How To Break Up with an Internet Date

Posted on March 16, 2012 by B

Breaking up with someone you meet conventionally is pretty easy. I mean, it’s not, it’s gut-wrenchingly awful, but at least you know how to do it. You meet them in person, apologize for having to do this, then brace yourself for the angry crying, or the disappointed crying, or perhaps a potpourri. How do you tell someone you met online that you don’t want to see them anymore is a touch more complicated. Here’s a question from Margaret, a loyal reader new to the world of Internet dating…

I’ve gone on a few dates with guys who are nice enough, easy to talk to, but I don’t want to rip their clothes off.  How and when do I call it quits?  Where is that nebulous line between “giving them a chance” and “leading them on?”  And what is the text that says “hey you’re nice and thanks for all the free booze but I’m just not attracted to you” without saying it in so many words?  When do you have to call instead of text?  Should you ever say “Let’s hang out as friends sometime” or are you both just kidding yourselves?  Help!

No so fast! To read my answer to this and many other vexing internet dating problems, buy my new book Not a Match: My True Tales of Online Dating Disasters. Makes a great gift for birthdays, anniversaires, and weird funerals!

Available for your ereader on Amazon and iTunes. Only $2.99!

Posted in Advice, Internet Dating is Weird | 10 Comments

How Many Emails Before We Date?

Posted on March 8, 2012 by B

Writing emails is hard.

I’ve been getting this message a lot lately, in response to a first email. I think it’s becoming a trend.

“Thanks for your note! You seem really cool. Wanna grab a drink? I’m more for meeting in person than trading lots of emails back and forth. When are you free?”

And you know what I do then? I hit delete.

Perhaps it’s thought of as progressive, as the sign of a modern dater, one who wants to eschew email chatter and head right for the first date. “Screw this small talk bullshit, let’s get right to face to face!” It’s the sort of line you’d give a brassy Kathy Bates in a movie about Internet dating, if anyone would ever cast Kathy Bates in a movie about Internet dating. It’s what people say when they’re trying to sound “no nonsense.” Unfortunately, to me all it sounds like is a waste of time.

There’s a lot to be learned on email. Can my future date write a complete sentence? Does she have anything interesting/funny/smart to say? Does she use the word “yowzers,” thereby nullifying her interesting/funny/smart-ness? And, perhaps most importantly, is she into the exchange, or do they just seem to be going through the motions? Yes, you could find all this out on a first date, but I for one would rather discover that I’m talking to a zero when I’m alone on my couch, rather than out a bar, staring said zero right in the face.

Me, basically.

Also, isn’t wanting to meet someone without communicating at all first just a little bit sketchy? Shouldn’t you be worried that I’m a zero also? Because at best, I’m like a 1, 1.5 on a good day. The whole thing just seems suspicious. And why aren’t these women more afraid for their safety? Is it that I don’t seem threatening? Because I have recently begun Kenpo Karate gym classes, and my instructor only rarely laughs at me anymore. I don’t know, I feel like meeting without emailing is a lot less like Internet dating and a lot more like kidnapping. “Hey you – random person – get in my car! We’re getting cocktails and being flirty for the next hour. Oh, and you’re paying!”

So what then should be our emailing game plan? Write and write and write, until you’re absolutely certain this person is the one for you? Nope, that’s also wrong. You know how you can miss your window with someone by going on too many dates without sealing the deal? Then, before you know it, you’re in The Friendship Zone? Well, the same thing happens with email, only it’s called The Annoying and Entirely Pointless Zone. There are people, usually men from what I’ve heard, who carry on email conversations seemingly without end. They’ll write back and forth  for weeks, sometimes months, without ever asking you out. It’s not even like they’re thinking about it, they just blabber on about their job or favorite movies, like your grandmother or something. It’s demented, and I won’t stand for it. The maximum emails one person can send in an online dating exchange is five. FIVE, folks. Any more than that and you might as well sign up for summer camp, because you’ve got a pen pal, my friend. And honestly, five is pushing it.

The ideal email exchange before asking for a date is three messages. You write her three times, she writes you back three times. On the fourth email, you ask her out for a drink. That is the exact amount of communication required to know your partner is delightful, not a psycho, and there’s a bit of juice between you. If the man or lady trails off before three emails, then they weren’t really interested. If they take longer than three emails to ask for a date then, well, they weren’t really interested. Remember, the goal here is not have to an amazing online correspondence, it’s to have an amazing first date. So leaving the other person wanting more, a little curious about you and your story is what it’s all about. Whet their appetite, reel them in, then ask to meet in person. Because, remember if they get bored, there’s plenty of suitors in their email box, waiting to take your place.

And some of them might know Kenpo too.

