Rejectile Dysfunction

In 2009 I tried something new and slightly scary, dating. What follows will be neither revelatory or possibly even that interesting for you, but for me it’s an exercise in documenting something that has turned out to be both insignificant and yet transformational in a wholly unanticipated way. Be warned, should you embark upon reading this, get ready for an essay that became shockingly long. I’m more surprised than anyone.

Prologue

Being somewhat emotionally retarded I’ve never really properly dated anyone in the past. Relationships had tended to grow organically from existing friendships or colleagues that I knew. I couldn’t honestly say I’d ever had a real date with either someone totally new, or relatively so. However as you get older a funny thing happens, you stop making so many new friends. Your social circle becomes more limited, more insular. You hang around with the same people a lot of the time, doing many of the same things in mostly the same places. While this isn’t quite as dull and turgid as it sounds, it is rather limiting if, like me, you’re still firmly and resolutely single, even at the grand old age of 31.

Well as you might imagine this was not the most satisfactory of situations for me, so I decided to do something about it, and that something was internet dating. Now it’s worth bearing in mind that I’m old enough to remember when the web was new and soap operas and teen dramas routinely featured terrifying story-lines which depicted internet dating as an almost cast iron way of bagging yourself a morbidly obese rapist. However, given that I make my living from the internet, and that things have moved on since 1999, I swallowed my pride, and my fear, and set up a profile.

Act I

To my great surprise and delight the response was almost instantaneous. Within only an hour I received a number of messages. Admittedly most of them were either lewd, bizarre or from guys who were totally inappropriate, but it was enough to give me some hope that this could work out. There were also a few interesting possibilities, but nothing I was able to really feel that enthused about. After just a couple of days however, I started exchanging messages with what seemed to be a genuinely interesting candidate. Henceforth we will refer to him as ‘James’ - not his real name. James seemed to be just the sort of guy I would like. He was witty, boyishly handsome, smart and athletic. As if this wasn’t improbable enough, he also seemed genuinely interested in me.

We spent a little over a week swapping messages back and forth, we talked about where we came from, the type of movies we liked, regular stuff really. It was easy and fun, laced with humor and play, and I looked forward to receiving each reply. While I wasn’t sure I would be attracted to him, or that I would ever meet him for that matter, it was certain I enjoyed the dialog. As the conversation was going well he suggested we should meet sometime. Despite being a little nervous about the idea, I was very pleased he suggested it. I may never have asked him as I’m not very forward, and it seemed to be good evidence that he must be enjoying our chit-chat as much as I was. We agreed that a good ‘date’ would be to see a movie. We decided to watch Pixar’s ‘Up’ on a weeknight, that way if we didn’t like each other we could easily excuse ourselves after the movie under the pretense of needing to get up early. We were explicit and honest about our potential escape plan and that made me warm to him even more.

Act II

In the days running up to the date I felt excited, but not really as nervous as I would have expected. Our messaging had put me at ease and I didn’t feel a great deal of pressure to be anything or anyone other than myself. As the day finally arrived, a Thursday, I left work unusually early in order to get back to the city in time to meet. As I travelled up to San Francisco I felt alive. Here I was, a fully functional adult, striking out on my own for a blind date of all things, with what appeared to be another fully functional human being.

I arrived at the cinema just in time and gingerly ventured into the lobby, scanning the host of unfamiliar faces for the man I’d previously seen only in editorialized photographs. Just as thoughts of being stood-up started to edge into the corners of my consciousness I caught sight of him sat in a corner. I took a deep breath and walked toward him, playing out a scene I’d seen in so many movies before. He looked up, smiled, stood and walked towards me. Before I had a chance to calculate the appropriate behavior he embraced me lightly as we greeted each other. My response was awkward, I hadn’t been expecting this style of introduction, and I made a note to myself that in the future to expect hugging in such a situation. A little dazed we said our hellos, I apologized for being late, he rightly pointed out that I was on time, and I felt embarrassed for apologizing unnecessarily. I’m English by the way. I bought my ticket, he already had his, and we made our way to the auditorium.

Sadly I don’t recall all that we spoke about while in the cinema, but that doesn’t really matter now. What I do recall is that it was good. He was handsome, he hadn’t dressed up for the meeting which made me feel comfortable, and he’d brought with him a number of packs of candy which he snuck in due to the cinema not stocking his favorites. He was as funny in person as he was in prose and I immediately liked him. I’m sure I uttered a great many boring and banal comments, but he seemed to be charitable and forgiving and I was grateful for it.

