3. Meet Mr. Right Through Online Dating, Part 1

                I have a number of friends who met their spouse through online dating.  I, myself, have not had much success.  In 2009, I tried Match.com and Compatible Partners (eHarmony’s gay dating site they created after they were sued).  Match.com got me exactly one date with a guy who blatantly lied about not only his weight (which he underreported by at least 80 pounds rendering him practically unrecognizable when I got to the restaurant) and his drinking; one of the things we supposedly had in common.  When we placed our dinner order, he chose a beer to go with his eggplant parmigiana.  Even I know you don’t drink beer with Italian food unless it’s pizza.  And he drank four over the course of the meal.  This experience has taught me to pick the restaurant for dates so even if they are disastrous, the food will be good.  No flies on me, y’all.  Compatible Partners gave me no dates whatsoever.  Methinks Dr. Neil Clark Warren’s heart is not really into perfecting the algorithm for this site. 

                When I moved to California in 2011, it was to the San Francisco Bay Area, which is, as we were taught in The Southern Baptist South, Sodom to Los Angeles’ Gomorrah.  Gay Central.  I can find a date here, surely.   Again I turned to Match.com but this time there were no dates.  Again, I turned to Compatible Partners, because they match you on the inside with ever how many categories you can fill out in the two and a half hours it took to complete.  They are thorough, people.  Thorough like a strip search in jail…or so I’ve been told.  They literally had no matches for me.  When I called to question how this could be, they admitted they were stumped and they actually offered a refund, which I accepted.

                I know what you’re thinking because a number of you have asked, “Dustin are you being too picky?”  And I assure you I am not.  All I want is to find a man who is a Christian, isn’t a career criminal or gold digger, doesn’t want to have sex on the first date and isn’t currently starring in a reality show.  I know, I know, Je suis delirious.

                While I still lived in the Bay Area, I even tried the personals section of Craigslist (it worked for a friend) and all it got me was a weird invitation to someone’s house with a request to wear track pants from the 70s.  No thank you, serial killer.  And I am well aware of the nastiness that is Grindr and I will have none of that.  I am a man of quality, people. QUALITY!

                When I moved to Long Beach I decided to try Match.com once more for reasons I have long since forgotten.  Surprisingly, I met a few people.  The first resulted in a date where he quoted the mediocre movie ‘Sordid Lives’ at me, as if it were his original thoughts.  When I grew weary from the onslaught, I said, “You know, I’ve seen the movie.”  At which point he abruptly stopped talking for the remainder of the meal.  Afterward an awkward but tasty Mediterranean meal, we went to Sweet Jill’s bakery to get an amazing cinnamon roll because I was having my complete date.  When he told me he found the cinnamon roll to be mediocre, I told him I was taking both my leave and the leftovers. 

                The second guy was great.  We had an incredible first date.  We texted each other throughout the week and then made plans for the next date.  It seemed to be going very well.  He then said, “I’m not feeling chemistry” and abruptly left me sitting there thinking, “Why did he leave?  Was it something I said?  Would it be rude to finish his brownie?”

                The third guy and I had some great conversations via text and e-mail.  Apparently, he was too cheap to buy a full membership because after a week and a half (I was on work travel and couldn’t meet) he asked that we exchange photos.  He sent his and while he was a little more leather biker murderer than I normally like, I wasn’t going to be rude.  When he received my photo he abruptly stopped texting and I have not heard from him since.  Now, I know people aren’t composing sonnets or love songs about my beauty, but C’MON!  Surely I’m cute enough to look at while eating free food for pity's sake.

                The last guy I met at least introduced me to new vocabulary; specifically the term “boat trash”.  It’s like trailer trash but in the water.  However, at this point he was simply someone who seemed very excited to meet me and with who I had several interesting conversations.  We made plans for a late lunch first date.  I was on a weekend trip to Palm Springs and was to return early for said date.  I called him to confirm the day before and we decided on a time (3:00 pm) and a restaurant (Seville so we could have tapas with a side of flamenco dancers).  I put on a great date, y’all. 

I arrived slightly early because that is how I roll.  When the time came for him to arrive, he did not.  When he was 15 minutes late, I became concerned.  I called and left a message and heard nothing back.  I went home and around 9:00 pm received a phone call saying, “I’m so sorry.  I fell asleep on my boat.  When I woke up I forgot about our date.  You should have reminded me.”  At this point I don’t know if he has a yacht, something akin to the door from Titanic that selfish girl floated on or something in between.  And at this point it doesn’t matter.