Posted in Advice, Internet Dating is Weird | 29 Comments

The Girl Who Met Someone Else

Posted on March 2, 2012 by B

The way to stay out of trouble with serial killers is to avoid being brought to a second location. It’s Serial Killer 101. Let ‘em abduct you, fine, but the real problems start when they toss you in their van. That’s how you end up in somebody’s basement at the bottom of  a hole getting told to rub lotion all over the place – going to that second location. First dates, however, are quite the opposite. On a first date, the one thing you’re hoping will happen – the sure sign that success is underway – is that the two of you move to a second locale. Makeouts can be misleading, arguments can be inconclusive, awkwardness can go one way or the other – but you know for certain where you stand when one of you says “Hey, you wanna get out of here?” That’s when you got a good date on your hands. Unless…you’re out on a date with a serial killer. Then I don’t know what to tell ya…

I met Katie, and right away, the commonality was almost alarming. She reviewed movies for a living, I watched movies like it was my job. She used to be on the Food Network, I also watched the Food Network like it was my job. (Please no one tell my actual job.) She had great cleavage, I was great at looking at cleavage — it was a match made in heaven. But most of all, she made me laugh. Not easy to do, for sure, but within minutes of meeting Katie, she had me in stitches. Some of it was her eccentric nature, she was hopping in and out of her seat every few minutes, ordering coffee, changing her order, considering some pie, asking about pie options, deciding she didn’t want pie at all. It was a little like dating a coke addict (in the most endearing possible way), but the last thing she needed was more coffee. I get a kick out of quirk though, and Katie had plenty to go around. And she seemed equally enthused about me. She laughed at all my jokes, even the bad ones, and told me it was the best date she had been on in a long time. After a good ninety minutes of laughs, she told me, unfortunately, she had to go, and that’s when she dropped the line…

"You guys at your second location?"

“Wanna go see Mission Impossible 4?”

Not in a week, not in a day, but right friggin’ now. Katie was, as I said, a movie reviewer, and that night she had a movie to review. It was Mission Impossible 4, and as I’ve always had an interest in free climbing Middle Eastern skyscrapers, I was intrigued. But more than wanting to see the movie, I was pleased that we had entered the hallowed second location realm. It’s a notable step, mostly because it’s such an unnecessary one. Even if you’re having a great evening, it’s easy enough to see a person another time. In fact, it’s probably advisable. No need to go overboard on a first meeting with someone who’s pretty darn close to being a stranger. But moving to another place, either a new bar or out for a walk or – for the floozies in the house – someone’s apartment, suggests real excitement. Fondness even. A feeling of “I’m not ready for this to end just yet.” It’s a great feeling, and one that’s very rarely acted on, in my experience. Which is why I loved it when Katie offered, and it really hurt when I had to say “no.”

Sadly, I had a deadline the next morning, and deadlines don’t care about cleavage. So we parted ways, with plans to hang out soon. Just to make sure she didn’t think I was blowing her off, I texted Katie  after the movie, telling her I was very happy to meet her and wished I could’ve taken her up on her offer of short people and Scientology. All was well, and a good thing had clearly begun.

After a few jokey texts back and forth, I asked her a few days later when we could hang out again. It took her 24 hours to respond. That was the first sign. When someone waits 24 hours to respond to a date request, they might as well wait 24,000, because you probably already have your answer. The text that I received in response, however, was even more conclusive.

“Hey, I’m really sorry, but I’ve met someone else and things have gotten quite serious. You’re a really nice guy though, best of luck to you!”

Her date

WHAT? You’ve met somebody else and things have gotten quite serious…in seven days?! Does he have a time machine that let you go back in time like a month, allowing you a plausible opportunity to actually get serious? Or wait, is he on death row and you’re trying to speed things up just in case he doesn’t get clemency? Maybe she was doing a new kind of speed dating that doesn’t just apply to the first meeting but the entire relationship, so after 15 minutes they were already meeting each other’s parents? Look, I don’t mind getting blown off, I really don’t. Believe me, I’ve got plenty of practice. But isn’t it better for all involved if we just do it honestly? Just, you know, for dignity’s sake?And how exactly did we go from unnecessary movie invite to you pulling the “mysterious other man” routine a few days later?

Guys know what “I met someone else” means, it means “I want to meet someone else, other than you.” So why beat around the bush? Or, let’s assume Katie wasn’t lying. Let’s assume that she had been seeing someone previous to going out with me, and that things were going pretty well. That makes sense, I can buy that. Then, after meeting me, she decided she felt more strongly about the other dude. Wouldn’t blame her one bit. I probably feel more strongly about the other dude too. Then why invite me to the movie? Why introduce a further destination if there’s another guy you’re into? It’s just…well…it’s just a little silly. I don’t mind if you don’t like me, but can we keep the not liking me to just one location? It makes it a lot easier to understand.

