Naughty by Nature

Coming up on the halfway point of this project, I find myself surprised and, admittedly, almost a bit disappointed by the wealth of nice, normal guys I've met online. Sure, it has required a serious time commitment and thousands of messages/swipes to suss out the ones I might actually connect with -- and there have been plenty of grammatical errors and insecurity-ridden pick-up lines along the way -- but, on the whole, most of the men I've matched with have seemed to be some variation on the average Joe.

Where are all the creepers, crazies, and pervs?? Where is all the hilarious fodder for my blog??

Fortunately, just as I'm about to let down that guard I've been white-knuckling since puberty, Tinder Phil* steps in to pick up the slack for misogynists everywhere.

TP and I have been chatting on Tinder for a few days - a fairly bland tête-à-tête bolstered by the fact that we have several friends in common. Apparently, TP decides our convo could use a little spice:

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I gag with repulsion.

Me: Has that line ever actually worked for you? Just out of queasy curiosity...

TP: I don't know. I've never tried it before.

So happy I could be your first.

I immediately screenshot our convo and send it to one of our many mutual friends, subject line: YOU KNOW THIS MAN??

Turns out, TP is her manager. Classy. She fwds the email to her co-manager, who sends it back TP's way, indubitably warning of forthcoming Tinder-shame.

I awake the next morning to an email -- nice of him to go to all the trouble of tracking down my address:

Long story short. My buddy Jason* got on my tinder account last night when I was in the other room and wrote that spanking response to a bunch of girls. So not my style. I'm so sorry. We have friends in common and I would never write some sleazy response like that. I got really pissed at Jason. So sorry. Seriously, sorry.

Fine. Sure. Whatever. No big deal. Sort of hilarious. I reply in kind:

Oh man - I was definitely a bit taken aback. No worries - I appreciate the message. That's kind of hilarious and slightly tragic. Hopefully your buddy's line worked on one of the chicks.

I think we are done here. I am incorrect. Our mutual friend, who -- God bless her motherly soul -- loves the both of us, thinks that, despite this little misstep, TP and I might actually get along in real life. She asks TP if she should ask me if I would be interested in a set-up.

TP: No, that's ok. She sounds a little uptight for my taste. Regardless if it was a joke email from my buddy. I need nothing but fun girls in my life right now.

...

Uptight. Fun girls.

Please excuse me while I go on a syntax-driven feminist rage spiral. Because I'm uptight like that.

Sidenote: The word 'naughty' seems to be seeing a resurgence amongst a certain demographic of men. Remember the forty-year-old British NPR/BBC contributor I met via OkCupid? Judging from his photos, he wasn't really my type physically, but I'm a sucker for people who are good with their words. Unfortunately, he decided to pull one out from the bottom of the gross barrel just five texts into our first conversation:

BritInLA: What time are you thinking tomorrow?
Me: 4:30 or 5?
BritInLA: That should work...where are you thinking?
Me: Somewhere in Beverly Hills? (Yes, this is me being completely and totally selfish haha)

...

BritInLA: You're naughty...

...

What? Ew. Where did that even - How does that - never mind. Just please stop.*shudder*twitch*shudder* I'm suddenly busy forever. Xo UptightInBH

*not his real name

Date 9: Tinder Oliver

My second date with Tinder Oliver.  Our first had been a lovely evening of drinks at Chateau Marmont just four days prior. Four days in which I managed to go on five more dates with five other men. I have never been so tired of talking about myself. 

Despite my exhaustion, I am quite excited for the evening at hand -- an Arctic Monkeys concert at the Wiltern. TO knows I spent the afternoon at the fair, though he doesn't know it was a date. Somehow I felt like that might have been a bit of an overshare. 

TO: I hope you are eating weird fried things. Set time is 945. Want to meet for a drink beforehand? 830ish?

Perfect. I proceed to pass out on my newly acquired, enormous stuffed Nemo for an hour before pulling myself together. 