We watched the movie in near silence, as one should, despite periodic noisy interruptions from a spanish speaking child and his discipline-averse father, and before I knew it the film was over and we were standing on the street. He’d excused himself briefly on the way out to listen to a voicemail, but nothing had come of it, and I presumed that must have been a prearranged escape route that he hadn’t felt the need to use. I was relieved. We walked down toward the city centre and agreed that it would be nice to grab a drink. Unfortunately the nearest bar was the very definition of ‘dive’, and not in a cool-hipster way. It didn’t seem to matter though, we appeared to be interested enough in each other to easily pass the time and fill the air with conversation. During the remainder of the evening it transpired that, in what I took to be a significant coincidence of cosmic proportion, we had both booked the following Monday as a vacation day. Neither of us had any plans so we agreed it would be fun to grab lunch and bike over to the beach.

Being a work night as I previously mentioned, we left the bar before 11pm and I walked with him, in the wrong direction for home, over to his bus stop. As we said our good nights he moved in for a kiss. Now as I mentioned earlier I’m pretty much emotionally retarded and new to the dating thing, so it rather took me by surprise. I belatedly, and I fear unsatisfactorily, returned the overture. Despite being both tardy and a little inelegant in execution I was thrilled that this had gone so well as to warrant a kiss. We parted company, and though I wished I’d been more prepared for said lip-locking, I felt satisfied about what had occurred. I felt like a real person.

Act III

Date complete I arrived back at my apartment, a not insignificant walk, and could feel the universe opening up in front of me. I’m sure I must have been smiling. I was aware that the kiss hadn’t gone as well as it should, but was reassured that I’d secured a second date and that I would be able to remedy it then. Feeling confident that things were off to a good start I messaged James to thank him for a nice evening, to reaffirm my openness to the idea of another date, and to give him my email address so that we would not need to use the dating site to communicate further.

To my joy James replied via email the next morning and seemed to still be interested in going to the beach with me. As naive as I am I was aware that getting in touch so soon must be breaking some holy rules of dating, so I made sure to point out that I was cognoscente of that fact in my reply. I made a few silly jokes and generally tried to communicate my satisfaction with the plan. His next reply came the following day, along with a friend request on Facebook. Perfect. Surely there could be no greater sign that he liked me than a Facebook add? Becoming friends on Facebook is like giving someone access to a webcam in your bathroom. There’s not much you can hide, if you don’t expose yourself one of your friends will. We exchanged some messages on Facebook and then eventually mobile numbers in order to meet up for our vacation day date. I spent a leisurely weekend catching up on chores and doing a little shopping in town. I was apprehensive about spending a full day with James as by this point I really wanted him to like me.

Act IV

The morning of the date arrived and I readied myself as best I could. The universe didn’t bless me with good looks or an athletic physique, so this is always an exercise in minimizing my inadequacies rather than polishing a rare gem, but I felt I’d reached an acceptable level of presentation. My attire was casual and practical for a bike ride to the beach, yet contained a modicum of flair and the suggestion of oddness, which is a trait I felt it worthwhile to be honest about. As I enjoyed my morning coffee the delightful chime of an iPhone SMS alert rang out and I excitedly read the message. A split-second into reading and It was clear the plan was in motion and I felt relieved. We agreed to meet outside the Ferry Building at 1pm. Perfect.

I cycled down with a little time to spare and arrived 10 minutes early.  James was already there and the date had begun. Again he was dressed casually, more casually than I, but once more I took it as a good sign. We chit-chatted and quickly decided to grab lunch down at a nice place called Fog City Diner that was on the way. We parked and locked up our bikes and took a table inside. The conversation was not quite as easy as before, but I was a little nervous by this point, and there was still time to relax so it didn’t alarm me. I felt that my nervousness could be considered sweet and certainly par for the course. He seemed a little uncomfortable and it occurred to me that perhaps it would have been better to grab something and eat it outside as he appeared to be somewhat of an outdoors type of guy, which I liked. I ordered a salad and a milkshake in an effort to appear both healthy and kitschy-cool. He seemed a little concerned at my choice of salad, and I realized that it may have created the wrong impression. I didn’t want him to think I was some sort of body dysmorphic nut-job who didn’t eat real food.

Things started to loosen up a little though and we talked about various things, including passing the occasional mean comment about the other diners who were also frequenting the restaurant. Once again he came across as very smart and funny, and I felt increasingly optimistic about the day ahead.