Now I gotta rethink my whole stance on serial killers.

Posted in Horror Stories | 14 Comments

IT’S NOT A MATCH CLASSIC: The Girl Who Cried During Sex

Posted on February 23, 2012 by B

Over the last few months, readership on It’s Not a Match has increased, like, a lot. Which is amazing, truly. I am shocked and thankful to have so many of you visit and write me each and every day. You guys are the best. I wanted to make sure, however, that my new readers got a chance to see some of my older work, which is, let’s just say it, Pulitzer Prize worthy stuff. So, from time to time, I will repost some of my favorite It’s Not a Match columns for new folks to discover and old timers to cherish as the rich cultural heirlooms they are. Today is one of my favorites.

The Girl Who Cried During Sex.

Perhaps from reading this site you’ve gotten the impression that Internet dating is just one disastrously awkward first date after another. Not true! Sometimes there’s a disastrously awkward second, third, and fourth date as well. And, if you’re really lucky, on rare occasion you may achieve a full-fledged disastrously awkward long-term relationship! But that’s only if you reallllllly apply yourself. Thankfully, on one or two occasions, I have been so determined…

I met the Sex Crier on a rare two-date evening. It’s something I try to avoid, but if scheduling becomes difficult or I’m particularly eager to meet someone and feel like I can’t wait another day (I know, I’m unimaginably romantic), I will plan two dates on the same night. It’s not a great idea, but if you stick to the Two Drink Rule it can be done. Just avoid telling the same stories or jokes to both of your dates, because no matter how big a cad you are, somewhere deep inside your soul will break. But Sex Crier was the second date on a two-date evening, and within minutes she blew the first woman entirely out of memory.

I still remember what she was wearing and even what she smelled like, in as unserial-killer a way as possible. I had to talk her into the date, as she was reluctant to date a smoker and an actor, and I was guilty of both. She was an actress too, you see, and she felt the two didn’t mix. Boy was she wrong. Us being actors had nothing to do with us not getting along. It was the more the constant 100% insanity that did it.

Warning sign?

On our first date she made me laugh immediately, which usually means I’m hooked. And she was outstanding to look at, which never hurts, but there was something a little…off about SC. Her stories were a little crazier than they should’ve been, her frankness was a little frankier than it should’ve been, and she just had a strange little energy going on. You know when you meet someone and just sense right away that they’re not like other people, but can’t figure out whether that’s a good or bad thing? That was her. She was what 75 year-old people call a firecracker, and warned me in no uncertain terms that I should stay as far away from her as possible. “I’m crazy,” she said, after I walked her home from our first date. And apparently when I told her she didn’t seem that crazy to me, I meant it as a compliment, but she took it as a personal challenge.

We dated for a few months, and I think broke up eight times. Which is a lot considering I don’t believe we ever explicitly said we were together or agreed to stop seeing other people. She just liked breaking up, and was constantly honing her craft. She worked tirelessly at it, forever trying new techniques and approaches. She was the Tiger Woods of ending things, the Bill Gates of deciding we’d be better off as friends. Wanna break up in a crowded restaurant at the top of your lungs with tears and profanity so everyone stares at you? She’s got a move for that. Split up via text message for a reason she will not explain and very possibly doesn’t even know? Please, Sex Crier can do that in her sleep. Or, and this was my personal favorite, break up after a homeless man has asked you for spare change and you’ve said “Sorry, man” in an insufficiently caring fashion? Sex Crier owns the copyright on that shit. That’s her Sistine Chapel, and let me tell you, seeing it in person…it’ll take your breath away.

Anyway, she liked drama. And because that made our relationship fairly volatile, I thought it best to hold off on having sex for a while. I still tend to attach, you know, personal feelings to the making of whoopee, so – as she was breaking up with me on a weekly basis – I felt the need to self-protect. Why did I keep dating her at all? No idea. She was smart, funny, and pretty – what am I supposed to do against that? I was powerless against her, and ultimately, finally, agreed to cash in her one-way ticket to sexy town. And yes, that’s what I called it. You can see why she found me difficult to resist…

So we’re in bed and we’re doing the stuff and after a bit we start triumphantly, heroically, having sex. Then, almost instantly, and without any notice, she starts crying. Deep, baleful sobs, like her dog just died. She wasn’t in pain, and it wasn’t because the sex was just so gosh-darned good either, believe you me. Even the women in my fantasies are only barely tolerant of my love-making technique – so it wasn’t that she had just realized how good sex could actually be. She was just upset. About something she categorically refused to discuss. The next ten minutes or so played out like this…

Me: Is something wrong?

SC: Yyyyyesss.

Me: Can we talk about it?

SC: No.

Me: Please, I’d really like to talk about-

SC: Just keep going!

