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Dating in NYC – The Dreaded Ghost

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People ask me all the time why I’ve decided to label myself as feral and completely leave the dating pool.  I admit my self-classification as “feral” is tongue-in-cheek.  It’s just my way of fully embracing my single identity.  A number of things have made me disillusioned about dating in the Big Apple.  The worst thing I’ve encountered more than once though is the dreaded ghost.  It’s not a wandering spirit or aberration who hasn’t made peace with the afterlife.  A ghost in terms of dating is a partner who’s decided to simply walk away with no contact or explanation after an intimate encounter.

The worst example ghosting happened to me years ago.  The man was someone I knew well, or at least I thought I did.  To protect his identity I won’t reveal anything about him – his age, occupation or any physical characteristics.  I’ll simply call him Kevin, although that’s not his real name.

Kevin worked with me in a situations where we were often stuck together for 12-14 hours at a stretch.  We weren’t close friends but we could talk easily and had decent chemistry.   He was always a bit flirtatious but things accelerated for some reason after we knew each other about three years.  I worked with Kevin in a freelance situation so I didn’t see him on a regular basis.  I was definitely attracted to him but I was extremely unsure about the situation since we sometimes worked together.  He was also  bit younger than me, but most single men I encounter are at least 8-10 years my junior if not more.  He made it clear that he just wanted to hookup.  I wasn’t sure about it but I hadn’t had sex in forever and the only offers I was getting at the time were for casual sex from total strangers.  At least I knew Kevin.  I remained hesitant and Kevin went so far as to call me on the phone and talk me into it at length.   I was impressed that he called me as it seemed no man in New York City knew that phones could actually be used to make phone calls.  Most men sent texts usually filled with smut and the occasional dick pic.  A phone call seemed old school and classy.

The plan was made.  He picked me up from a job I had we went back to his place.  He treated me politely and friendly as he always had in the past.  The sex was intense and over the top.  The build up of three years had sort of worked its magic.  As soon as things were done, he turned away from me as if I was toxic waste.  I was a bit shocked as I wasn’t expecting cuddling afterward but his body language was extreme.  Not one molecule of his body was touching mine.  It was as if I wasn’t there.  The first few moments were incredibly awkward.  I decided to break the tension by mentioning something personal about him.  I saw a sports jersey that was hanging in a prominent position in his bedroom and asked him.

“What’s that from?  Are you on a team or something?”

He responded.

Why are you asking that?  I’m not going to tell you that.

It was as if a switch had gone off in his brain and he was punishing me for having had sex with him.  I lied there wondering how I messed up this situation so badly.   I never did this.  I hated hookups. I had known this man for years.  When he was convincing me to do this with him he kept me on the phone for over an hour.  Now he was treating me as if I had crawled into his window uninvited.  A feeling of dread passed over my body.   I felt like I wasn’t even there anymore and that I was somehow floating above the bed.  What the hell just happened?

Some pleasantries were exchanged.  He apologized for not being able to give me a ride home.  I insisted on taking the subway anyway.   I walked myself to the subway stunned and sickened.  The whole experience was 100% consensual but he made me feel like I was a used Kleenex he tossed after masturbating.

I waited a few days and sent him a text about a gig I knew he had coming up.  I wished him well.  There were no heart emojis or anything romantic.  He was short and brusque back.  I thought maybe I was reading too much into it.  Maybe I was projecting things on him that weren’t there.  I waited a few days and sent a couple more texts only to get blanked over the next week or so.  I kind of snapped and started sending him pleading messages.  I just wanted a response, any response.   I wasn’t professing my love to him, I wasn’t expecting an instant boyfriend.  I had no expectation that we would start dating.  I was just reaching out.  I’d known him for three years.  I thought he was my friend.  The whole thing felt like some epic Madonna/Whore test that I had failed miserably.  I’m not sure if I was supposed to continually spurn his advances or go full Jezebel and ask him for a three-way with a woman I picked up on OKCupid.

He never responded again.  Since my divorce I haven’t exactly had the greatest track record dating but my experience with Kevin was by far the worst.  My head was filled with the same thoughts bouncing back and forth through my skull for days.

How could he do this to me?  He knows me.   I’m not some stranger off the street.  What the hell is going on?  Why is he treating me like garbage?  What’s wrong with me?

It wasn’t that Kevin was some great prize or that I wanted a relationship with him.  I was just shocked that he treated me so horribly.   Without hesitation that experience has been the worst consensual sexual experience of my life.  It wasn’t abuse just inconsiderate and callous.  I played the whole incident over and over again in my mind trying to figure out what I had done wrong to make him treat me this way.  I decided that it didn’t matter.

Of course I did run into him again a few months later in work-related scenario.  As soon as I saw him he looked right at me.  I diverted his gaze.  I decided in the moment to act  like I had no idea who he was.  If he was going to treat me with such disregard I’d do the same.  His response was not surprising as he kept staring at me from across the room.  I’m not sure how he was expecting me to react.  What was I supposed to do? Run up to him and embrace him?  Ask him what he was up to the past couple of months?  I just wanted him to disappear.  Finally near the end of the job I was being ushered by my supervisor right next to where he was standing.  I could feel his eyes burning into mine but I refused to make contact.  When things got to the point of absurdity I turned to him and said simply “Hey Kevin” and kept walking.  I didn’t even make eye contact.  If he had tried to talk to me I would have just nodded and walked away.