We finished our meal and set off once more down the Embarcadero. We’d decided that instead of making our way directly to the beach we would instead stop by one of the pier buildings that was home to a range of old-time amusement arcade machines. There were various curios and oddities and a whole host of those fortune telling attractions, the kind of thing Tom Hanks foolishly experimented with in ‘Big’. It was weird creepy fun, semi-deserted, and somehow felt a little romantic. It was the type of thing that people do in movies. I like movies. There’s only so much time you can spend there though so we left within half an hour and continued on our way to the beach.

It’s an unusual thing cycling on a date, particularly in the city. There’s not a lot of opportunity to talk, often you’re not able to bike side-by-side, and in some ways it feels a little like dancing. Who should lead? What does that choice mean? Does it reflect something more significant? He was certainly a far superior cyclist and I was in happy to defer to him, yet keen to impress in equal measure. Nonetheless I enjoyed it. I’ve been getting more into riding recently, it’s surprising how free you feel, and when you eventually do have to walk again it seems clumsy, slow and almost unnatural. If you don’t live in San Francisco you may not be aware that there are actually two natural enemies ready to attack the aspiring cyclist, the hills and the wind. Both were in full effect on this day, and it was almost comical how slow the going was at points, though we eventually made it down to the beach after one last pit-stop at an old military installation overlooking the ocean.

Act V

We hauled our bikes down onto the beach, happy to discover that it had been spared the gusts and gales that had conspired to prevent our arrival. We settled upon a spot halfway between the family area and the nudist area. Yes that’s right. The beach we were on is named Baker Beach and is well known for it’s popularity within the naturist community. There were only a handful of naked folks that day however, and they certainly provided an entertaining topic for conversation. It did cross my mind that perhaps the reason he had chosen this particular spot on this particular beach might be that he himself harbored hang-loose tendencies. It was not a genuine concern though, merely one of my flights of fancy that I indulge in, designed to prepare and forearm me with appropriate courses of action suitable for any possible eventuality.

It quickly became apparent that hanging out at the beach was not an exceptional occurrence for James. He’d come quite prepared with a blanket and a frisbee. His free and confident nature was also promptly revealed as he quickly took off his shirt to more fully enjoy the warm sun that had so graciously joined us. As this was a date I was slightly uncomfortable with this turn of events. He was a handsomely constructed gentleman and while I wanted to appreciate and absorb the view on offer it didn’t seem appropriate, thus I think I avoided looking at him too much else he think me overly interested in the more carnal possibilities of a second date. Being wholly unatheltic myself I did not share his confidence and hence did not mimic his behavior in the nakedness stakes. I felt rather inadequate, but decided that the downside of revealing my unimpressive physique outweighed any benefit I would derive from being perceived as equally relaxed. I fear my choice to remain clothed, and the averting of my gaze, may have led him to feel a little self-conscious as after a short time he covered himself once more, citing the slight breeze as cause.

Once we were sufficiently rested from the long journey, and after chatting aimlessly about various topics, James suggested we play some frisbee. I agreed with some trepidation, painfully aware of his relative athleticism and my lack thereof. While I actually do rather enjoy a spot of frisbee I was suspicious that this was for him, even if only on a subconscious level, a test of my manliness, a test I was not entirely convinced I would be able to pass. Again it was easy to see that I was not his equal in the sporting front, but it was not an entirely embarrassing display on my part, and I think I gained some points for throwing myself into the game, quite literally at a number of points, happy to dive into the air and fall onto the forgiving sand below in order to try and catch a throw just beyond my grasp. After 10 minutes or so of this invigorating activity he called it quits on frisbee and bounded over toward me. Quite unexpectedly, and to my considerable surprise, he moved in close and kissed me. This was indeed a happy and welcome turn of events and I took it as a very positive sign of how the date was progressing. After a few seconds the kiss was finished, and pathetically and regrettably I’d not recovered from the surprise in time to adequately respond and return the advance. Slightly flustered I turned to walk back with him to our little beach camp. Referring to the kiss he explained that it “seemed like the appropriate thing to do” and I responded with a dazed reply intended to communicate my happy acceptance of his gesture. As we sat back down I regained some composure and felt prepared to engage in more of this enjoyable intimacy. Time passed, we talked some more, I don’t remember all that we discussed, but sadly the physical proximity required for such a repeat maneuver never reoccurred. Eventually we decided to call it quits on the beach and we began the ride back to the city.

