Just My Luck: My Date Didn’t Like Me

By Paulina Pinsky
Originally published on P.S. I Love You, Mar 10, 2020.
Art by Alley Horn.

It was raining that night in Brooklyn. Laying in bed topless after writing all day (my graduate thesis was due in two weeks), I got a notification on my phone: an OkCupid message back from a really, really cute guy in town from Portland. Round wireframes, a blonde beard. A picture standing next to a cherry blossom tree. I was almost willing to leave the house.

Usually, OkCupid yields nothing fruitful. It’s where people who are not hot enough for Tinder, not conventional enough for Bumble, and too wordy for Hinge end up. Or, they’re a hot polyamorous couple who is not interested in me. Of course, OkCupid has a reputation for being the most civil because it has been around the longest. However, the illusion that more space to write will allow for a fuller view of someone is only that: an illusion. An untouchable mirage in the desert of the inter-wide-webs. In my experience, everyone on OkCupid who leads interesting lives as artists or teachers or lawyers or are extremely attractive never respond to my messages, while everyone who is interested in guns and misogyny and getting stomped on always messages me first.

Laying in bed without a shirt on, I thought of myself as self-actualized and fulfilled, but in reality, I was just as desperate and sad as everybody else on OkCupid. I really did not want to get out of bed. Like I said: It was raining. I was tired. But above all else, I did not want to be alone with myself. Thoughts of my thesis kept me up at night — panic kept my fingers nimble and my sleep light. I had been prescribed Ativan by my psychiatrist for my panic attacks and weed by me for a good time. However, despite my unwavering desire, I did not think that staying in bed by myself was a viable option. During a time when I was deliberately thinking, thinking, thinking, I found myself scrolling through dating apps to get my mind off of the immense pressure I felt and my impending deadline. Sex silenced my brain for just a second, even if it was with someone I didn’t really like.

Not wanting to go, of course, was the first red flag.

I have since learned: listen to your intuition. Instead of trusting myself, I smoked a joint and got very, very stoned before I got out of bed. I took off my graphic print pajama pants that had a hole in the knee (when I took them out of the dryer, a wad of gum was stuck in the fabric — I took a pair of scissors and cut them out) before I put on my leopard print jumpsuit and put on a red lip.

I produced: A girl with a bleach blonde pixie and a sassy attitude wearing leopard print from head to toe on a Thursday night.

I don’t have a hard time meeting strangers. In fact, I tend to thrive in settings where I know no one. I start by introducing myself with a handshake so strong that I could intimidate a Boomer. Though I hate going to parties where no one knows each other — everyone is on edge, trying to perform a version of themselves that does not exist. But a family reunion? Sign me up. The spaces in which everyone else is comfortable, that’s where I thrive. I can just show up and entertain.

Though, first dates aren’t quite the same as a family reunion: it’s usually just two people who don’t know each other at all. Sure, you may have seen a picture or read a bio — in the case of OkCupid, you could have read paragraphs and paragraphs of personal (useless) information and stared at their pictures nonstop for three days — but that’s no way to actually get a sense of someone unless they’re a good writer or you’re especially media literate. Ultimately, important things are still left up to the imagination: what do they smell like? Do they smile when they laugh? Do they laugh at all? If it hits just right, an online profile becomes a phantom, looming in your imagination in the sexiest way possible. Honestly, with nothing to do, you can’t help but contort them into the most majestic creature alive: They smell like sandalwood, smoke, and a dash of spice. They only laugh at my jokes, and their smile lights up a room (read: gets my nipples hard).

I mean, how else is a girl supposed to get motivated to leave the house?

In life, as a cis-white-mostly-hetero woman, I haven’t faced much rejection. I can only assume that every date that I have been on, I have been contorted in the same way; however, I smell good, I smile when I laugh, and I laugh at everyone’s jokes to preserve egos. I have confidence that the real-life version of me will, at least, make my date want to mash their genitals into me. But more than anything, I have confidence in my charm. Or, rather, I have confidence in that I can at least be likable — or the bare minimum, tolerable. Usually, what happens on dates, is that I fake it so well that people think I like them, too. When in fact, their mere presence makes me want to shove pies into their face or, worse, run away. Because, as much as I found myself telling myself that I was looking for love, I was not. Love doesn’t roll into town when it’s convenient. It comes when you’re getting ready to move or when you least want it.

