t I be gentle with myself? Couldn’t I always for the possibility that another younger guy might see something in me? MUCH younger, true, but, feeling fragile, I thought I should accept validation even if it came from a handsome young man who had lost his way. I even tried to self-talk myself into believing Louis wasn’t lost. If I wear sunglasses, I look young for my age (or that’s what my best friend and my aunt say). 

 

But 59! It’s right there. Large font immediately below my profile pic. Oh, Louis…

 

I immediately thought about the stereotypes of older white gay men with significantly younger Asian men. There is a basis of truth in many stereotypes, including this one. Who pursues who? Why would handsome, twenty-four-years-younger Louis message me?  

 

I stared at the message:

Hello, how are you doing today?

 

So formal. Punctuation at the end. Very appealing. Even as a newbie, I knew this was exceptional.

 

I decided to respond. I figured just saying, “Fine” or, going for extreme positivity, “Doing great!” wouldn’t be enough. 

 

As someone who knows a little something about how conversations are supposed to go in the non-app world at least, I needed to ask something in return. But, with a blank profile other than the single pic, age, height and weight stats and Grindr indicating he was six kilometers away, there wasn’t anything to go on. I winged it with something lame—“What have you been up to today?”—but, yes, something. 

 

Too much thinking time for this kind of app. He’d probably moved on. So many thumbnail photos to click on. (Oh, to be twenty-four years younger, have rapid fine motor skills and not have to squint through glasses!)

 

A reply:

                   What are you looking for?

 

Gee. Gosh. Was this a sex question? Was this about race? Marriage? One vague question was making me sweat. Validation wasn’t supposed to come with anxiety. 

 

I dodged a bit. I don’t like online messaging with strangers. This exchange was already affirming my opinion that they rarely evolve, they fizzle out and then, well, what was it for? Even the validation would fade out.  

 

“What area do you live in? Maybe we could chat over a coffee.”

 

A reply. But nothing about where he lived. Flaky or avoidant. Young ’uns. I let it go. 

 

Midway through the next day, my phone vibrated. Louis again.

 

                   Hello, how are you doing today?

 

Persistent. Wasn’t that a plus? But the same opening. Groundhog Day. I knew nothing more than the day before. This is what I hate about online conversation. It’s typically too lite. This wasn’t even that. 

 

And then it dawned on me. He’d looked familiar but now I realized we’d had some sort of go-nowhere message exchange last time I was single. Same name, different pic. A headshot instead of this side profile. I’d had enough validation—from Louis, at least. I pressed: “Haven’t we chatted before on a different dating app?”

 

I waited. Waited a little longer. No response. I looked at the app. The message was gone. So was Louis. Familiarity breeds contempt, I guess.

 

Later in the day, a message from Xaio, another very handsome Asian man—model-caliber. A single photo. A barebones profile. Thirty-four. Seven kilometers away. 

 

Wasn’t feeling as validated. 

Wasn’t feeling young for my age. 

Felt like I was being played because of my age.

 

Scams can attempt to dupe anyone but older people are prime targets and, on a gay dating app that isn’t niche like Silver Singles (been there; nothing but crickets), I’m about as old as it gets. Prime target.

 

                  Hello, what are you looking for?

 

Still hadn’t figured that out myself, but I had a hunch what Xaio was looking for. A sucker…and not in any sexual sense. I cut to the chase. “Hey! Thanks for the message. What part of the city are you living in?”

 

Xaio vanished. Abracadabra! Profile gone. Message gone. 

 

I always sensed I had a talent for making men disappear but it was becoming my super power on Grindr. While I didn’t know what I was looking for, I was certain this was not the place I wanted to hone my magic act…unless I could pull coins from behind my ear. Gold ones. Lots of ’em. Not to be.