I replied, “I reminded you yesterday and I left you a voice mail when you didn’t show.”  He replied, “I don’t have a cell phone.  It’s a landline.  And I’m so sorry.  I owe you lunch.”

I said, “Yes, you do” thinking who doesn’t have a cell phone in 2016?  The Dad has a cell phone.  Granted it’s a Jitterbug with ridiculously large buttons, but it’s not a landline.  He replied, “When do you want to meet?”  I answered, “Oh, I don’t want to meet.   I just agree you owe me lunch.  I am no longer interested but you have a great day.”

 

So, it is on to Suggestion #3.5:  Meet Mr. Right on OKCupid.

2. Meet Mr. Right at Happy Hour

                 I am not, nor have I ever been, a drinker.  I simply don’t like the taste.  Having no experience with alcohol prior to tasting my first beverage at the age of 16, I had an immediate, reaction stating, if I remember correctly, “You paid money for that?  It tastes like a horse peed on a peach.”  And this was of course a Peach Melba Rum Wine Cooler; such was the drink of my peers in Tylerpatch.  Beer, when I eventually tried it, was much, much worse.  Luckily, I did not feel any peer pressure to drink.  My friends said, "You want a beer?  No?  Good, more for us."  So you see I wasn’t overly confident I would find my Mr. Right at a bar at Happy Hour.

                One thing I have discovered is Happy Hour isn't necessarily only for drinkers.  A good HH has really great appetizers at really great prices to entice the drinkers to drink.  I have spent many a night happily munching away while my alcoholic friends imbibed to their hearts content.  Let’s face it, I will eat with just about anyone when the food is good.  I have trudged through bad dates solely because the restaurant was a favorite.  Full disclosure, I would share pulled pork nachos with Charles Manson, y’all.  Just saying.  However, once the food is gone I am ready to be, too. 

                The main reason is I’m not a big fan of bar people to begin with; I barely like some of these people sober, much less drunk.  And If I am jostled by one more bro wearing flip-flops and jeans, high-fiving another bro I AM AFRAID I WILL SAY SOMETHING REMARKABLY UNCHRISTIAN!  I’m kidding of course, but what is it with Southern California people and their insistence on foot nudity?  I have attended a number of Happy Hours with my friends until I realized almost all of my friends are straight.  How am I to find Mr. Right in a straight bar?  Don’t get me wrong, there are definitely gay guys in these bars; I have seen them.   However, they are usually (1) comforting a girlfriend who has just been dumped by one of the naked foot high-fivers or (2) not comfortable enough to be hit on in such a setting.  How do I know they’re gay?  We can spot each other, of course.  Yes, gaydar is real and mine is finely tuned, people.  It couldn’t be more finely tuned if Benedict Cumberbatch had invented it to defeat the Germans in WWII.  True story.

                This presents a quandary.  I have spent more hours than I care to admit in gay bars and I have discovered several realities with which I am unhappy. 

1. Rare is the gay bar with decent lighting.  I will not eat food I cannot see, strobe-lit or otherwise. 
2. 99.9999999% of gay bars have strippers who dance on the bar itself.  I have a very strict rule about eating food that is either prepared or presented in the vicinity of someone who is currently, or has in the very recent past been, squatting while nude.
3. 83.4672935% of patrons at Happy Hour in a gay bar are obnoxious straight girls having a bachelorette party, typically bogarting the karaoke machine.  There are few things more annoying than a tipsy bridesmaid wanting to recruit you because they’ve watched too many movies and suddenly realize their life isn’t as filled with enough bitchy bon mots (delivered sotto voce with a look of disdain and a flick of the wrist), so they need a new ‘best gay’ to provide these services. 
   

I don’t drink but I don’t care if Mr. Right drinks.  Plenty of non-sketchy people drink.  Full disclosure: I make an assumption that all sketchy people drink.  However, I would rather not share the adorable story of how Mr. Right and I met if it begins with the line, “I was searching for my hot wings in the dark and at the exact moment the stripper stepped off the bar and the strobe light malfunctioned because some drunk bridesmaid tripped on a feather boa, I saw him, looking adorable, standing next to the pool table just outside the bathroom, bathed in purple light, talking to a drag queen.”  I will not have that.  I simply will not.