What I wanted that night was sex. No matter the cost.

I laced up my well-worn Doc Martens and threw on my bright yellow raincoat before I stepped out the door. I put my headphones in before I headed to the bar. I picked a bar within walking distance. I was not getting on the train.

My guts started to rumble. My breath became short. And, I started to realize, that I was starting to get nervous. I turned the volume up louder, careful not to remember that I was about to meet a stranger. I knew that he was a photographer, but what was his name? Sam? Max? Angelo? This would not be the first time that I would have to check my phone to double-check: Ah, Chris. And what does he do? Photographer. And he’s here from… Portland. Nice. Chris. Photographer. Portland. Chris. Photographer. Portland. Chris. Photographer. Portland. Chris —

I see him sitting, staring at his hands, through the fogged up glass. I smile. He’s thinner than I anticipated, but I hope he’s just as tall as I imagined.

I walk into the bar and sit across from him. He does not stand up. He does not smile. I smile and say, “Hi.” He does a half-smirk and then asks, “Wow, that outfit is a lot.” If I weren’t stoned, I would have immediately crumbled: the pressure, the deadline, the need for validation. I needed the confidence that that jumpsuit gave me to propel me out of my bed, and it did. But this guy, he didn’t get it. The sandalwood, smoke, and spice were all in my head.

Strike one.

I laugh it off, say something like, “Yeah, that’s me! I’m a lot!” because I’m a traitor to myself and I go on to ask him questions: Why are you here? What do you do? Oh, you’re a photographer. But what else! And what’s your favorite color. That’s important, it tells me a lot about a person. And how many siblings do you have? And what do you think of Brooklyn? I’m tired, the rain is zapping my energy. But also, it’s sort of spooky and fun.

He does not laugh, he does not smile. He continues to stare at his hands as he says, “You know, you can sit in silence more. You don’t have to talk all the time.”

“Ha, yeah. I guess I could.”

Strike two.

I don’t know if it was because I was stoned or because he was so quiet, but I can’t remember anything else he said. I know that I sat there and tried to mince my words. But alas, words slid through my teeth and I smiled even though I wasn’t having a good time. Because what I wanted, even if he didn’t like me, was sex. And if I’ve learned anything, it was a good sign that he was still here. After all of the effort to get my ass here, I was going to have a time. Not a good one, but it was something.

Since it was only two strikes — not three — I went home with him. Or, rather, I went to his friend’s apartment where he was staying as a guest. There was a girl sitting on the couch, who immediately said, “I love your jumpsuit.” I thought about fucking her.

He guided me to his room and he swiftly started to unzip the front of me.

It’s astounding, the number of times I’ve found myself naked in a room with a man I have just met. Something that should register as “DANGER” had become routine. I wasn’t looking for chemistry, but validation. He slapped my ass. It ricocheted up my spine. My brain buzzed. Isn’t this the culture? The world we live in? All we can hope for is fleeting contact, no room for actual chemistry. Or, rather, chemistry felt impossible. To hope for something more than this — numb ass and buzzing brain — felt unimaginable. I moaned I sighed, I put on the theatrics. He put his hand over my mouth to keep me quiet. Trying to silence me again.

We did not kiss goodbye.

I walked home, shielded by my bright yellow rain jacket. I put my earbuds in, blasting the silence away with sound, like a hose on a dirty driveway. I could talk about the fact that I had a hard time sitting home alone — sitting with myself felt like a punishment, when in fact it is a gift. I could talk about how online dating culture makes us all feel alienated, and that there is no guarantee that you find love. But as I pulled on my vape pen (because I came prepared), all I could think about was, “…I don’t think he liked me. At all.”

Why had I gone on the date at all?

Strike three.

When I got home, I unzipped my own jumpsuit, put on my graphic pajama bottoms and a tee-shirt before I looked at his profile again.

Man, I wish I had shoved a pie in his face.