 

More Asian models with just one pic and barebones profiles appeared, each reaching out with a bland, respectful opening message. It was like Whac-A-Mole. One would pop up, I’d “hit it” with a question and—BAM—back down the hole, the mole-bot tunneling toward a new possible opening on someone else’s game player…er, cell phone.

 

I extended the chat with one—Lin—to see what would happen. I answered as vaguely as him. I’d ask where he lived in the city. I tried to get something specific. What’s your favorite spot to grab a coffee? And then I turned the tables, so to speak. “I’m considerably older than you. What are you looking for?” 

 

He said he was new on the app—duh…VERY new—and was going to be leaving it. Because that’s what new folks do. 

 

Exit Lin.

 

Maybe Grindr will get wind of me. These aren’t bots. I’m scaring off hot young men, real profiles people actually want to view. Maybe my account will be suspended. Maybe I am the one who has to disappear.

 

Maybe not.

 

Louis became Mark.

Louis showed up again when I was in Washington, D.C. Same image. Different name though. Is this what younger people were doing these days? This week call me…

 

I’m thinking of trying out Bartholomew. Seven days, that’s all. Fun! I’ll switch before people started getting too familiar, calling me Bart. I have never aspired to share my name with an animated Simpson. Next nametag: Hello, My Name Is Scooby. Animated dogs are cooler. In general, I like dogs better than people anyway. So loyal! They don’t break up with you. They don’t ghost you.

 

I went so far as to contact Grindr, a challenge in and of itself. I kept landing on pages where I could pay for upgrades or pay to have my profile boosted, but report something? Complain?! Grindr didn’t want to encourage that sort of thing. I abandoned my efforts the first two days I tried but then I’d get another message—

                   Hello, how are you doing today?

 

Bots kept pushing my buttons so I kept pushing Grindr’s. Finally found a spot to report a problem. An open text box! I told them what I presume they already know. But, just as old folks are targeted more for scams, where known to get cranky and air our grievances. Another stereotype. I’m becoming the truth behind that one. 

 

That was two weeks ago. No response from Grindr even though I mentioned I wouldn’t be renewing my subscription. (I’d paid for some sort of upgrade. I still haven’t figured out what I got for what I shelled out since I am invited every time I’m on the app to pay more. Is it a symbol of Pride or shame to be a Gold Member on Grindr? Platinum? Kryptonite?) 

 

My term ends soon. I will vanish, too. No one will miss me. Not even the bots.  

 

I THINK MY PHONE HAS AN S.T.I.

Okay, time to give myself a shake. I can lament getting dumped, commiserating with a growing soundtrack of songs. It’s funny how many pop ditties are relatable. When I’m not feeling wounded, it’s the song’s hook that draws me in. Now I’m drawn to lyrics about getting the hook. I suppose the corresponding visual is exit stage left in these Tinder times, but I still envision a sudden chute opening up at the person’s feet, sending them down into some deep, dark hole, relegating the sad-sack to bumming a morsel of pizza crust off a sewer rat. 

 

Hours after sitting through my closure call with my ex and hearing Taylor Swift in my head, summing up his point of view—"We Are Never Ever Getting Back Together”—I downloaded a “dating” app. I think it’s actually more for hookups but the guys on this one seem to still keep it a tad higher brow. Perhaps it’s a formality but they complete the “I am open to” box with Friendship, Relationships, Dates before adding Random play/NSA. (NSA=No Strings Attached=hookup.) 

 

To be honest, I’m not open to any options right now. I’m here for Woofs and Likes. After getting dumped, I need to know that someone might pause on my photo, read a sentence or two of my profile and think, Yeah, he’s okay. Not worth a message or anything but, I’m here and woofs are free. That’s right, I’m craving virtual barks from humans. 

 

The world gets weirder.

 

In the days that followed, I reactivated my profiles on Plenty of Fish—a pond that’s more depressing than ever—and OkCupid, a site that Vancouver men seem to have abandoned. Cupid’s apparently been playing with poison arrows. 