I'm strangely nervous as I tip-toe into the Beer Belly, meekly joining Tinder Oliver at the bar. He's got a great rapport going with the bartender, which I take as a good sign, personality-wise. We chat the fair, Breaking Bad, and music, with me stumbling over every third word and confusing half my facts. Pretty sure this experiment is destroying brain cells by the thousands. 

Seemingly unfazed by my flounder, Tinder Oliver gathers my splintered proclamations in one kindly swoop after another, adding his own intriguing insights to the heap.  How gentlemanly.  

We trek over to the Wiltern, grab a couple cocktails, and settle into our seats for a delightful show -- bras thrown onstage, half-naked streakers and the like. I take this time to showcase a few of my Taylor Swift-approved, shoulder-heavy dance moves. TO pretends to be amused, which I decide to take as another good sign.

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Post-concert, we slip into a dive bar, where I insist upon a mini darts competition. TO warns against this move, as the game of darts just so happens to be his special secret talent.

TO:  Choosing a different form of competition will be much more fruitful, I assure you.

...

I throw some cash on the counter.

I lose. We keep playing until I lose less badly.

Our fellow patrons are a touch rough and tumble, but remarkably welcoming. One man requests a photo with me. Another attempts to hop in our game while Tinder Oliver is in the restroom. A third won't quit asking how tall I am. Seriously, won't quit. 

Irritated and tipsy-verging-on-tipped, I turn to him: 

Me: Do you know how tall you are?

He nods. 

Me: Then don't you think you could make an estimated guess?

...
...
...

In my head, I started with 'estimate it' but then switched to 'educated guess', and I ended up lost somewhere in the middle. Grool. Tinder Oliver gently cups my face in his hands, laughing while correcting me. Great. Now he thinks I'm an idiot.  

Five minutes later, he's making out with my face. Guess that dumb girl act really does work? Also, why do I get the distinct feeling that he feels like we're slumming it.

We continue this act out  by my car with a lovely little eighties style, hand-in-the-back-pocket makeout sesh next to the meter. Because everything I know about dating, I learned from a Calvin Klein ad. 

TO had taken the Metro there, so I give him a ride home. Downtown. When I live in Beverly Hills. I really have lost my mind. This is where things start to unravel, courtesy of my Spotify starred list. Any façade of cool I had manufactured vanished the second Jennifer Paige's voice came blasting out of my speakers. Followed by a who's who list of late nineties one (barely) hit wonders. 

TO: Seriously. WHO are these people?

...

As I pull up to his place, I secretly wonder if he's going to invite me in - not that I would accept if he did (Hi, Mom). Just, you know, curiosity. 

He doesn't. 

Note to self: Hold off on the Spotify shares until at least the third date.

*Not his real name

Date 7: Tinder Edward

Tinder Edward, 3:50p: Hey it’s Edward. So, I just bought a house today and I have been sent a million things that need to be done by tomorrow. Can we reschedule? Sat or tue?

God, I hate when that happens. I was slightly annoyed – 3:50p on the day of? Really? I’m trying to squeeze in 30 dates over here. I was also slightly relieved. I may or may not have been dying for a night off.  I take him down off the hook and switch the date to Saturday.  Saturday between my 1p coffee date and my friend’s 9p birthday party, to be exact.

He texts me a photo of his mangled leg that evening, stating that he should have skipped his soccer game and gone out with me. I thought you were busy with brand-new-house things? I am both confused and underwhelmed, and reply in kind:

Me, 11:36p: Ouch.

Two days later, we meet at 6p at Duplex on Third. Love a date within walking distance.

He’s a little rough around the edges, but attractive. Add one Australian accent to two Tito’s sodas, and drinks quickly turn into dinner. We do our very best to out-charm and over-friendly one another, but tragically remain a Bunsen burner short of any chemical reaction.

His next stop is a boys’ night at No Vacancy – the exact location of my girl’s shindig. I return from the restroom to catch him texting as much to one of his buddies. We make theoretical plans to bump into each other there.

Fast-forward to later in the evening when I think I see Tinder Edward across the room, but I’ve already spotted a starving artist in the corner with my name on it. (So refreshing to have a bit of real-world serendipity come into play!)

Don’t stop believing?