The hardest part of it was not blaming myself.  I dissected and analyzed everything I said and did in the time I spent with Kevin trying to figure out what caused him to be that way.  Ironically the whole experience would have been much easier to get over if Kevin was a total stranger.  In his mind I was just garbage and if I wanted to be treated better by men I would have to go back to my old standard.  A guy would have to ask me out on a proper date and put some effort forth.  If they wanted a no-strings attached sexual situation then they could ask someone else.  I don’t judge others who live that lifestyle it’s just a bad fit for me.

Things haven’t gotten much better.  I’ve been ghosted since my fling with Kevin.  I wish I could say there was some sort of magical set of clues that would indicate when a seemingly grounded man will emotional disappear but I’ve got none.  I’ve sadly learned to expect it.

I never saw Kevin again and I’m glad I haven’t.  If I did see him he’d simply be someone I have no recollection of meeting much less having sex with.  Feral life suits me better anyway – no attachments, no commitments and no expectations.  I’d rather have nothing than the dreaded ghost.

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Dating After Divorce: On Turning Feral…

A couple of years ago while watching a documentary I discovered a house cat can revert to its natural state under the right circumstances. I imagined my obese ginger male going from his prescription canned cat food to hunting and feasting on rodents and birds. His once silky coat now matted with dirt and leaves. His fat haunches transformed into lean muscle.  Instead of dramatically crying for his supper twice a day, he’d hide in alleys and beneath parked cars avoiding contact with humans while ruling the night. As I stroked Otto’s fur I decided I’d was no longer single, I’d turned feral instead.

When I  went through a difficult divorce nine years ago I suspected my dating life would be difficult.  I had no idea it would become a soul-crushing, near impossible endeavor.  Right out of the gate, I had two fairly tragic rebound relationships that imploded almost as soon as they’d started. Online dating felt more like an exercise in attrition and increasingly lowered expectations.  I’d get the obligatory emails from men involved with BDSM – twice as many submissives than dominants. Couples would email me hoping I want to join in some three-way play. My inbox would overflow with email from men in other countries and far away states. Traveling business men would contact me late at night, expecting me to drop everything to run to their hotel room and be their unpaid prostitute.  Dates rarely materialized and if they did they were often two awkward people sitting across from each other with nothing in common but judgmental stares.  Men openly criticized me for my profession, the circumstances around my divorce, and pretty much every lifestyle choice I had made up until the point of meeting them. When I met men offline it seemed like the only interested parties were either married or so young they could easily be mistaken for my son. I’d also met guys who expected me to go home with them five minutes after meeting them. If I showed any hesitation at all I was quickly forgotten for the next random woman who would say yes.

When I showed interest in anyone I was usually treated like a completely crazy person. I realize I’m not every man’s dream woman.  I have a big personality.  I talk a lot.  I’m so nerdy that I can blather for hours about the rise of fascism or the madness of Kaiser Wilhelm II. I won’t know anything about the latest movie that came out but I could tell you more than you’d ever want to know about the life of Nikola Tesla or how mutations take hold in a genome.  I’m opinionated and stubborn.  I will disagree and challenge men often and openly.  For amusement I get onstage and yell at total strangers in darkened basements that are masquerading as makeshift comedy clubs.  I’m a sledgehammer of truth.  Some folks find my qualities charming while others, find them incredibly annoying. My natural nemesis seems to be the classic khaki wearing, boat shoed finance bro alpha male. On multiple occasions I’ve found myself in screaming matches with a half drunk, angry day trader minutes after meeting them.

I’m also not all that interested in finding my dream man.  I have massive trust issues and pretty much assume every man is lying to me from the moment they open their mouth.  Because my ex-husband was a closeted gay man I pretty much assume all men are gay until proven otherwise.  Any nurturing qualities left in me were stamped out by my dysfunctional and broken marriage.  I don’t want to fix a man, pay his rent, make him forget his last girlfriend or guide him through rehab.  If he’s not ready to wear I’ll just toss him back on the pile.  I have zero interest in being an unpaid and untrained psychotherapist. There’s no part of me that longs to hang out with people I can’t stand because they’re friends with my partner.  I don’t want to sit through plates of hot wings and beer when I’d rather have vegetarian Chinese takeout. If he’s wounded and broken, I’ll leave him for someone who can handle wounded and broken.  I’ve got a freight train worth of emotional baggage and a hair-trigger that will cause me to bolt the second I sense danger.  If a man blanks me on a text, I will delete them from my phone.
I’ll leave my apartment with glasses, messy hair, ball caps and dirty jeans.  No fucks are given.  I watch my weight like a hawk because I have to for my industry but I honestly don’t care if someone finds me “pretty.”

I’ve got no online dating profiles. I waste no glances as men walk by. I pose no questions about a man’s dating status.

I live in an apartment the size of an average single car garage. My 450 square foot space is so small that no man would look at it and see an inch for his belongings. There’s no spare drawer or extra closet space. If I was actually trying to date I’d issue parking rules on my front door. – Four hour minimum or mandatory tow.

I look forward to my future as I grow increasingly strange and eccentric.  I’ll become the 60-year-old with blue hair who still wears Doc Martens and has birthday parties for my cats.  The lack of companionship has caused entire sections of my personality to atrophy and die.  I encourage others now to eschew the label of single and embrace the feral mindset.  We are no longer waiting for our Mr. or Mrs. Right, we are hunting proverbial birds and mice in the night and loving every second of it.

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