 

And then I crossed over into the present century, diving into the very shallow pool that is Grindr. No risk of neck injuries from my head hitting the bottom, just a range of STIs.

 

Good lord. (I don’t say things like, “Good lord,” but I’m thinking I’m going to need something akin to divine intervention to help me cope. I’m experiencing shortness of breath just typing on the topic. Seriously!) 

 

I think the name of the app is supposed to allude to sexual friction, bodies grinding together but my first image was me getting chucked into a large meat grinder, shredded down to nothing, a variation on that woodcutter scene in Fargo. Not kidding. That’s where my head went. This app is going to grind me down.

 

Lordy lord.

 

Unlike the other apps, I paid some sort of fee. This is my virtual beer. When I used to go to gay bars, my survival instinct always said, FLEE! To combat this, I’d order a beer. I hate beer. I couldn’t gulp it down like a rum and Coke or a Tom Collins, well drinks that were always mostly ice. Being raised with a sense of frugality, I knew I would finish the beer. It would take forty-five minutes, tiny disgusting sip after tiny disgusting sip, but that meant I’d have shown up and stayed in a gay bar for practically an hour. 

 

Sometimes I could kid myself into staying a bit longer. Never much of a drinker, I’d wonder if I might have a buzz and whether, should a police officer pull me over, I’d blow above 0.08. (I’m 6’1” so highly unlikely.) I’d add to the STAY incentive, speculating the DJ would play a Janet Jackson or Madonna song next or, if not then, right after that. 

 

Paying for three months of Grindr means I’ll check in a time or two. Get my money’s worth. No woofs, but taps instead which manifest as a flame symbol. (I’m not sure how a flame translates to a “tap,” but I’m guessing no one else is bothered by this illogical visual.) Tap away, guys. I really need a boost. I’m paying for affirmation. 

 

Grindr scares me. Most of the messages I’ve received are mind numbingly lite, a mere three letters—hey or sup. Are some users billed by the letter? Jeez. How does an overly wordy guy like me navigate three little letters? I really, REALLY don’t belong here. But hey is safe, at least. Not scary. I just delete it or, once or twice, I’ve hey’d back. It’s a dare. Message me again. More letters, please. 

 

People don’t like dares.

 

It’s the other possibilities I’m afraid of. Something urgent, direct, crass. No mention of coffee. No talk about a favorite hike, no question about what I write. I’d share some examples but I don’t have any. I delete these messages right away, as if my device might succumb to a virtual STI. I really don’t want to have to take my phone in for repairs. How would the tech dude react if I set it on that counter and say, “I think it might have gonorrhea”? 

 

“Sorry, man. You’re screwed. No antibiotics for that.”

 

So I’m paying for flame emojis and the screams are, what, a bonus? I have a low threshold for horror. I’ve never seen a Halloween movie or anything with Freddy Krueger. (Had to Google the character so as to not confuse him with that Flintstone guy.) What I’d be more than willing to pay for is a blocking mechanism. No faceless profiles, no profile that includes the word “daddy,” and no unsolicited homemade videos. Call me retro, but I’d prefer floppy disks to dicks. Sorry. Grindr made me say that or, more specifically, aspiring videographers with an inflated sense of, er, pride. 

 

Damn you, Grindr. As the gays have flocked to you, the staid sites gather dust, mould and an archive of profiles from guys who haven’t figured out how to download a photo from the present century. (Seriously! Same photos for active users on Plenty of Fish from when I first logged in somewhere around 2006.) I’m tempted to contact a lawyer to bring monopoly/antitrust charges against Grindr. 

 

“What damages would you allege?” Thomas Buckingham Lowden III, Esq. would ask.

 

“My phone has gonorrhea! And I’m going to be single forevermore!”

 

“With all due respect, sir, I’m not sure we can prove in a court of law that the last part is on account of a dating app.”

 

I hate lawyers. (I can say that. Used to be one.) No validation from the legal system.