Dates 4 & 5: Match Nathan & OkCupid Owen

Match Nathan*: Looking forward to tonight, Stacie! I'm glad that you don't mind that I'm 5'4".

...

Ok, looking at that text now, it doesn't seem so bad. At the time of receipt, that mediocre nugget of malarkey elicited a markedly angsty sigh/nostril flare/eye-roll. Because when I'm doing something I don't want to do, I turn into every mother's tween nightmare.

Why was I was going on a date I didn't want to go on? Because of the stupid rules I made for this stupid experiment. (Apparently my 24-hour break did little for my state of severe sleep deprivation.) Let me back up a bit.

I have to go on thirty dates in thirty days, with at least one originating from each of the five sites I selected - Match, eHarmony, JDate, OkCupid, and Tinder. So far I've got two Tinders and one OkCupid under my belt. Match was proving a bit difficult, the vast majority of its profiles and messages coming across as a little sad, a lot defensive, and sometimes even downright hostile.

"We'll see if you live up to you're (sic) profile." Or maybe we won't, sir. Maybe we won't.

So when Match Nathan opens with a polite inquiry about my Nebraska heritage, I immediately drop all standards and stick to a simple praise Jesus for purported sanity. Appearance-wise he's no John Krasinski, but again - those pesky, pesky rules:

RULE #3: SAY YES TO SOMEONE WHO IS CLEARLY NOT YOUR TYPE

Here goes nothin'. We agree upon a 5:30 p.m. Friday dinner at The Six in Culver City. Why are we dining with the octogenarians? Because I have another date set for that evening at 8 p.m. and I like to leave a sizeable space between man-related activities. (I actually have an entire weekend of double-headers ahead of me, due to a few upcoming scheduling conflicts/the need to squeeze some of these suckers in. Really hoping I come out alive. Definitely not putting any money on it.)

Match Nathan texts two days before our date.

Match Nathan texts the day before our date.

Match Nathan texts again the day of. All of them cheesy. All of them dad jokes. This is not going to end well.

Realizing my neuroses-fueled annoyance is one hundred percent unfair to this guy, I will myself to play nice. Even when a last-minute meeting is thrown on my schedule, because everything in LA is an emergency. Even when I'm stuck behind an accident on Olympic. Even when there is no parking and I am forced to stow my car about a mile away. And even when I arrive, sweating (er, glowing) and panting (albeit delicately), to a greeting of, "I was about to give up on you. There's no way it could have taken you that long to park."

...Isn't there?

The date's fine. We chat easily enough over mushroom tapenade pizza. MN seems like a genuinely nice guy - a business type with an appreciation -- though not quite a soul -- for the creative. He also reveals an appreciation for things of a fanboy nature, eagerly inquiring if I've ever thought about dressing up as Xena for Halloween.

...
...
...

It's my broad shoulders, isn't it.

Post-snacks, we hug it out goodbye and I sprint back to my car...to find it about to be towed. That super convenient spot only 1/26th of a marathon away from the restaurant happened to be located smack dab in front of a grass-covered driveway.

Irate Homeowner: Who would park like that??

Excellent question. Since the only logical answer is, this idiot with these two equally moronic thumbs, I decide to go with profuse apologies instead -- but close with a couple questions directed at the overseeing police officer. How was I supposed to know a driveway lay beneath all that green? And aren't driveways supposed to be level with the street?

Police Officer: It may be hard to see, but it's there, ma'am. And no, not necessarily in a densely populated city like this, ma'am.

Of course not. Not in a densely populated city like this. Ma'am.

IH calms down pretty quickly and removes the evidently incendiary note tucked beneath my windshield wiper.

IH: You're much sweeter than I expected you to be. You probably don't need to read that.

Is it weird that I'm just a little curious?

PO calls off the tow truck, sending me on my way with a simple $69 ticket. Excellent. This is what happens when you try to one-up Cupid. Message received, Arrow Boy. Hopefully I can put this entire situation behind me/pretend it all never happened.

MN: You are seriously beautiful and fun. Thanks for hanging with me! Can I interest you in some theater tickets next week?