Act VI

The ride back into the depths of the city was grueling, it had been a long day, it was mostly uphill, and I had clearly reached the limits of my puny body. However I persevered and managed to make it though, I think without too much shame or embarrassment. As we entered the city proper it occurred to me that I wasn’t quite sure what to expect. We turned a few corners and James announced we were at his home. We pulled up outside his house, a nice victorian looking thing, very San Francisco, and he deposited his bike in the garage. He took the opportunity to show me his old bike, the infamous star of a story he’d told me earlier about being run down by a cop-car. He asked if I was hungry, I tried to play it cool, confessing to being hungry but not overly so. He suggested we could grab something to eat and I accepted. I didn’t let myself dwell on it at the time, but there was something strange about his suggestion, he seemed unenthusiastic. I realize now that a decision may have already been made and I was too ignorant to pick up on it. I waited on the street after leaving my bike in the garage while he ran up the steps to drop off his things. He didn’t invite me inside to wait.

After a few minutes of waiting awkwardly on the sloping street, watching the day give way to night, James appeared from the elevated doorway and ran down the stone steps in front of his home. He mentioned there was a little place around the corner that should be open, that it was casual and relaxed and that they sometimes had live music. It seemed like a good suggestion and I followed his lead. After a few minutes walking we came to the establishment, an unassuming bistro, the name of which escapes me now. It was busy but not full, and we quickly sat down at a table by the window. Now, I’m not the world’s most perceptive person, but despite my lack of social skills even I could tell James seemed a little awkward, and this quickly rekindled my nervousness which is never too far from the surface. I once again felt that every move I made would be observed, logged, and efficiently filed in the appropriate section of his dossier, most likely under the heading entitled “Loser”. Thankfully it wasn’t long before the surly and disinterested waitress lumbered up to our table, replete in her jet-black hair and too-small-hipster jeans, unconcerned by the doughy milk-white flesh spilling over her waistband. As is customary in restaurants we first ordered drinks. I ordered first and opted for my usual Gin & Tonic, and James followed by ordering a lemonade. Fuck. This was a bad sign in several ways. Firstly it cast me as a potential alcoholic, incapable of eating a meal without some form of intoxicant in-hand. Second, and most distressingly, it suggested that James was not interested in this night lasting much longer, or in clouding his judgement, a judgement that had seemingly already been returned from the jury of his heart, mind and libido. From that point on I don’t recall anything specific about the meal, I suppose it just took its course. We didn’t order dessert.

Upon returning to his house we went directly to the garage to collect my bike, and as the door slid up all hope of being invited inside slipped away. Not that I would have gone so far as to stay the night, but I would have accepted coffee and some more of that kissing stuff. He noticed that I didn’t have any external lights on my bicycle and expressed concern as it was now very dark outside and I had a mile or so to travel. I assured him it was fine, the saddle has lights built in, however when I flicked the switch, nothing. Damn it. James insisted on running upstairs to fetch me some spare batteries he had and I accepted. I childishly took his not wanting me to die to be a sign of affection rather than simply the act of a reasonable fellow human being. We replaced the batteries, all systems go. I pushed by bike into the street and we said our goodbyes. This time there was no goodbye kiss. As fast as my bike hurtled downward, my heart sank even faster.

Act VII

Despite the odd ending the majority of the date had gone pretty well. There had been no explicit “no” at the end, so I still clung to some hope, and I cycled proudly back to my apartment. After being home for a few minutes and making myself a coffee, I opened up my laptop, and quickly tapped out a Facebook status update to commemorate the day. I didn’t mention anything that had occurred, but merely stated that my holiday Monday had been good, yet far too brief. I hoped James would read the update, and in case he’d received any mixed messages, it would then be clear to him that I’d enjoyed our day together. Within only a few minutes I was excited to be the recipient of a comment on my update, from none other than James himself:

“I think we went through some kind of vortex near the military installations and lost about 3 hours - true story.”

This was all the reassurance I required. After all, if he hadn’t had a good time and wasn’t interested in seeing me again why would he have posted it? I went to bed that night content, excited, and hopeful. For the first time in a long time I let my mind wander. Maybe the daydreams could be more than daydreams. This time I would let them live, and over the following few days the screenplay of my life was edited and rewritten, now complete with a love story.

The excitement began to wane as the days edged closer to a week without contact, and the romcom of my future developed a worrying subplot that threatened to become the main attraction. A month prior I would probably have just let the fantasy slide into obscurity, to be stored and replayed in my mind when I most needed it. However this time was different, I’d come too far to chicken out now. The weekend was upon me, it was Friday evening, it was Pride 2009, it was now or never. I logged in to Facebook and composed a message to the silent James. I tried to appear casual:

“Hey There,
hope you’re having a good Pride weekend. So far I’ve kinda skipped it but will throw myself into a midnight screening of Rocky Horror Picture Show tonight in an attempt to be 100% gay.