….Aaaaand repeat. I’m telling you, you haven’t felt true sexual satisfaction until you’ve done it under duress while being drenched in a shower of your partner’s tears. For the older gentlemen out there, if you ever run out of Viagra, just encourage your lady to start desperately weeping while forcing her body upon you. It’s a one-way ticket to erectiontown (it works for everything!!).

“This time I want to do it while I sing ‘Somewhere Over The Rainbow’. Do it! Now!”

Every few minutes, Sex Crier would be overcome and need to take some time to focus on the crying. I would try to be supportive and ask her if she wanted to talk about it, while quietly celebrating what was clearly the end of the awful intercourse. She would ignore my question, cry a bit more, and then initiate more tragicsex. It was like getting raped by Judy Garland.

Finally, mercifully, after maybe twenty minutes, my body decided that I was done having sex for the evening. In my head I was high-fiving my genitals, but Sex Crier was upset. Which makes sense because clearly she was having such a good time. She flopped down on the bed next to me and sighed with disappointment. “That’s it?” she said. “Yup” I replied. “But I haven’t finished,” she declared. I decided to go with silence as my response to that one. “So you’re just…done?” she asked angrily. “In more ways than you know,” I thought to myself and wished I had the balls to say out loud. Instead I went with “I’m sorry, but if we can’t talk about what’s wrong then I think I should just go to sleep.” That was the last straw. Apparently after inexplicably crying on a guy for a half hour, she was used to being dutifully brought to climax. Great deal if you can get it, but that wasn’t going to be happening with me. She rolled over, looked me straight in the eyes and said “I can’t believe you!”. She then got out of bed and disappeared for an extended period of time.

When I like a woman, I give her a lot of leeway. Too much sometimes. I don’t know why. It’s just that being with a great girl makes me really happy, and if she’s got some quirks and rough spots, well I’m open to working that out. We’re all imperfect, and hell, I’ve got more rough spots than sandpaper – I mean, I said “erectiontown” back there – so I try to be flexible. But tonight would be the end of my flexibility with the Sex Crier. I walked into her living room and found her angrily reading a book, which I didn’t really know was possible. She looked up, said “I don’t want to talk to you, I’m too upset” and returned to her novel. That was when I decided to show her a break-up move that even she had never attempted.

The “have sex while being cried on for a while, get yelled at for not delivering orgasms under those conditions, sleep over at the girl’s house because I’ve got a meeting nearby in the morning and what’s the point of shlepping all the way home to just shlep back, and then break up with her immediately afterward on the phone because I’m afraid there’s a chance she might kill me” break up was patented that fine day, friends, and it was a beauty. There was crying, of course, and a lot of yelling, and a lot of telling me that I was a son of a bitch. It lacked evidence as an assertion, but I was in no mood to quibble. I had been with The Sex Crier and was happy knowing that our ninth breakup would be the one that stuck.

Ooooh stories. Aren’t they great? But here’s the thing, I actually left out the best part. The Crier, when we finally split, warned me, “The last time someone broke up with me, I tried to kill myself.” No doubt she thought I would reconsider. She was wrong. 

Posted in It's Not a Match Classic | 8 Comments

How is This My Match: OKCupid Edition

Posted on February 15, 2012 by B

This may come as a shock to regular readers, but I have begun to dip my toes in the OKCupid waters. I know, I know. I’ve long argued that you get what you pay for on free dating sites, which in OKCupid’s case is jack shit. But for a variety of reasons, I think it may be a more productive way to meet people in Los Angeles. I’ll go into that in more detail in a future post, but my main concern presently is trying to survive without Match’s priceless Daily 5 recommendations. Over recent months, Match has brought so many fine women to my attention, such as Bald Black Lady, The Lesbian, 19 year-old Hottie, and of course, Mrs. Santa Claus. If I stopped using Match as frequently, what would I do without their exquisitely awful suggestions? OKCupid doesn’t have Daily 5’s, so how could they provide such a regular parade of insanity?

Well, worry not, faithful reader. While OKCup’s doesn’t recommend people per say, it will alert you when someone they find particularly keen looks at your profile. They’ll send you an email telling you that an “Exceptionally Good Match” has her eye on you, and yes, it works about as well as you’d expect.

But you can be the judge of that.

And so I ask you….How is This My Match (OKCupid Style)?!

27, Straight Female

Los Angeles, CA

Yep. That’s it. A picture of someone who seems to be actively running from the camera. Perhaps she’s a fugitive from the law? Maybe she forgot to make up her face before heading out in the morning? Or maybe she doesn’t have a face at all? She could be one of those Oprah guests who her got her face eaten off by her friend’s chimpanzee. There’s really no way of knowing because all I can see is the BACK OF HER HEAD. Not even the back, really. It’s sort of the side of the back, and it’s totally covered in hair. Hair, and some branches, and part of a tree trunk that she’s climbing up for some unknown reason.

