Action is almost always the outcome when fear exceeds desire. It was tipping. It had become necessary to go further than I had in so long; it was time to put my mouth on someone else’s mouth. In the previous six years of mostly nothing, there’d been one thing: a single hook-up with a guy I knew from my theatre. He’d been the one to show me what Tinder was, and I’d downloaded it in the hope I’d see him there. We matched, so I downloaded it. That’s what I’d thought the app was for – to check if people you already knew were into you. The robots overtook us and we no longer needed to reach out to our friends.
After he and I matched and spent the night together, I’d hoped we might have a bit more than that one night, but he wasn’t interested. Perhaps if I’d kept swiping, that rejection wouldn’t have sent me back into another three years of no sexual contact or dating. Instead, I’d quit the app.
My profile hadn’t been deleted, so when I opened it I saw pictures of myself that were three years old. It was almost like viewing distant relatives. My style, my body, my hair had changed. The extent of the changes was hard to quantify. These photos showed someone who seemed unsure of their appeal. This was exactly the feeling that I felt, no matter how large my pants.
When I set up a dating account I tried to project the person I wanted to be. One of my new highlights in a selfie, taken at the gym. The other is me standing on stage. I tried to project confidence, optimism and sexiness, even though I wasn’t feeling it.
I wasn’t exactly sure who I wanted to respond to this self-advertisement. Learning to picture better things hadn’t extended as far as imagining love, so there was no type of person in mind. Mostly, I wanted to see if I could break through my trepidation and into someone’s arms.
After several weeks of swiping, I found a man willing to do lots of work via Tinder messaging. I was able to let go of all my concerns about meeting someone in person.
His looks were great and he was a handsome man. I was invited to visit his apartment because he lived alone in a expensive neighbourhood. I didn’t respond. I didn’t unmatch. A week later, he tried to unmatch me again. Although he was not intrusive in any way, his motives were clear. In all the talk about me being single forever, I meant to suggest that I may never have sex again.
It was time to try something new, unlike the woman who gave up on dating after so many years. After so many years of not being able to connect, I found myself as foolish as ever.
Now I thought: “What if I could just flip the switch and be a sexual person again? That would be … something.”However, it seemed unlikely. It was possible, but I did find someone willing to meet with me. This was something I wanted to do. Finally, we met.
I made the decision to cancel my appointment, after losing all control of myself. A few days later, he asked me to rescind.
On that April night, it was cold and I was alone in my nail salon. He was just a few blocks away. That morning, I’d told my Tinder beau that I would be in his neighbourhood – maybe we could meet up? He accepted. As the day turned to night, I hadn’t cancelled. My definition of what was “amazing” continued to expand. “canceled” “plan”.
Again, his tolerance was remarkable for all my wantsy-washy requirements. Tell me! I received a message from him. Up until about a half hour before we met, I didn’t let him know. To the salon, I wore my Cole Haans Cole Haans high-heeled Cole Haans dress and my Cole Haans dress. There was a birthday party for a friend just a short ride away, which gave me a reasonable excuse for being there, besides a date: I’d come to the East Village on a Friday night for a manicure on my way to a party, not to hook up with a random Internet man. Duh. Stable behavior.
I had become so subtituted about my feelings that I was now huddling in the salon’s bathroom like a ferret, with my nails now a bright cotton candy pink. To make my next decision, I used Tinder from my phone. I also glanced at his profile once more. I saw his torso right in front of him.
My fingers were like puffy icicles. While I was typing, they trembled. Hey. I’m near your place. Are you available?
Are you interested in a drink?
I told myself that if he hadn’t messaged me back by the time I settled my bill, I’d head to the party. He replied almost instantly. He wanted to meet with us.
Extract edited from The Lonely Hunter (Scribe) by Aimée Lutkin, on sale March 1.
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