Matt Round 2

I made plans to go see Matt last weekend, got in my car Saturday at 5 to go meet him at the time we’d planned.  Just before getting on the highway I stopped at a gas station and texted to verify the address.  He responded that he was in my town. 

Sarah “What?  Why?  I thought we were meeting in the city”

Matt “I’m at a bbq”

S “were you going to tell me?”

M “yeah I’m texting you now”

S “no, I texted you.  You were not going to tell me”

M “it’s a memorial for my boy that ODed a year ago’

S “if you can’t hang out I understand, but let me know”

M “no I still want to hang out”

S “when did you know your plans were changing?  And when, relative to that time, were you going to tell me?”

M “why are you mad”

S “I’m incredulous.  I would have gone to your house, and you’d be nowhere, you do understand what a dick move that is, right?”

M “did you go in to the city yet”

S “no, because I had the foresight to confirm with you, because I know you’re kind of flakey”

M “its not a big deal, just come get me and we can go to my place and go out”

S “at least tell me that if I had not texted you on my way out, and I was there right now feeling like an idiot, that you would feel at least a little bad about fucking up, so I know that you are not a total sociopath”

M “you are being rude”

S “You said you’d meet me at your house now, you’re not there now, and you made no effort to tell me, you don’t think that’s inconsiderate?”

M “did you have a bad day?  Do you need a hug?”

S “I had an awesome day.  I just can’t believe you would do something so stupid, because I know you’re not stupid.”

This went on for a bit and spiraled until I texted “Fucking you is not worth the effort” and failed to hit cancel fast enough.  I stood in my living room for a few minutes thinking about my options.  I was wearing a new dress that I loved, my hair looked great, I had just booked it to a last minute Brazilian bikini wax…  what was I going to do with my night?  I had a few other offers for that night that I’d turned down because I  had plans with Matt.  Could I call them and say the date fell through?  Tell them they were plan B?  Tell them I got stood up?  Stay home and sulk?  I’d been looking forward to this all week, I had this lingering interest and even though I knew Matt was a total shit show, I’d figured I’d just get it out of my system.  And I felt guilty.  I was angry and I said something just to be mean, because nothing else was getting a reaction. 

Matt “let me know if you feel like apologizing.” 

Sarah “I’m sorry that I was mean, that wasn’t necessary, I was frustrated that you couldn’t understand why that was messed up thing to do.”

Matt “and I’m sorry I didn’t tell you.  I probably should have”

Wow, ok. 

“and as soon as I get you home you’re so getting spanked for being rude to me”

There it is. 

We went in to Philly, got drunk, went to a party at a club his friend owned.  I got hit on by earnest 22 year olds, because the smiling, wide-eyed girl in the Anthropologie dress is a lot more approachable than the tough looking hipster girls with septum piercings.  One of those beautiful, bad-ass hipster girls hung out with  me in the filthy bathroom asking if her boyfriend had said anything about her to Matt, if she should say she loved him first or wait for him to say it, and did I think it was too soon for her to move in with him?  I should have asked her which Sex and the City character was her favorite.  We danced in the DJ booth while the club owner sprayed a shook up bottle of champagne over the crowd. 

Later, after having sex, Matt was surveying my body and said, as he’d said before, “I want to buy you a really tight red dress and take you out.  You’d look so fucking hot, you should wear tighter clothes.” 

“Why?”  I asked. 

“Like, every guy there would be trying to hit on you,” he said, beaming

“Why would I want that?” 

“Well, it would make me look good!” 

Last year I might have actually engaged in this conversation, that I buy my own clothes, thanks, that I don’t really like red, that while I can’t say I don’t like being hit on, I appreciate quality over quantity, and that making him look good was in no way my job, or even one I was qualified for.  I would have explained to him that while he might find soft, fleshy curves irresistible, this was not the mainstream beauty standard.  I would have told him he was wrong for thinking I was a trophy, for every reason.  But I was exhausted, so I just fell asleep. 