Welp.

RULE #6: NO BAILING ON A DATE OR A GUY UNLESS THERE IS A REALLY, REALLY, REALLY GOOD REASON

(Also, THEATER TICKETS. This sort of feels like a bribe. Then again, aren't most dates if you really sit down and think about it for a second?)

....

Me: I had so much fun! Thanks for a rollicking good time. And consider me interested!

If you're gonna say yes, you may as well do it with exclamation points.

I head out to Santa Monica for date two of the night. Remember OkCupid Owen* from my first day on the site? We're finally getting drinks. I think it's safe to say he's not exactly getting the best version of me. I again have to park blocks away, this time in a creepy garage. We struggle to find a place to sit/or stand in Hotel Shangri La's rooftop bar as it is unsurprisingly overcrowded with some Silicon Beach happy-after-hours. OkC Owen is not quite as tall as he claimed to be, nor as charming as his messages. (The latter probably holds true for the both of us.) My overworked BlackBerry is almost as dead as my soul at this point, and I really just want to get back home to my Tempur-Pedic. Pretty sure he feels the same way. We clock in the requisite two hours, he politely walks me to my car, and we go our separate ways, never to speak again.

The best moment of my entire day? Realizing tomorrow's dates are both within walking distance of my home. I think I should make that happen more often. For everyone's sake.

*Not their real names

Date 3: Tinder Oliver

Another standard Tinder convo:
Weather? Him: Gloomy/Her: Sunny
Occupation? Him: Finance/Her: Creative
Mutual Friends? A few - we had even met through one of them just a year earlier. Only one of us happened to remember said meeting. Hint: It wasn't Her.
Apartment Location? Him: Downtown/Her: Beverly Hills

They say opposites attract, right? Two days of polite Tinder-chatting with Tinder Oliver* had me prepped and ready to break one of my cardinal rules of dating and meet a PE guy for drinks. (My three years in New York left more than a few fiscal scars, if you know what I mean.)

We agree upon Chateau Marmont at 9 p.m. I'm coming straight from a tutoring sesh. My tutee and her family have known the terminally single me for eight years, and were quite excited to hear about my date/the project in general. Even their 16-year-old-son touted the normality of online dating in encouragement of my efforts. I get it guys; I'm getting old. Your pity-laden support is more than appreciated.

I'm hiking up the drive to Chateau at 8:47 p.m., when Tinder Oliver texts that he's running late. Great, we haven't even met and the man's already stealing my lines.

TO: I'm running ten min behind. Also you know to go to Chateau hotel restaurant versus Bar Marmont downstairs, ya?

Uh, yes. I gathered as much, thanks.

I go to give Tinder Oliver's name to the hostess, only to realize I don't know his last name. Right. About that. I'm just gonna go... check my hair. And possibly do a quick little search for my dignity while I'm at it.

I kill some time in the bathroom before kicking back in the lower lounge area. Nap time, anyone?

...

Fifteen minutes pass. Where the F is this dude? This must be what it feels like to date me.

TO: Did I lose you? The hostess said you were here a few min before me and have disappeared! Very mysterious...

Very mysterious indeed. There's no way I'm heading out to the dining room by myself, as I have no idea what TO looks like in non-photo form, so I head back to the hostess stand, asking her to point me toward the correct table -- really nailing home the fact that I've never met this man before. Just in case there were any questions on that front. (There weren't.)

Things get a lot less uncomfortable when we get around to the actual date part. TO comes across both well-mannered and confident. Two of my favorite traits! We talk for hours, covering everything from our overlapping party years of yore to the magical melancholy of Joan Didion. He does seem to be more of a serious human being than myself, but not to the point of buzzkill.

Coincidentally, a former colleague of Tinder Oliver's is seated directly behind us with his appropriately blonde wife. They pop over at the end of their meal to say hello -- and to let us know that we "look well together." Wingmen never say die.

Four hours, four cocktails, and an order of chilled beets with chevre, citrus, and hazelnuts later, Tinder Oliver gives me a ride home. (I had cabbed there due to issues with my Prius's tire.) The goodbye starts as a somewhat awkward hug/cheek-ish kiss before he pulls me back in for a "real kiss." Heyo.