I feel like the dating sites are screwing with me at this point. Like someone at Match noticed that I hadn’t logged in in a while, knew of course that I hadn’t met anyone, so  assumed I’d wandered off onto another site. They placed a few calls, found out I was on OKCupid, then asked for a favor. “Hey, you have any pictures of something crazy, like a chick kissing an elephant, or a woman who looks like Harry Truman, or…wait. WAIT. Get a photo of some weird girl climbing up a tree. Or a guy, it doesn’t really matter. Just make sure he’s got long hair, and you can’t see his face it all, and then send it to this asshole and tell him it’s his perfect match. He’ll get a big kick out of it, believe me!” OK, that probably didn’t happen, but I can’t be sure at this point. And neither can you.

I mean, she couldn’t have at least cleared the bush before taking the picture? I’m looking at like half a torso here. No legs even! It’s just degrading. She’s more plant than human as far as I can tell.

Not surprisingly, ol’ Flora and Fauna here kept her profile pretty brief. Most of her responses are gibberish, or in no way answer the question asked. Which means that in OKCupid’s eyes, my perfect match is an illiterate who has no face or legs. I’d like to argue with them, but it’s not like I’ve hit off so great with all the women I’ve met who have faces, so perhaps they’re on to something. There was one question she responded to that I think summed up my first OKCupid recommendation rather nicely.

On a typical Friday night I am…cyclops reading.

That’s funny, I believe I spent my Valentine’s Day cyclops reading as well.

Seriously people, How is This My Match?!

Posted in How is This My Match? | 10 Comments

What Body Types on Dating Sites Really Mean

Posted on February 9, 2012 by B

Last week we brought you the story of Max, a man who stood up his date when he discovered she lied about her body type. Criminal? Justified? Hard to say. I’ve gotten emails that run the spectrum. But I’ve also gotten many notes complaining about the general practice of fitness deceit. Here’s one from reader Kelly L.

I’m 5’9 and about 150 pounds.  I work out 6 days a week and I eat healthy food, but I’m in no way a diet freak and I like to splurge on the weekend.  Now, when asked to define my body type as either “Slender,” “Athletic and Toned,” or “Average” I’m at a loss.  I would say I’m pretty slender, but given my Scottsdale, Arizona club scene surroundings, I don’t think my version of slender applies.  Anyone who has been to a Scottsdale club on a Saturday night, or a Monday for that matter, will know what I mean.  

(I thank God I have no idea what Kelly’s talking about.)

With the exception of their enormous, fake double-D implants, the women that frequent these clubs are waif-like.  

(Actually, that doesn’t sound so bad…)

So, if I mark slender, I have a feeling my dates may be a little disappointed. Now “athletic and toned” is another tricky description given my surroundings, particularly when I’m a member of Gold’s Gym (beef cake central).  I’m not athletic by any means (as in I don’t, nor should I, play sports) and toned is another one of those relative terms.  I’ve got good legs and I’ve been told I have a “great ass”, but I wouldn’t say the rest of my body qualifies as toned.  Needless to say, I select average and move on to the next question……

(I don’t know. I feel like you’re ever told you’ve got a “great” anything, then athletic and toned merits consideration. My cat once told me I’ve got a great lap, but I don’t think that qualifies.)

So, a few days pass by and I’m confident in my body choice selection.  That is until so-called “average” men start contacting me.  To put it as nicely as possible, it has been brought to my attention that men have an entirely different understanding of the word “average.”

Case in point (see attached photo).  I blocked out the guys eyes, because I don’t want to be a complete bitch. 

(I have seen the photo, and let me say, the only place this man is average is at an Italian hoagie eating competition. I won’t repost the picture, because I don’t want to be a complete bitch either, but I’ll give you a reasonable facsimile.)

(OK, moving on…)

Now, in all fairness, this guy could be a saint. Maybe. But “average”, really?!  I think not.  Do they really think we won’t notice?

As I said, emails like this one from Kelly have been common over the last week, and I agree with the general thrust of her argument: people lie like rugs. She was focused on guys, because those are the profiles she sees, but of course women do the same thing. So let’s try to get to the bottom of this: what do these body type categories on sites like Match.com really mean? Below are the available fitness options, and their real life translation.

(I want to make clear that I am truly not trying to make fun of the overweight here. I am no skinny minny, and there was a time in my life where I was most decidedly a fatty matty, so I understand the struggle. But this isn’t about being large or small, it’s just about the funny things people do online. OK? OK.)

Now, onto the list…

SLENDER:

In internet dating parlance, slender means circus skinny. Guys don’t want to be thought of as slender, they want to be toned, muscular, or even imposing. Women also don’t want to be slender because it makes them sound small-chested or, as Kelly suggested, too body conscious. So no one’s gonna put themselves in this category unless it’s absolutely necessary. Like “you could slip me under a locked door” necessary.

