Mom hasn’t called, and this is the Q3 Dating Dump
Q3 was not much better than Q2, but is it ever?
Q3 is a very important quarter on the dating calendar. While it takes place during the summer—an ideal time to thot and plot—it precedes the kick-off to cuffing season. So many New York singles find themselves so consumed by summer shenanigans they forget to prepare for the impending F/W season, and scramble come September to pull themselves off the streets before the sun begins setting at six and we lose all hope. This is not an exaggeration.
While I did enjoy many a thot and an occasional plot this quarter, I did reserve some energy to date with varying success. This is the Q3 dating dump.
As a reminder, if you think one of these blurbs is about you: no it’s not. For this dump though, there is one exception.
I first came across The Booth Kisser’s Tinder profile in 2017. We’ve since matched on three additional dating apps, but until recently, hadn’t communicated once. I don’t typically send a first message, and neither does he, apparently. On a night I was feeling particularly bored, we matched on OkCupid, an app I now realize is designed for men looking to say hello, and then get married soon thereafter. Among my first messages to him: let’s get a drink.
I was 80% sure he was a catfish, and wanted to know for certain so I could finally put him and his profile—complete with a six word bio and several photos of him in a tuxedo—behind me. To my surprise, he was not a catfish. He was a 6’5 Finnish pianist with an accent, piercing eyes, and great taste in bars.
We went to Katana Kitten in the West Village, a Japanese-inspired dive bar with a distinct mood set by red interior lights. I wore my shorts that just barely cover my ass, a boxy blazer, and cap toes. The lights. The look. The West Village. I felt sexy.
We were seated in a booth towards the back of the restaurant. He sat across from me. I said, you can sit closer, and he did. With every drink he finished, Booth Kisser inched closer and closer, until I could feel his leg brushing against mine. That is when he said something I couldn’t possibly remember, grabbed my neck with his hand and kissed me in the booth. I’d forgotten people kiss in booths. I’d forgotten people kissing in booths is sometimes better than sex, just not sex with him. That too was more than incredible. As was our next date at LunÀtico, the jazz that night, and every night we spent together until I decided I was finished with my first Finnish lover.
The Flight Attendant messaged me at 9:30am on a Sunday morning. I was showered, dressed, and booted to meet him for a coffee at Zelda’s at 10:30. We’d matched on Hinge months ago, but never had the chance to meet up. Either I was in LA or he was in Brussels. Or Toronto. Or D.C. Or anywhere but his Crown Heights apartment a few minutes from mine. How can people who live so close be so far apart so often?
Like the Booth Kisser, I suspected he was a catfish. Until we traded Instagrams and I saw just how frequently he posted to Stories—daily, pretty much, always in a different city. But that morning, he was in mine.
TFA was as handsome, funny, and tall as those Stories suggested, with an unexpected surprise of being very well-dressed (for a coffee meet on a Sunday? Impressive) and very chaotic. He may have been wired from the coffee, or wired from being a Gemini—we (Geminis) have a way of skating through conversation, but this felt more like bobsledding. Past relationships, favorite bars, favorite countries, Brody Jenner, and the demise of James Franco all in the course of an hour. His only faults are his disinterest in The Hills as a cultural phenomenon and the fact that he will be leaving for his next trip on Thursday. I don’t know when we’ll see each other next, but perhaps if we limit our hangs to monthly, I’ll make it past three.
The Reason I Deleted Hinge is not what the app had in mind. He was handsome, artistic, conversational, and a whole idiot.
Aaron the Florist: Hey handsome, what are you up to?
Cole the Flattered: Hey. Just cooking some din. You?
Aaron the Flirty: Ah nice. In the bath naked…
Cole the Interested: 👀 I love that for you
Aaron the Possible Red Flag: I hate when people say that. Don’t say that
Cole the Confused: Pardon?
Aaron the Definite Red Flag: Only white girls say that. I fucking hate when people say that
And then, I was blocked.
It’s strange to think how delicate someone must be with their hands to arrange beautiful bouquets, and still be so abrasive with their words. I tried to reflect on why I was bothered by a seemingly small comment by a man that does not know me at all, and then it landed: he’d identified one more thing about me that a Black man found unappealing, undesirable. I’d been called stuck up by a Black man, a little too feminine by a Black man, and anti-Black by another Black man. And with each failed attempt to date within my race, my interest in finding Black love felt more silly, hopeless. The three serious relationships I’ve enjoyed have all been with white men, one of which may have been fetishizing me. That is not my ideal scenario.
I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about why this is my reality. What about me makes it near-impossible to connect with a Black man long-term? Whenever I begin to answer the question, I pause. It’s worrying to know there might be a legitimate reason for why you can’t have something you cherish dearly.
Hinge, I did not pay for your premium service, but I would like a refund.
This dump would not be complete without my letting you know about the Musty-Looking Man at Rosemont. He was dancing with a Musty-Looking Woman. I say this free from judgement—it’s Rosemont. Everyone is musty, and somehow so damn attractive.
MLM was very cute, and I assumed MLW was a friend. Then her arms were draped around his neck. Then his tongue was in her mouth. The real pandemic we don’t speak about often enough is the amount of straight couples now frequenting gay bars. It’s gotten out of hand. But as the night progressed, I found myself alone—my friend departed—and in their orbit, shuffling to a horrific, but exceptional club mix of High School Musical’s closing number We’re All in This Together. Poetic, as I found myself now partaking in a group project only Rosemont could assign: kiss MLM and MLW—my first kiss with a woman since college—and let that be the end of it.
To my surprise I thought about her more than I thought about him on the way home. That might mean something, but if it does, I’m not quite ready for that revelation. One revelation per dump, please. I have to save something for Q4.
BIG X BIG O
Coley Bradshaw
You are such a brilliant and underrated writer. Your blogs, or whatever you wish to call them, have been beautiful additions to my morning coffee.