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I did. I also took a moment to make a sotally tober video journal:

Next up: A Friday night double-header of men from Match and OkCupid, wherein I am reminded that dating in LA is logistically the worst thing ever.

*Not his real name

Date 1: Tinder James

Mimicking form. Never fails. After that scintillating opener, Tinder James and I immediately (read: two days later) launch into a standard Tinder convo: Current state of mind (spectacular), mutual friends (one -- merely a business acquaintance for the both of us), occupations (web designer and writer, respectively), hometowns (Omaha, NE for him and Lincoln for me.) Just enough in common to feel safe, without intersecting circles. Sounds like a go.

9:50p
Me: What brought you out to LA?

9:52p
TJ: It's kind of a long story. I can tell you all about it over drinks tomorrow night. If you're free.

It is a go. Woohoo! My first online date!! I am both excited and terrified. We agree to meet at Willie Jane, a cute restaurant/bar in Venice.

10:01p
TJ: What time works best for you? I'm free after 7.

...

F. What's a normal date time?? 7:30p is so early. Is 9p too late? Does that seem slutty? It's been a haute minute (and about six years) since I've been on a proper dinner date out on this coast. I decide to Facebook chat my trainer. He's a judgy man in a committed relationship. He should know these things.

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...

Perhaps a bit too judgy. I settle on 8:30.

The next evening, I'm in my car, running about 20 minutes late, before I realize we never exchanged numbers. I don't have the Tinder app on my BlackBerry, so it looks like I'm just going to have to hope Tinder James hasn't given up on me by the time I make it out there.

Because it's Venice, I spend another 10 minutes arguing with some skateboard kids over the one open parking spot on Abbot Kinney. (They're trying to keep it clear for their "indie-street video shoot". Obviously.) Sorry, TJ!

Finally at the door to Willie Jane, I pause, prepping myself for an awkward entrance. Thanks to slight nearsightedness and bizarrely terrible facial recognition skills, I can barely pick my friends out of a crowd half the time, let alone a virtual stranger -- especially when working off a hazy memory of five inconclusive photos.

He spots me pretty quickly, thank God, and we head to a communal table. First things first: Drink orders. Second thing: Conversation. I decide to launch into a story about our mutual friend, stopping only when it becomes quite clear I'm referencing the wrong mutual friend. Apparently I've been having a few too many chats with a few too many men in my outer circle lately.

Tinder James speaks very softly and seems almost shy at first, until a surprisingly harsh bite of sarcasm punches in, knocking me a bit off-kilter. I respond by vacillating between inquisitive I'm sorry's, incessant rambling, and stilted laughter. Gulp. Cringe. Grimace.

Because this is still Venice, we look over at one point to find ourselves seated next to a semi-decent friend of TJ's, and the friend's entire family. Everyone is just dying to know how we met!

...

From the depths of silence that follow, you would think we had first locked eyes over a dead body or something. Tinder James eventually eeks out a, "We have a few friends in common..." and then we decide it's time to get that check before anyone asks any more questions.

Out on the sidewalk, I have absolutely no clue how this date is going -- and I'm usually pretty adept at gauging the waters. He suggests another (quieter) bar down the street. I take that as a positive. He likes cars and hates sports, so we have about zero things in common at this point, but as I always say, there's nothing that more liquor and even more conversation can't cure. Because quantity. (And Venice.)

When the clock strikes midnight, he unexpectedly nudges to continue on -- and this Tinderella is never one to leave the ball early! We amble into The Victorian on Main Street, only to find ourselves surrounded by small children. And by small children, I mean college freshman. Mkay. This might be our cue to call it a night. Though it does feel like he's finally starting to loosen up.

...He was.

Back at the cars, TJ skips right over the kiss, and goes in for the full-on, old school, 30 minute makeout sesh. One of my favorite hobbies! Maybe we have more in common than I thought?

Probably worth finding out.

7:38a

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Oh, right. That too.

...