ABOUT AVERAGE:

This means you have a body. No more, no less. Could be anywhere from:

to:

Honestly About Average can run from Chris Christie all the way to Christy Turlington. I’ve been out with triathletes who for some reason consider their physique average, and bigger-sized women who weren’t willing to jump up to the higher categories. It goes both ways. So when someone tells you they’re About Average, all they’re really saying is that they’re alive and a human. Most of the time.

A FEW EXTRA POUNDS:

Never seen it. Not once. Honestly, as far as Match.com is concerned, there is not a person on Earth who is carrying a few extra pounds. Which is curious, because when you walk down the street pretty much everyone you see is carrying a few extra pounds. We should probably all be in this category, but we won’t admit it to ourselves, so let’s just move on.

CURVY:

Curvy means hot. Always has, always will. If I find a women claiming to be curvy, I email her almost instantly, regardless of any further details. Recently out of prison? Have an alarming fondness for using symbols instead of words? Are politically conservative? All is forgiven with a few curves.

Now, if you’re one of these tyrants who doesn’t care for a little extra padding on your dates, then curvy may not be for you. But in my experience, curvy reads as a bit of a boast, a way of saying “I’ve got a figure you’re not gonna forget.” And rarely has that boast not followed through.

Unfortunately, ladies, the curvy category doesn’t exist for dudes. Which is too bad, because I’d love to put myself in the category, just to see what happens.

HEAVYSET, STOCKY:

Fat. These just mean fat. I think they’re nice ways of saying fat, but everyone who reads them just understands them as fat, so I really don’t know what the point is. Unlike “A Few Extra Pounds” however, I have actually seen people use them, and they are the greatest people in the world. They know they could probably get away with a skinnier label, the way everyone else is behaving, but they’re gonna be honest and straightforward. God bless you heavyset and stocky, gentlemen and women!

“What about me? Am I not Big and Beautiful?”

FULL FIGURED, BIG & BEAUTIFUL:

These are separate categories, but for the life of me I have no idea what the difference is between them. Does full-figured mean that you’re big but distinctly not beautiful? Like you’re chubby and ugly at the same time? Why isn’t “Big and Kinda Funny Looking” an option? And why does “Big and Beautiful” get an ameliorating adjective when no one else does? That’s unfair. Why can’t I be “About Average and Studly?” And why do these categories exist only for women and not men? Men can be Big and Beautiful, right? I don’t get a lot of what’s going on here.

ATHLETIC AND TONED:

Personally, I don’t date these people. I feel like if you’re already ripped and smokin’, then you really don’t need my attention. You’ve got enough interest coming your way already, so I’m gonna focus on the normal humans like me. But visually anyway, I can’t see much difference between the ladies claiming to be athletic and those claiming to be average. And there does seem to be a peculiar circumstance where women who probably belong in “A Few Extra Pounds” place themselves in “Athletic and Toned,” just to, I don’t know, throw people off the scent? So I’m sufficiently confused by these people to stay away altogether.

Now, for the ladies, I would imagine “Athletic and Toned” is the closest male equivalent to the “Curvy” sweet spot. Where women can be prideful of their curves, so are men about their muscles. It’s something we’re all aware of – whether we’re toned or not – so we’re unlikely to lie. If our physiques are impressive, we have no problem telling the world, but if they’re not we just quietly change the subject. So ladies, if hot bods are your thing, A&T is the place to shop.

Posted in Internet Dating is Weird, Your Awful Stories | 107 Comments

Interview: A Man Who Stood Up His Date

Posted on February 3, 2012 by B

The following is an email I received from Max D, a loyal reader and Internet dater. Initially, I was very proud…

As per your expert instructions I sought out the perfect first date restaurant.  It’s named after an Italian opera, has a nice quiet atmosphere, is close, and is walking distance to drinking places, a huge wine list, and best of all the menu looks like the first page of a three page menu–all appetizers and salads disguised as entrees.  Most expensive thing on there is $7.50.  The place is such a gem that after a couple of weeks I got to know a bartender there very well as he saw me show up with different ladies.  In fact he texts me sometimes afterwards to see how things went.

Look at that. My readers are all growns up! Finding a first date spot with reasonable prices, good location, and the appearance of specialness is no small feat. I still haven’t accomplished it here in LA. This email was making me feel like a proud papa, watching his baby take his first steps toward cheap intoxication and possible lovemaking. It was the sort of thing Rockwell used to paint. Max continued…

The following story is 50% a confession, 40% to shine a favorable light on you and anyone else who has merely split the check, and 10% because it’s actually a good idea and I can’t promise it won’t happen again.