Matt

I don’t even know why I wanted to meet up with Matt, based on his Ok Cupid profile.  Yes, he was 6’4, but he was also a 50% match.  He’s a very striking presence- he’s tall, impossibly skinny (his hips are probably half the width of mine), tattoos haphazardly scattered across his torso, not quite covered by a thin wifebeater.  His jeans fit close to his lean body, and were held together by several safety pins at the fly.  He always wore boots with a 2 inch heel.  He had piles of red hair in loose curls surrounding his sharply angular face.  His pale blue eyes would fixate intensely in one direction and abruptly shift to another equally intense focus, the way a squirrel moves.  I didn’t plan this date very well at all, having tacked it on at the end of another, last minute.  I was wearing a conservative BCBG sundress, with lots of ruffles, in a print of  white carousel horses on a bright blue background, with pearl earrings and espadrilles.  I looked like a character on Glee.  I’d also spent all day in the sun at a street fair on date #1, and my proximity to someone so unconventionally and effortlessly attractive made me aware of how wilted and plain I looked. 

Matt was a drug dealer, in the sense that he made his entire living by selling drugs.  He did not pay taxes, but he did collect food stamps.  “It’s not that I’m poor!” he said, “It’s just so I have more money to spend on cigarettes and booze.”  He lived in a house that he owned, and rented some rooms out to friends.  He did not have any kind of credit card or even a checking account.  He kept his cash and his weed in a Spiderman lunchbox.  He had this amazing dog, a Boxer, whose sweetness and affection offset Matt’s emotional detachment.  He had been a vegetarian since he was 10.  It had nothing to do with his own health, or carbon footprints; he just couldn’t tolerate the idea of killing animals.

He holds the record for my shortest duration of time between meeting someone and having sex.  We drank some wine in the park and played with his awesome dog and had one of those very frank Ok Cupid date conversations where you hash out your sexual interests right up front, and I think this made me feel somewhat at ease with him, quickly.  (Although one is never totally at ease around Matt- while he is unfailingly honest, he is also unpredictable.  There’s an absence of vulnerability that is captivating but makes him seem not entirely human.)  We made out and he told me he didn’t think I was very good at kissing.  (He also told me all the bands I like sucked, but I’m used to hearing that.)  This wasn’t negging; it wasn’t that deliberate.  Matt didn’t pull any shit like that, he just said whatever was on his mind regardless of your feelings. 

The sex was addictive immediately.  Maybe his approach of not giving a fuck was contagious, maybe it was he was so far removed from my everyday life that inhibitions went out the window.  And like any narcissist, he was great at it.  Narcissists care so intensely about being liked that they notice every slight physical or auditory response, they know exactly what it means, and they use that information to make you like it even more.  They do this in conversation too, but it leaves me feeling unsettled and overexposed.  Sex is a much better venue.  Of course it made me want to be just as good.  Better.  The fucking best.  First-time sex is usually plagued by a few main concerns- Is he enjoying himself, am I enjoying myself, and does my body look alright.  Matt left me with no doubts about any of those.  He was truly enthusiastic about every inch of my body, including the parts I hated.  The praise was not for my benefit. He’s say he loved my fat ass or the way my thighs jiggled when I came.  At 20, I’d have died of shame if someone said that to me.  Instead I marveled at the thought, that maybe he really did?

It was that unyielding honesty that I liked most about him, and why I kept going back for more.  He could not stop telling me I was hot, that my body was perfect, that our sex was amazing.  Hearing all that from anyone else would have been embarrassing and contrived.  In fact I’d never believe that from anyone else, because objectively I am not that beautiful and my body is dramatically different from the cultural ideal.  But Matt wasn’t someone who said anything just to be nice.  He was basically a very charismatic toddler.  He didn’t really acknowledge any aspect of the world that didn’t serve his own self interest.  There was no semblance of a social conscious, and morality was entirely based on what he could get away with.

Don Draper is a shitty person, objectively, but he’s a protagonist that most people seem to really like because the shitty things he does are things we’ve thought about.  Maybe we’ve all wanted to be womanizing hedonists at some point, but our damn conscience gets in the way.  We can’t, and we don’t really want to, but damn is it fun to watch.  Going out with Matt was a way to indulge in this world where I get to live everything I thought I wanted so desperately when I was younger.  What would it be like to be so popular that everyone in the club knows you and is visibly excited when you walk in?  To get access to every VIP room and every stash of free drinks?  To have strangers tell you you’re beautiful all throughout the night?  To go out with someone who wants to make sure all his friends see him with you?  To be so intensely desired by someone who seems like he could have anyone? 