*Names have been changed to protect the possibly not-so-innocent

The Night I Lost My Tinder Virginity

I decide to kick off this experiment with Tinder for a few simple reasons:

1. Cost. It's free!

2. Social acceptability. I can actually talk about it in public. Quite a few of my peers, so to speak, are already taking part in its hormone-ridden festivities. Just trying to fit in here!

3. Amount of pressure. Zero. It caters to a commitment-shy community. This one works as both a pro and a con. I am less than enthused by the prospect of entering the world of "GrindR for straight people," but I do enjoy the whole, you-can-get-out-at-any-time-and-pretend-the-whole-thing-never-happened aspect.

The set-up process is bizarrely simple:

1. Log in with Facebook. I halt at this initially -- not quite ready for people to know I'm doing this. It swears it won't post anything to FB; I choose to believe it. (It doesn't. Link away, little one.)

2. Add 6 pictures. Ahh decisions, decisions. I select a smattering that I think properly showcases my sense of humor, adventurous spirit, adorable personality, excellent style, and oversized eyes. Ahem.

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3. Tagline. Pithy and witty is the way to go in Tinderland. Thank God. Mine goes through a couple changes in the beginning, but I eventually settle on a quote from my favorite book,  Point Counter Point -- along with a note about my height. You're welcome for saving you from the very public humiliation of hugging my waist? 

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4. Set your age and location preferences. If you don't do this right away, you'll find yourself wondering if it's legal for you to be feeling certain feelings about a 19-year-old's shirtless selfie. Hypothetical situation.

5. Swipe away! Right swipe means you like 'em, left is a solid pass. This takes a bit of getting used to, and can lead to some unfortunate mis-swipes on both ends. I'm lookin' at you, Mr. Oxford Comma. Our conversation would have been so straight-forward. Alas, I accidentally swiped left and then frantically swiped right to go back, but in Tinder there is no going back. Instead, I ended up giving a big ol' heyo to this guy:

...It's a sloth.

It doesn't take long to figure out why this "game" is so addictive. As girls, we're accustomed to doing a quick sweep of the room, scouting potential options, and generally being disheartened by the fact that we can see over every man's head. Just me? The point is, there are a finite number of options at any given locale. On Tinder, the options are seemingly endless. Your dream guy is just one to seven million swipes away! And the inexplicably validating ego boost that comes with every "You have matched!" is not something to disregard.

It also doesn't take me long to figure out that I am much pickier than I originally thought. And that pore size is a total dealbreaker. Left swipe, left swipe, left swipe, PAUSE.

The man I'm currently sort of crushing on in real life is staring back at me from my iPad's screen.

For some reason, I thought Tinder avoided your first-degree friends. Apparently, I thought wrong. Cue: Panic mode.

Like any normal person, I immediately BBM a screenshot to my best friend and close the app -- and then open the app to amend my profile to try to make it a little funnier. Why is his tagline better than mine? Ugh. I would bring nothing to this relationship.And then close the app again.

BFF: Is that CRUSHFEST MATT??

Me: Hahaha YES. I don't know what to do. I closed Tinder LOL. Why don't they have a skip option?

BFF: Omg. You have to say yes. Obviously.

5 minutes pass...

BFF: Did you??

Me: It's still sitting there.

BFF: You like him! And it's Tinder.

Me: Haha exactly! Those two things weren't supposed to go together.

BFF: Worst-case scenario, you find out he likes you too.

Me: True true. Thank you voice of reason.

BFF: You're ridiculous.

Me: Ahhh it matched! Hahaha. This game is too stressful. 

BFF: Hahaha! Yay! Now you can go on a date! He liiiiiikes you. He wants to kissss you. I love this game!

Me: Hahaha now we can pretend this never happened? 

BFF: What are you so afraid of?

Me: Oh god. So many things. If there is one thing I have learned in this twelve-hour period of online dating, it is that I am terrified of SO MANY THINGS.

BFF: I mean I see that now! This could be a really great experience for you.

Crushfest Matt sends a cute, friendly message. I overthink my reply in attempt of greatness and land depressingly on mediocre.

...

I hate this game.