 

*Logs in* 

 

No new flame emojis either. Someone just show me the trap door shute. I’ll go willingly. Sewer rats aren’t nearly as scary as certain cellphone icons.

 

HERE I GO AGAIN--Part One (Glass Half Empty)

You don’t procrastinate doing things you really want to do. Two months ago, I blogged that, now fully vaccinated and perhaps staying in Vancouver for the indefinite future, I was teetering toward possibly reactivating my online dating profiles. But I didn’t. It became a “chore,” on my To Do list, a Post-it that no longer registered with my brain even though it was slapped right next to the handle on my fridge. It joined “mop under sofa” and “figure out how to put sliding door back on to cover laundry area.” Important, perhaps, but these are the kinds of things I rely on someone else to nag me about until one or both of us screams, “I’ve had it!” Prepare to die, dust bunnies. 

 

Days passed, then weeks. Did I really want to look at thumbnail pics of men again? Did I want to get rattled by the site’s less than genuine declaration that it sought to bring together people for healthy, happy relationships? Why then, dear Cupid, would the screen page default to “You might also like…” after I send someone a message? Are you telling me I aimed too high in writing a clever little note to VanMuscleMan? Don’t you just want me to click, click, click so you can show advertisers how heavily browsed your site is? (As a writer, specificity adds character to a piece, but I can’t recall a single advertiser and I’m not about to log in to peruse ads. I have better things to do. Like mopping under the sofa.)

 

On Sunday, I took a corner table at a café and finally logged in again, first having to tell OkCupid I’d forgotten my password and then surprising myself that I breezed right into Plenty of Fish. Oh, POF, if only we could break up for good. 

 

When I first joined these sites way back when I could still call myself middle-aged, it was all free. All my clicking presumably brought in enough income. Over time, the sites wanted my credit card deets in exchange for “highlighting my profile” with a gold star or maybe dancing pickles above the header. Very suggestive, right? I passed. I’m desperate enough to still be on your site but, dammit, I’m not $10.95 per month desperate. And the reduced rate if I go for the annual plan only admits the sad reality that, yes, I’m a likely candidate for site surfing into perpetuity. Hope and denial prevent me from making an economically savvy decision.

 

I updated my pics. I tweaked the paragraphs in my bio. I added and deleted interests. Seems I like the idea of kayaking more than actually going for a paddle. (But I’ve added it to my To Do list.)

 

I browsed. POF flashed the message “Someone Likes You” a few times. I would have to pull out my credit card to find out. No thanks. As I clicked on profiles, parts of each were cut off. Again, the site interrupted my search, imploring me to grab my VISA to “read Leif72’s full profile.” I was tempted. Leif is such a great name. So Nordic! I’m partial to all things Scandinavian. Leif and I could fika on the first date. (Don’t be sleazy, Dear Reader. Fika may be a four-letter f-word, but it’s perfectly acceptable to do in public, even with Granny Eriksson watching.) Still, I resisted the expenditure. I also made a note to revisit my profile to make sure my first paragraph, in particular, popped.

 

It turns out there was a legitimate reason for my procrastination. The catalog of men underwhelmed on both sites. OkCupid was especially chintzy in letting me browse for free. They’d made it so I could only see one profile at a time and I would have to do the equivalent to swiping left or right as a rash judgment for someone before I could see the next person at the mercy of my click finger. Four or five no’s and I had to stop. It felt harsh and dismissive, which it literally was, at least as to the latter part. I logged out. I haven’t gone back. It’s time for me to accept, once and for all, that OkCupid and I are not a match. All the best to you in your future pursuit of desperate men’s cash.

 

Plenty of Fish and I have a much longer previous relationship, albeit often acrimonious. Once I’d navigated around all the attempts to rob me of my meager funds, I took a deep breath, entered a search and looked at the results. After five minutes, I knew I needed an attitude adjustment. I was reacting with horror and hostility to many of the profiles. So many guys with the same photos I’d first seen years ago. It seems these guys don’t age and/or they don’t know how to take a quick selfie on their phone. While I think I could connect with another tech-challenged man, I’m turned off by the clear lack of effort here. 