When you’re young, being popular and desirable seem hugely important, probably even more so when they’re as unattainable as they seemed to me.  It’s almost always just a scapegoat- maybe if I was thin, if boys wanted me, if I went to parties, then maybe this sense that everything about me is wrong would go away.  The most gratifying part of growing up is how, when that cloud is lifted, those things don’t matter, and you realize they never did.  But to Matt, that was still what he needed.

One night, at one of many hipster bars, he didn’t get the rockstar treatment he’d come to expect.  A significant fraction of the people there didn’t know who he was, and this threw him into a kind of angry funk.  “There’s just kids, when did they even get here, yesterday?  I’ve been in this scene forever, I help my boy build that fucking bar!”  Hipsterism seems based on cultivating a semblance of apathy, while at the same time caring so fucking much.  How exhausting!

Suddenly I felt so bad for him.  What a terrible fate, to be 15 forever!  To worry about what a room full of strangers thinks about you!  In an attempt to salvage the rest of the night, I tried to remind him of the great circle of friends he had, how those people are so much more valuable than some 20 year old hipster girl from New Jersey, how they’d all gone out of their way to take care of him when he broke his leg jumping off a bridge.  (I knew these were huge sources of pride, both the injury and the support from his friends.)  As it came out of my mouth I worried it sounded trite, but it seemed to do the trick. 

Why was I even trying?  I had little attachment to Matt, and even less respect for him.  I was fascinated by him, and a little seduced by the idea of being cool and beautiful, by association.  Everything about him had seemed so effortless, but now the cracks were starting to show.  After that night I took a break from him, and started dating someone else.  Over the course of the next year he’d periodically check in via text, asking if I was single yet, saying all kinds of generous things about my body.  I sort of knew I’d see him again at some point.

Craigslist is the worst.

Before I had the balls to sign up for Ok Cupid, I would sometimes read Craigslist personals posts.  I think I did this because I wanted to be able to say, “look, there are plenty of guys out there, don’t even worry about it!” to try to remind myself that boredom and loneliness were fixable problems, but without having to sign up for anything, thus admitting to myself and the internet that I was bored or lonely.  Don’t do this.  It will have the opposite effect, instead confirming your suspicion that everyone is terrible.  It also seems very inhuman, all that faceless and nameless black text with acronyms and stats.  The apparent number one priority of any Craigslist post is anonymity, and that fear comes across pretty clearly.  It’s also hugely anachronistic, that compartmentalized view of the internet vs real life.  Craigslist- great for furniture, not so much for people. 

I answered a post from someone who lived reasonably close, had a good job, and was 6’4.  6’4 is irresistible to me, for some reason.  I have made out with strangers because they’re 6’4.  We met up at a bar halfway in between and talked for a while.  He seemed extremely into me right away, which was flattering at the time but probably should have been a warning sign.  We made out in his car and he asked me to go out again the next night. 

We went out to dinner in my neighborhood, and went back to my apartment to make out.  While that went down, he basically asked to be exclusive.  “I want to take you off the market.”  I tried to delicately explain that that was insane and that the phrasing was pretty troubling to me.  

“Oh, I don’t mean to rush you,” he said.  “We don’t have to do anything, you know, physical.  I think sex just messes things up.” 

Well that’s the most insane thing I’ve ever heard.  I chalked it up to a misguided attempt to be non-creepy, or gentlemanly, or whatever people call it. 

“That has never, ever been my experience,” I said.  “But yeah, we don’t have to do anything right now if you’re not comfortable.  Let’s just see what happens.  But it seems a little fast to be exclusive; we met, like, 24 hours ago.”  And who the hell would be exclusive with someone if they hadn’t had sex yet?

Anyway, we had another dinner date, in his neighborhood.  Most of the conversation once again centered on him telling me how pretty I was and how happy he was to be seen with me in public.  How does someone even respond to that?  Maybe really beautiful women have a response at the ready, but I lack any experience in the area.  I just did what I always do, change the subject to food. 

He does not like any food.  He orders salads with no dressing.  Not on the side, no dressing.  Dressing has “too much flavor.”  He does not like Chinese food, Indian food, Mexican food.  He does not like guacamole.  He has no interest in sushi, but, “If a pretty girl tells me to eat sushi, hell, I’ll eat it!”  What?  No.  Oh, you know what, I’m just now realizing that might have been a euphemism.  Actually, probably not. 