Uh oh. 50% confession? That doesn’t sound good. You realize if you murdered someone I have to alert the authorities, right, Max?

Max's bartender

I recently set up a promising date with a girl who while only had face pictures, did list her body type as ‘athletic’, and mentioned something about running marathons. I thought it would check out, but when she got to the date 10 minutes early and texted me “I’m here.”,  I decided to text the bartender to take a covert picture for me.  What a professional, right?  Unfortunately she was not a moon, she was a space station.  Before you judge, honestly tell me what you would have done?  Clearly I stood her up.

Noooooo! I’ve created a monster! Taking covert pictures of your date? Calling her a space station? Standing her up because she’s overweight? Is this what my efforts have wrought?! I was disappointed and a little upset. Turns out my baby was actually taking his first steps in the direction of a frat house where he and his buddies promptly made fun of all the fatties.

But then I thought it over. It’s easy to attack Max. Seriously, it is. Go for it, you totally have my blessing. But there are some real issues here too. What would I have done in that situation? I can’t deny that larger-sized women describing themselves as “Athletic and Toned” is a genuine online dating phenomenon. I’ve encountered it numerous times, and honestly, I don’t really get it. Why would you possibly lie about something that is so obviously going to be discovered? I mean, I work out six days a week, but I would never dream of casting myself as “Athletic and Toned” – because I’m not skinny. Athletic, yes? Toned, not on your life. I fit snugly in “About Average”, and am totally cool with that. But I would never dream of overselling my physical appearance, because in the end, it just makes you like so…well…lame. But perhaps there’s confusion over terminology. How about we change “Athletic and Toned” to “The Very Possibility of Seeing My Naked Body Will Turn You On Entirely On Its Own.” Then we’ll all know what we’re talking about, right?

What we mean when we say "Athletic and Toned."

So is it acceptable to stand this woman up, who may have mislead you about her appearance, if you somehow knew in advance? No. ABSOLUTELY NOT. I’ve been stood up before, and honestly, it hurts. You feel like a loser, not being significant enough to the person to warrant even a quick text saying “Sorry, can’t make it tonight.” And that’s what I told Max. You are allowed to not want to go out with somebody, but you’re not allowed to waste their time and make them feel bad about themselves. Send a text and bail out gracefully – or honestly, gracelessly – just so they can get on with their evening. It costs you nothing to send the next, and very likely could save them from having and all-time shitshow of a day, so just be a pal and help a fellow human out. Here was his response…

Yeah, a text may have been a little bit of a tourniquet in this case but by the time I actually had the photo evidence our rendezvous time was minutes away so pretty much anything I would have said seemed in poor taste. I figured it would be easier to make up an emergency story afterwards but she must have gotten the hint because she never asked for an explanation.

She didn’t get the hint, Max, she was fucking embarrassed. And angry. And after the fact, she couldn’t have cared less what your explanation was because she knew you were a dick. Or at least, in this situation, acted like one. While it may have been easier for you to make up a story after the date passed, it’s really not about what’s easier for you. You’re sitting at home on your couch, while she’s standing on a street corner waiting for a guy to walk smiling up to her side. You’ve already got it pretty easy, so how about thinking about her for at least thirty seconds?

That’s what I thought, and that’s what I think. But here’s the thing: Max seems like a relatively normal guy. His emails are well written, he seems serious about meeting someone to date, and obviously he has excellent taste in reading material, so maybe there’s something to learn here. It’s easy to dismiss someone who stands up their date, but it happens all the time. People blow off their dates on a daily basis, believe me, I’ve got the emails to prove it. Why? How do you do that to someone else? We can write these people off as assholes, or we can try to figure out what’s going on.  So I asked Max why he did it, and came up with something juicy.

Even grandpa can text!

I knew that I’m shallow enough that the date would have been a waste of time.

Hmmm. Interesting. If you know your own limitations, are you doing your date a favor by not making her endure a pointless hour or two? Maybe. Possibly. Is this woman honestly better off never meeting Max, not spending time with a guy who didn’t want her and couldn’t be convinced otherwise? It’s plausible. Was ditching her, in a way, the noble thing for Max to do, as that way he knew she could write him off as a jerk and never wonder if he was gonna call, if perhaps they could’ve been a good match? It’s an intriguing possibility.

Maybe Max wasn’t so bad after all. Maybe he was just a shallow guy out for something that he wasn’t gonna find, and so he decided to move on. I mean, this bartender guy seems to like him. And the date did mislead him about her appearance, that must’ve pissed him off, right?

I felt a little deceived but I’d say it didn’t factor in, honestly.  Athletic is pretty subjective especially when talking about women and for all I know she’s waddled a marathon. The bartender’s already pegged me as a serial dater and is aware of the psych-ops I routinely employ to cultivate first night hook-ups, so to him this incident probably just follows the behavior pattern of a person who’s already earned a corner office in hell.