 

Scroll, scroll.

 

More agitation. When you create a profile, you have a chance to show your best self. Unlike all the dreadful annual school photos, YOU get to choose the pics. Snap, delete ad infinitum until--Wow! This one’s not bad. Almost looks like me even after cropping, editing and choosing a “Dramatic Warm” iPhone filter. I’ve been deceived by a profile photo a time or two. But many of these Fishermen didn’t seem to get the art of self-promotion or even the concept of giving a damn. 

 

One guy posted a single photo, blurry, mostly of an indistinct background wall. (Sir, please go to YouTube and type “how to crop a photo” in the search window. Even easier, use the crop feature that POF provides before you post your pic.) 

 

Scroll.

 

Another guy who ascribes to the One Photo Is Enough school of thought posted a shot so dark that I wasn’t sure if I was looking at his face or a fire hydrant. Another man included several pictures, but I’m not sure what he was going for. One consisted of his feet and a shadow on the ground. Another had him holding up a barbecued rat (squirrel?) on a skewer. I don’t know about the others. The rat was enough of an unwelcome surprise. 

 

SCROLL!

 

Another guy demonstrated a knowledge of cropping skills, showing one shot of his abs--um, no complaints--and a second of him standing in gym attire in a locker room, his baseball cap and its shadow covering his face. What’s there to intuit? See me for my body, not my face.

 

The next profile featured a stunning photo of a camel. The guy was there too, kneeling behind, most of him obscured by said camel. So, he’s portraying himself as an adventurer. He went to Egypt, I presume, but why is my eye drawn to the camel? To be perfectly clear--and this is essential--I’m not into camels, but there’s a rule in acting that kids and animals will upstage you every time. Same for dating profile photos.

 

Scroll, scroll.

 

One guy added a caption under his photo: “danceing Through the Tulips”. 

 

You have no idea what kind of a battle Autocorrect and I had over that one. It got quite heated and the barista told me to quiet down or I’d have to leave. Here’s a partial transcript immediately after I first typed the tulip dancer’s photo caption:

 

                        Autocorrect:   Whoa! You’ve been drinking ciders 

                                                again, haven’t you?

                                      Me:    Have not.

                        Autocorrect:   Whatever. There. Fixed.

                                      Me:    No! It’s supposed to be that way.

                        Autocorrect:   Hell, no! Allow me to show you how 

                                                it’s supposed to be.

                                      Me:    I know that! I know how it’s supposed 

                                                to be. But I want it to look wrong.

                        Autocorrect:   Good god, don’t be daft. There. 

                                                Fixed again.

                                      Me:    Stop that. I need it to look exactly 

                                                how someone else wrote it.

                        Autocorrect:   That’s just mean. Surely, he’d want 

                                                things to look proper.

                                                That’s my raison d’être.

                                      Me:    Apparently not. I’m thinking he 

                                                turned you off.

                        Autocorrect:   The fool! Who would do such a thing?

                                      Me:    Exactly. So, it’s staying as is.

                        Autocorrect:   This is painful.

                                      Me:    Agreed. Let’s move on.

                        Autocorrect:   Yes. Let’s.

 

You’ll be happy to know the barista didn’t kick us out, but he looked at me oddly when I said my friend and I wanted to apologize.

 

Another gentleman claimed to be sixty-one. I double-checked that. Huh. This is one of those guys who thinks, I’ll just subtract ten, maybe fifteen. My friend Norma says I look young for my age. Dude, Norma was being nice. Be you. Be your age! I’ve heard men lament that no one will look at them if they give their real age. Hell, that’s MY lament. But it’s the reality. What are you going to do when you meet for coffee? Borrow that baseball cap from Mr. Abs?