So we went back to his place and I made a good faith effort to fool around.  Verbally, he could not have been more enthusiastic or more… narrative?  “I’m totally touching your boob, wow, oh my god they’re both really nice!” “oh man, that’s your butt!” “Oh my god, my dick is in your mouth, you are so totally my girlfriend!”  I did actually stop to correct that.   When I got nowhere after like, an hour, I asked him if everything was alright.  He didn’t seem to think anything was out of the ordinary.  I tried to kindly point out that he didn’t seem, physically, like he was getting anything out of it.  He blamed it on the beers. 

2 beers. 

3 hours. 

6’4. 

It became increasingly clear that he had never had any kind of sex before, which obviously bummed me all the way out (he was like, 32?) but also kind of made me want to help him.  I came over one more time, we went to a shitty movie, glaringly sober, and then tried again, and oh my god you guys it was by far the worst attempt at sex of my entire life, including all the awkward teenage fumbling integrated together.  I can’t even. 

We had already establish that I was sleeping over, so I did.  I woke up early in the morning when the sun came up, and lay very still hoping not to wake him too.  I looked around the room mentally logging the coordinates of my dress, purse, left shoe, right shoe, playing out escape strategies in my head.  If I get out of the bed very, very slowly will he stay asleep?  If I carry my shoes can I get down the stairs without making a sound?  Will he hear my car start?  Will it matter by then?  I stared down the large unopened box of Variety Pack condoms he had so proudly presented the night before (“We should try all of these!”) for another 20 or 30 minutes, wondering why anyone would need that many kinds of condoms or if anyone really has a positive experience with “ribbed for her pleasure” condoms when he started to stir.  Oh good,  I thought.  I can leave now. 

“I’m glad you’re still here,” he said.  Fuck, he knows!  “I had a dream you left in the middle of the night.” 

“Oh, I wouldn’t have done that.” I said.  I’d like to think I wouldn’t have gone through with it.  But god, that was heartbreaking.  “Why, did you think I was going to?”

“I don’t know; it was just a dream”

I told him I had to get to the gym (true story) and booked it out of there.  Later I sent him an email saying we were in different places.  Meaningless clichés are an awesome way to end things, I have found. 

He responded, “Yeah, I got the sense you’re still very young and not really ready for an adult relationship.”

I’ve gone out with about 20 different people off the internet, mostly Ok Cupid.  I filled up my allotted storage space with messages.  I have answered over 1,400 questions.  I have completed my profile and I have 6 relatively recent and normal-looking pictures up.  I’m a sucker for a high match percent, a height greater than 6’, a genuine compliment, or a distance less than 10 miles.  Two of those will pretty much always get me out the door and to a bar.  My profile is not exceptionally clever, I am not above-average looking, but I seem to get a boatload of messages.  I’m starting to think I should list “Ok Cupid” as one of the things I’m good at on my Ok Cupid profile.

I will probably sound like some kind of monster for saying this, but I really like dating, probably as much as I like being in a relationship.  I don’t really see it as a means to an end.  I think a lot of the aspects of life people tend to agonize over become infinitely more enjoyable if you stop thinking about the end game and enjoy the process.  The concept of deliberately looking for a long term boyfriend makes no sense to me- imagining a relationship style and then seeking out a human person to fit into it can’t possibly lead to anything but disappointment, right?  But then again, that’s also how I bought my house; I didn’t decide to buy a house and then go look for one, I saw one and fell in love with it and decided to buy that house.

I’ve had lots of first dates that were also last dates, but very few were actually unpleasant.  A few short term things that ran their course, a few I still have some contact with, and one long term (9 month) relationship.  I certainly wasn’t looking for something that “serious,” and if I had been I might have ruled him out, probably for the same reasons we ultimately broke up.  One might say that I wasted my time, that I should have had a more specific definition of what I was looking for so that I didn’t end up in a relationship that wasn’t going to last forever.  I have no second thoughts about breaking up, but I think calling it a waste of time is horribly unfair to the relationship, and to him.

And so I find myself setting out on Round 2 of Ok Cupid, feeling a little sheepish when I see people I looked at a year ago, or even people I went out with.  And I feel borderline-creepy when I go out with a guy, and he gets all edgy and whispers conspiratorially, “you know, I never thought I’d be the kind of person who would meet someone off the internet!” 

Really?  Because I always knew that I was exactly that kind of person.