I was thinking of watching “Away We Go” sometime this week, and in case I didn’t totally put you off the other day and you felt like hanging out again, maybe you wanna come?

Anyway no worries if not. Have a great Pride and 4th of July, and thanks for introducing me to the charms of the old time arcade machines.

Best,
Lee”

Act VIII

Saturday morning arrived hot on the heels of the fun Rocky Horror Friday night. A night which saw a cast member write the word “Whore” in lipstick on my forehead. Within minutes of being awake I checked Facebook, nothing. I started to prepare myself for the worst, though I still had hope, after all he may not have even checked his Facebook right? So still unsure what reply I’d get, or even if I’d get a response at all, I got dressed and ventured out to meet up with some friends and watch the parade on Market Street. These days it’s rare for me to walk somewhere and not check my iPhone several times during the journey, and it was about half-way to my destination, outside a giant and desolate parking lot in central SOMA, that I received my reply. My heart jumped into my throat as I loaded up the page, this was it, this one message would determine my entire life story from hereon out. Would I be destined to continue on my lonely path, or would I finally become a real boy?

“Hey Lee,
I’m having a wonderful fagtastic pride weekend! Hope the Rocky Horror pictures show was queeriffic as well! Hey I had fun hanging out with you, you didn’t “put me off” - though I think we could be good friends and maybe you’re thinking that as well. I’m not exactly a good read of people and I certainly am not good at figuring that shit out. I’m not going to be around for a while if you want to see that movie. I’m heading to Minnesota on Wednesday and I wont be back for over a week.
I better get started on the day - Happy Pride!”

So that’s where it ends, the same way it began, via cold and indifferent pixels. I quickly collected myself and continued on, I still had to watch the parade and meet up with my friends. Pride comes after a fall it seems.

The rest of the day I did my best to stay upbeat. I was very aware that I’d only been on two dates with this guy, and frankly to feel as bad as I feared I soon would is more than a little pathetic. One of the friends I watched the parade with inquired as to whether I’d received a reply yet. I informed her I had, and that it was bad news. I did this as casually as I could, but I think she could see the disappointment I hadn’t yet acknowledged. Despite the news the day was rather fun, the parade was distracting, and the endless colorful characters kept my mind largely occupied. However as the evening drew in I began to dwell on my sad story. It was getting cold so I said my goodbyes and started on the long and lonely walk home. I kept telling myself that it was a lesson, part of the rich tapestry of life. I didn’t regret the dates, or my final message to James. What I regretted were the foolish dreams I’d allowed myself to indulge in. Based on so little I’d constructed a fantasy of possibilities: Christmases, birthdays, Sunday mornings. I’d committed what is the cardinal sin for anyone aiming to protect themselves from the world around them, I’d allowed myself to hope. That night I began to scour my memories to uncover the mistakes, but after all my dissection and endless simulations one inescapable truth remained constant, I’d failed. I had more or less let him see ‘me’, and he didn’t want me.

Despite all my worst fears having been proved right, I remained surprisingly resilient in the days that followed. A few years ago this rejection would have hit me much harder. Maybe it’s age, maybe it’s just being used to those feelings, but I returned to normal pretty quickly.  I still thought about James and what had gone wrong, what I should try and change about myself, but it was more and more abstract, transitioning from an emotional reality into an intellectual exercise. It was this rapid acceptance that began to fill me with a fragile sense of pride. I had put myself out there, and it hadn’t worked. But I had tried, I was no longer sitting on the sidelines and making excuses for why I shouldn’t try, shouldn’t take part. I was in the game, and though I might not ever be any good at it, or fully understand all the rules, I’d felt the thrill of running toward the goal, if only for a little while. And although I wouldn’t be throwing myself back into it anytime soon, I felt sure that eventually I would, and next time maybe I’d do better, maybe I’d get it right.

Epilogue

You were expecting something more profound? More humorous? Well I did warn you. To be honest I’m not entirely sure why I wrote this. I began writing it shortly after the experience occurred, but that was 6 months ago now. I’ve recently gone on a couple more dates, and they reminded me that I never finished this. I think the transformational moment I referred to at the beginning of this turgid tale comes with the publishing. You see, earlier versions of me would have been embarrassed, even ashamed to admit the things I’ve written about here. The thing is though, I don’t think I’d like someone who considered it shameful to hope, to admit to dreaming of romance. Therefore I send this story into the ether, to be read by no one, yet to stand as testament to the possibility of change and the foolish and wonderful fantasy of love.