 

AAAAAAAAH!

 

There is only one possible explanation for all these ill-advised, low-effort presentations: My mom made me create a profile. Well, Mom should have had a peek before you pressed the save button.

 

Plenty of Fish and I are all caught up. I can’t say it’s good to be back.

 

         UP NEXT: After regrouping, it seems I’ve got a date lined up.  

RESERVATIONS FOR TWO

Recently I responded to an online profile of a guy who wanted someone who, among other things, loved to laugh. That amused me. Reminded me of old cliché personal ads that invariably sought a person who liked long walks by the beach. Shouldn’t a profile narrow things down a bit? You know,…be personal. Who doesn’t love to laugh? (The guy never replied to my message. I’ll have to laugh it off.)

I’ve heard it stated many times that everybody thinks he’s funny when few are. But, if it’s not all-out, bust-your-gut-and-snort guffaws, can’t we all reach some sort of light-heartedness at-will?

I ask this because it’s rare that I feel funny on any of my innumerable first coffee dates. And the other guy isn’t humorous either. These meet-and-greets have become too serious. Not gloomy like a funeral, but smile-free. I’m not sure if the last three guys I met even had teeth. (It’s coffee, remember? I just assumed that skipping scones was about watching one’s weight.)

We sit and talk politely. He’s nice, I’m nice. Everything is perfectly pleasant. I think back to the city planner I went out with a few times in December. We dug into some heady issues and found ourselves agreeing on most but the conversation was an exercise in academia. We’d both had far too many years of schooling. We’d excelled in that realm. He’d even been a professor. I recall his talking points feeling like they’d been extracted from a lecture. I was supposed to admire them as sage nuggets from a smartypants. I should not have been surprised when, after the third date, he said he felt no spark. I didn’t either. The difference was that I hadn’t ruled it out. I didn’t think we’d let down our guard yet.

And last month I got another “no spark” assessment. We’d been so chatty. But, again, the conversation had all been in a safe zone. So much talk about topics related to work and workouts. Comfortable. Pleasant. Nothing more.

In both situations, I am certain that neither of us laughed even once. After forty (and, yes, even more so after fifty), people who’ve found themselves single once more have experienced a fair share of rejections. (Maybe even an excess of it!) We’re seasoned enough to no longer have first date jitters. For example, I no longer worry about a layer of sweat oozing its way down my forehead and spreading from my armpits. I don’t even think of slipping a towel in my backpack.

But these dates have become routine. Not rehearsed, but the topics rarely stray from the familiar. How do sparks arise when we play it safe? We’re reserved. Too guarded. No wild swings and misses, but no home runs either. So we come off as swell. That’s not what anyone is looking for.

Ooh, I met this guy and he’s swell! He could be The One.

No wonder someone would put “likes to laugh” in a dating profile. We may all like it, but humor is risky. I’m not talking about unpacking an offensive joke. Witticisms, sarcasm and bemusements can miss the mark when we’re unfamiliar with the teller’s tone and nature. The humor can fall flat. So we don’t go there.

I’m not sure how to break what has become a bad habit. Yes, being pleasant is a bad habit when dating. I should save that for the lady at the bakery who has the power to give me the corner cinnamon bun, the one that is stickier and slightly bigger than all the others. That’s when pleasantness pays! I’ve got to figure out how to infuse some light-heartedness, maybe even some playfulness on that next first coffee. It could fail. It could repel. But there is no gaining ground staying in The Safe Zone. If I fail, I can laugh at myself the whole way home. Laughter for one is better than reservations from two.

KEEPING MY OPTIONS OPEN

Last I'd written about dating, well, I wasn't really dating at all. I was hooking up, only hooking up felt a lot like dating. Here, I try to settle in and figure out how to hook up properly.

When a relationship is undefined--does an encore hookup constitute any kind of relationship?--it is best to keep one's options open. And so after two dates/hookups with Clive, I continued to "cruise" the Manhunt website.