As you can see, the experiment with Happy Hour came up short, which is ironic because I think short guys are cute.

             So, it is on to Suggestion #3:  Meet Mr. Right through online dating.

1. Meet Mr. Right Through a Friend

     When I came out of the closet the first time (there were ultimately three comings-out), it was my senior year in college and I had no idea how to meet anyone.  I was attending college in the bustling metropolis of Columbus, Mississippi, which even today is not a hotbed of liberal thinking.  Not knowing where to turn to find proper companionship, I took the advice of a friend, let's call her Maude, and agreed to meet her friend who was gay.  In 1993, living just to the left of the buckle of the Bible Belt, the commonality of sexual orientation was enough to at least agree to meet.  As far as I knew, he was the only other gay guy in the state, much less the city.
     After Maude's introduction via phone, we made plans to meet the next weekend.  On a subsequent call, I discovered he did not have a car, which is not a good sign in a city with non-trustworthy public transportation options.  Arriving at the address given, I found he resided at a nursing home.  I assumed he was the manager as Maude had assured me his age was somewhere in the nebulous 30s, while mine was a fresh-faced, and adorable, 22.
      When he answered the door I was happy he wasn't elderly but disappointed he wasn't very cute or well-dressed.  I had been lead to believe, by watching Steel Magnolias, that all gay men are blonde and pretty and wear sweaters and are also named Mark, Rick or Steve and have track lighting.  But I wasn't going to judge this man.  I was just thrilled to be going on a date!
     When he asked where I would like to eat, I mentioned Harvey's, a favorite place for celebratory occasions.  A first date is such an occasion, n'est ce pas?  His reaction told me of his financial situation so off to Captain Ds we went.  For those who don't know, Captain Ds is like Long John Silvers but not as nice.  They don't even have good cole slaw, y'all.
     Masking my disappointment, I asked him about his work.  He made some vague murmurings about "things" and "stuff".  When I asked if he worked at the nursing home, where he resided, he smirked and said he did not.  When I asked how he came to live in a home for the elderly when he didn't seem to be a cast member from Cocoon, he looked at me, rolled his eyes and made further murmurings about "you know" and "situations" and such.  He was making me as tired as his Members Only jacket. 
      We arrived a Captain Ds and he criticized my choice of entrée as being too expensive and questioned my need for a beverage.  When I explained the beverage came with the Meal Deal, he acquiesced but only after I stated I was paying for my food.  He then asked if I was going to pay for his food and I begrudgingly agreed, but only because my mother raised me right and, although I was supposedly going to burn in eternal fire for dating a man, I was determined to do my Christian duty and be kind to those less fortunate.  I mean, the man lived in a nursing home and was too poor for Captain Ds, y'all.  I believe he met the criteria to be deemed less fortunate.
     While I pretended to enjoy my beer-battered dinner, he openly ogled several men at the register, which was not only rude but dangerous.  This was Mississippi in 1993, people.  Was he insane?  I wolfed down my food and dragged him to my car to return him to the old folk's home.  He asked me in and due to what I can only surmise was naiveté covered in tartar sauce, I accepted the invitation.  However, when we sat down on the couch, he immediately picked up the phone, dialed into a chat line and began talking to people he obviously knew well; they called him by name!  At $3.95 per minute!  No wonder he couldn't afford to buy his own food, Meal Deal or otherwise.
     He then offered to put a movie in the VCR.  I naively accepted his offer without questioning the title.  What filled the screen was not fit to be viewed by man nor beast. It was a dirty movie!  Well, I can assure you I left in hurry, filled with righteous indignation, about 15 minutes later.  What?  I had never seen a dirty movie and I needed to know what I was supposed to be upset about so I could judge him with the appropriate amount of condescension.  It was research, people, and you are rude to insinuate otherwise.
     The experience was so bad, I didn't go on another date for two years.  Of course, mainly it was because I graduated from college and not having made any post-collegiate plans for a career, I had to move home to Tylerpatch and go right back into the closet from whence I had so recently, and timidly, emerged.
     And exactly zero of my friends up to and including my newest friends in Southern California, have introduced me to any eligible men.  Not one time.  Not one man.  This is why I'm talking about the past, like someone who lives at a nursing home for no reason.
     So, it is on to suggestion #2: Meet Mr. Right at Happy Hour.