Saving Face: The Perils of Online Dating

 

When my friend Doug suggested I try Internet dating, I scoffed and slugged him in the arm with my purse. “When’s the last time you got any?” he muttered stone-faced.

 

I was sold. “I’ll make the drinks. You make my profile.”

 

So I joined OKCupid. I told my friends it was a simple social experiment, which of course, they didn’t buy. The sad human truth of the matter was that after a gut-wrenching breakup, I needed to get laid, and I just wasn’t meeting the kind of fare that struck my fancy.

 

Doug knew what I was reluctant to admit: The well had run dry. Don’t get me wrong. I go to the queer parties. I attend the fundraisers. I frequent Home Depot. In fact, I was spiraling tits-first into a black chasm of straight-girl liaisons. Things had reached a particularly low point a few weeks back when, after my fourth shot of post-work Patron, I turned to my hetero boss and said, “I know you prefer Nick to Nancy, but the second you wanted to do-si-do, I’d hop in that canoe and paddle. Hard.”

 

Something had to change. Only second to the horror of mixing metaphors was the fact that I’d reached the proverbial lesbian red zone: I was hitting on straight women.

 

A week later I’m sitting at a bar adjusting my underwear, waiting to meet Anya, my first Internet meet-up. She arrives, we chat, we drink. I realize immediately the sticky thing about the Internet: No one looks like her picture—no one. This chick’s online image looked like Lauren Bacall, yet now I find myself at the bar with Woody Allen.

 

I assure myself that we both deserve a fair shot, so I dive in and ask the obligatory first-date questions. Age, occupation, hometown, yawn. Though the conversation is stale, we continue to forge ahead, drinking as much as possible. Our evening ends with a sloppy taxi pash and the half-hearted promise to do dinner another time. I spill out of the cab and order a turkey and provolone sandwich from my bodega man. He notices my smudged mascara. “Long night?”

 

“Juan, you have no idea. Double the mayonnaise.” I was gonna go eat about it.

 

My second date—Svetlana—had me really excited after exchanging emails for a week. She looked good on paper: intelligent, well-traveled, witty, Brooklyn-based. The few photos I’d seen of her seemed nice enough, so we agreed to meet at a neighborhood haunt of mine.

 

Coming from an all-day brunch beforehand, Doug and our friend Ben decide to tag along and assure me that if I hit it off with Svetlana, they’ll duck quietly into the back garden. We waltz in, brunch-buzzed, and push past a couple of underage hipsters and a Danny DeVito look-alike. I wait at the bar and order my vodka soda.

 

Svetlana texts me: Where are u?

 

Thinking I’m cute, I reply: At the bar—look for the hair.

 

I feel a tap on my shoulder and whip my head around so my hair falls just so. I perch a single elbow on the bar. Before me stands a beaming Danny DeVito. Strike two.

 

I convince myself that no option can be ruled out solely on looks, but know that this is bullshit when I’m on a certifiable tail-hunt.

 

The boys, my date and I all squeeze into a booth and begin getting-to-know-you chatter. Much to my chagrin, the poor girl has the personality of a sloth. I try to keep the conversation afloat with embarrassing anecdotes about my childhood. She doesn’t smile.

 

Five minutes in, Doug texts me: Need saving? Safe word is seahorses. I tuck my phone into my pocket, guilty about what I’m considering: an emergency exit.

 

Doug watches my face as Ben keeps my date company. I wink and mouth “five minutes.” Never afraid to be dramatic, Doug sprints from the booth and out the front door. Ben excuses himself and goes to the little boys’ room. It’s just Svet and me now. I swallow.

 

“So…” she says. 

 

“So,” I reply. We sit like this for minutes. 

 

OHMYGODGETMEOUTOFHERE.

 

As if by telepathy, Doug comes bounding back in with a twisted expression on his face. He has the look I know means he’s about to give a worthy performance usually reserved for singing karaoke and harassing cab drivers. I let him take the lead.

 

“Where the HELL are Stephanie’s keys!” he shouts. I wince at the sheer volume. “Where the hell are they? Stephanie told me you’d give them to me!”

 

We don’t know anyone named Stephanie. I stifle a giggle and play dumb. Doug slams both hands on the table and barks, “TAKE ME TO STEPHANIE’S! RIGHT! NOW!”

 

Ben returns from the bathroom and surveys the situation. I ask him to get us a car and prepare to flee.

 

“I think I have to go,” I stutter to Svetlana. “I’m so sorry.”

 

I was sorry. Sorry for lying, sorry for being disappointed, sorry for feeling like a total mess-of-a-person. In the cab Doug consoles me. “Lots of fish in the sea, babe.”

 

The Internet is just that—a sea. A big, scary sea teeming with creeps, flakes and people who lie to simply avoid a bad date. Now I was one of them.

 

These days I don’t frequent OKCupid too often. From time to time I’ll get some bland, one-line compliment from someone whose username is a variation on a Xena character. I typically reply with “thank you” and click onward. Maybe my mind is closed to the unknown. Maybe I’m not ready to be dating again. Maybe I’m doomed to a solitary life of zebra cakes and Golden Girls reruns.

 

What I do know is this: Being a single, queer gal in Brooklyn is a trip. Being a single, queer gal in Brooklyn who’s Internet dating is just plain trippy. To those of you who do it well, I commend you. To those of you who don’t, look me up. I’m a S/W/Q/F with 36/28/36, not so much into B/D/S/M, but very D/T/E and have a G/S/O/H I/R/L. Let’s have a V/B/D together.

 

*Names have been changed to protect the innocent, plus I’d prefer to think that all my romantic partners had Bond-girl names.