I must admit, I found the site fascinating. Look at all these men! Or, at least, all these select body parts of men. Patterns emerged. People didn't write about a love for walks on the beach. Really, they didn’t write much at all. They skipped all the extreme sports photos that predominated conventional dating sites. (Seriously, how can every single gay man be a bungee jumper?!) And, if someone chose a penis pic as their main profile photo, they had no facial image. (Did that sort of thing work? What if it's an imposter penis, lifted from some porn site? By the time the fraud was discovered, could you back out? I think I was overthinking, well, everything.)

I was clear with myself that I would not fall for a dick pic. But that didn't mean I couldn't swoon over a man's chest. Indeed, one such photo caught my eye. Pecs apparent but not too defined. And when I clicked to see the full profile, I ogled an image of a man reclining in a chair with a starched white shirt and black dress pants. Yowsah! I've always been a sucker for a simple business attire. Unfortunately, the photo lacked a head. (Selfies can be tricky.) I knew I should be suspicious. To be honest, the only photo that included a face didn't appeal to me, but I reminded myself that this wasn't about finding a match or playing Cupid. This was about some quick fun.

And so we exchanged some naughty messages and agreed to meet. That's when Mr. Starched Shirt got a little stuffy. The conversation veered from my-place-or-your-place to let’s meet for coffee. Fine. A café near my place. In a to-go cup, I figured.

I’ve had far too many coffee dates. I didn’t join a hookup site just to engage more awkward chitchat.  

How's it going? What do you do? Uh,…who photographed your chest?

Someone’s got to move things along.

I arrived early, as I always do. Prado Café. Ordered the pumpkin space latte, a recommendation from my physiotherapist. (You’ve got to talk about something as a guy tries to pull and twist your finger back into place.) Not the syrupy sugar-coma blast you get at Starbucks; made with actual pumpkin puree. The verdict? Yum.

And then Jerry walked in. Okay, not so yum. Nothing wrong, just not my type. Had the clean-cut look of an Oklahoma preacher. Unfortunately, I don’t have any creepy clergy fantasies. After hello, he got in line to order. It gave me (too much) time to sit and think. What now? This was supposed to be a hookup. Can you back out? And how?

I decided stop questioning things. Isn’t that why I’m a single man? Hadn’t I passed on perfectly decent men? And this wasn’t ever going to be a relationship, right? Wasn’t this about keeping busy before Clive deliberated and realized he wants a real relationship?

Ahem,…stop questioning!

And so Jerry sat down and we fell right into that comfortable discomfort of a regular coffee date. We searched for common ground. Found some. But there were too-soon pauses when we seemed to be in freefall (without even a bungee cord). This was work. I’d thought hookups were supposed to be anything but.

Twenty minutes in, Jerry abruptly called time. “Sorry, I don’t see this happening.” I knew he was right. I felt relief. But I also felt like I’d failed. I got the hook instead of the hookup. Jerry rambled something about being friends and I nodded even though I knew neither of us wanted that. And then, as I lifted our coffee mugs to load them in the dirty dishes cart, Jerry bolted. Exit, stage left. It was the first time I’d ever seen a “date” literally run away.

As I stepped onto the sidewalk, the man had vanished. I was simultaneously humored and humiliated. No-strings-attached became an emphatic no-thank-you. I tried to smile as I made an unexpected kind of Walk of Shame home. As I neared a traffic light, a woman walked alongside me. “How’s it going?” she asked.

“Fine,” I lied. I continued to walk but she kept pace.

She added, “You look good, by the way.” We shared a smile before going separate ways at the corner.

And there it was. Perfect timing. A prostitute, sure—I live in a sketchy neighborhood—but why consider the source? These were the words I needed to hear after being abruptly rejected on a hookup coffee date. He’d said no.

It's good to know she would have said yes.

For a price.

Details, details.