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.  

 

SELFIE-STEEM

Our ‘90s selves would be appalled by our post-millennial selves.

Or at least mine would.

Seriously? You take pictures of yourself and post then on the Internet? Why the hell would you do that? And what do you mean everyone’s doing it? Don’t f*^k with me. What has gotten into you?

‘90s me is rightly shocked and horrified. I used to be so skilled at ducking out whenever anyone someone started to fiddle with a telephoto lens attachment or set up the tripod. (Back then, there was sufficient warning to make my getaway.) I’d lock myself in the bathroom and say something about an eggplant allergy to the person banging on the door. Yep, that kept them at bay. Click away! By the time I re-emerged, they’d have used up their roll of film and we could go back to casually debating whether Madonna was becoming irrelevant—Who invited the straight guy?—or discussing which “Friends” character was the funniest. (Please. It was always Phoebe.)

Never wanted any photographic evidence of my physical existence. Big nose. Hair always overdue for a cut. Bulging eyes. Stick figure arms. A gut that screamed for a massive diet to lose ten pounds. (It was always ten pounds and it was always an extreme diet.) Excessively wrinkly elbows that should always be concealed by long sleeves. Retro WHAM! t-shirt…What was I thinking?!

‘90s me would never have imagined that I’d post goofy selfies on Facebook. People “Like” this sort of thing? Mercy likings, no doubt. Surely they were forced to dim their screens. There’s no way those elbows improved.

And ‘90s me would have me committed—okay, re-committed—for having the gall to post a shirtless selfie. Not just once. What are you trying to do? Incite politicians to make selfies illegal? When did you become an activist about world issues? Shirtless?! An extreme activist. It’s mind boggling.

Truth is, I’m not so far evolved from ‘90s me. I can still pick apart my physical state. And yet, the selfies are not so horrid. My body seems to have finally bulked up a tad. The gut doesn’t look as large. (I’ve downsized to the eternal quest to lose five pounds. Dieting is a way of being.) Still, that dang phone camera is never far away. Every time I’m in a hotel room, I snap a shirtless selfie.

Why? It’s hard to chalk it up to vanity when I am only mildly less repulsed by my looks. It’s part of an evidentiary expedition. Frankly, I don’t believe all the other shirtless selfies. They don’t look half bad. Everyone can get one good photo, maybe two. Trick mirrors, no doubt. I have to keep testing things. I need to return to sanity and that solid sense of unworthiness. I snap. I’m not appalled. Sometimes I’m almost satisfied…but for the five pounds and those freaky elbows.

Posting shirtless selfies?! Not as an activist statement? Not as an act of terrorism? (Okay, to be accurate, ‘90s me wouldn’t have mentioned terrorism. It wasn’t such a buzzword then. We were too concerned about the fact that Backstreet Boys may have actually nailed a couple good tunes. Boy band credibility threatened to upset the entire social order.)

Sorry, ‘90s me, I can’t really explain it. At least, not in a satisfying way. I post selfies. And, yes, even, shirtless selfies. Surely, there are selfie self-help groups, but I live in too remote an area. (Yeah, ‘90s me would shake his head at that, too. You moved where?!)

I’m selfie-aware enough to sense that I am seeking superficial validation. I’m stuck there. Not because I want to dwell on that. Believe me, I’d love to get past obsessing over physical imperfections. (At 50, I know they are cropping up with greater speed! At my most recent appointment with my skin cancer doctor, I kept pointing out questionable blemishes. “Age spots” was her declaration for each and every one. I should be glad be glad she didn’t say “melanoma” and I was, albeit taken aback nonetheless. Age spots are the new acne.) Like everyone else, I post selfies to fictionalize my life. Look at all the fun I’m having. Look at how great I look. (Never mind that I had to delete another ninety-nine less appealing, more true-to-life shots.) I need people to throw some “Likes” and some “Favorites” my way. Self-esteem has evolved to selfie-steem.

I’d love someone to know me more intimately, to see the humor, the kindness and perhaps the intelligence…when it comes to subjects other than posting selfies. Still, for now, surface “Likes” are all I can garner.

This is chronic adolescence. Low-level validation means far more than it should. But that’s the window. That’s the first impression. Disappointment in that domain means there is no second look.

Note to selfie: I’ll be glad when you’re gone. And as for you, ‘90s me, I’d love for you to stay in the archives as well. (Can’t believe you put a Backstreet Boys earworm in my head.)

Maybe the next time I book on hotels.com, I’ll request a room with no mirrors. That will be the new trend. It’s only a matter of months before more of us enter selfie-recovery.