Oh. No, he’s definitely just an asshole.

Sorry, buddy. Thanks for reading, but you’re on your own on this one.

Posted in Advice, Horror Stories, Your Awful Stories | 60 Comments

Your Awful Story Olympics XI

Posted on January 26, 2012 by B

The "It's Not a Match" Board Room

We’ve gotten a lot of questions here at the It’s Not a Match offices (read: my couch) asking if the site can be used as a good dating ice breaker. Is it a fun topic of conversation, telling your date about a collection of expertly written stories that, while painting a negative picture of Internet dating, are crafted so skillfully that they remind readers of a young David Sedaris, or perhaps, Ernest Hemingway? My answer? I dunno. I’ve heard from readers that they’ve had success sharing my site and having a good bonding laugh at how ridiculous this all is, and hey, I’m always happy to have more hits, but I can’t vouch for it personally. I’ve only let two ladies in on my dirty little INAM secret, and neither were, shall we say, delighted. Turns out women aren’t thrilled with the notion that if things go poorly, they may have the disaster retold to hundreds of millions of eager followers. (I inflate the stats to get the ladies, you know, turned on.) Which is my anonymity, for now, remains. But by all means, folks, spread the It’s Not a Match gospel. I hope it treats you well.

Now, onto this month’s medal winners in…Your Awful Story Olympics!

The Bronze

A lovely email received by Jillian H in Boston…

Do you wrestle? Would you like to learn? I could teach you.

So short, so sweet, and so incredibly creepy. What woman wrestles? I mean, has anyone  ever answered his question, “Yeah, I totally wrestle. I was hoping you would ask!” And presuming she doesn’t, why would she possibly want to learn? From a weird guy she just met on the Internet? “You know, I don’t wrestle, because I’m a grown woman, and why would I really, BUT I’d love to meet up at a gym sometime, or perhaps your private home, just throw on a singlet and see what happens. Sound good?” I think, were I a single woman, allowing a strange man to teach me how to wrestle would be Top 3 least likely things for me to agree to. In fact, I’m a single man, and it’s still top 3.

The Silver

From Peter F in Houston…

Just when you think you have met a functional, self-respecting woman on Match, you soon learn the error of your optimistic thinking. 

So, let me tell you the tale of Katrina, and the two Faustian terrors she called “children”. All of the pre-requisites added up. College educated, career, hot, witty and what appeared to be recent pictures.

She left out one TINY thing before we met, she failed to mention the recent brain surgery which left the left side of her face paralyzed and her left eye almost unable to blink.

However, she was funny, adored me and was a devil between the sheets. Her boys were described as a “handful” and “really attached”, but that was nothing new to me having dated other women with kids.

I might have gotten past the facial paralysis, as I didn’t consider myself that baby pool shallow. Might have I say, if that was the extent of her maladies.

So, against my better judgment, we dated, and here are the highlights:

1. Wake up next to her in the middle of the night and recoil because one eye is open and staring at you. Kind of like how Pipin found Gandalf that one time in the Return of the King. From then on, it became the Eye of Sauron but I never had the balls to tell her.

2. Finding out the hard way that her 7-year-old pissed in your new Johnston Murphys because “you didn’t bring him a Transformer again like the last time you came over.” Later that month, her 5-year-old mistook my laptop for a trampoline. She paid for both, so I wasn’t too mad.

3. Discovering she still bathed with her 7 and 5-year-old boys in the same tub together.

Beej-worthy

4. Having her casually explain why she blew her neighbor before we met in exchange for having the boy’s playset put together. For the record, she explained that was just “her body and sex” and “not her body and love” like she gave to me.

5. Showing up with classy, Cakebread Wine to impress her. Only to have it poured equally in two plastic Wendy’s cups, each chock full of nasty, refrigerator ice which smelled faintly of pizza and fish sticks.

6. Having to look at the Tramp Stamp or Trollop Postage in the likeness of her two boys every time she was on all fours.

Like all things, it came to an end. The aforementioned didn’t quite kill it believe it or not, but when she mentioned more kids, the relationship death knell rang. The ringing came in the form of me imagining our would be child’s likeness looking up at me while I plowed “mom” from behind.

The story is on steroids. It’s well written, funny, and totally crazy. Which makes me wonder…do I believe it? I believe it’s possible. God knows I’ve seen some crazy shit that is tough to believe. But can I say for certain it’s true? I can not. It’s almost too good. Like Barry Bonds good. I mean, recent brain surgery! So for now, you get the silver, Peter.

The Gold

Written to Neva C., who’s screen name I assume starts with a P?

Pretty, Purposeful, Popular, Playful, Potent, Passionate, Persevering, Phenomenal, Plucky, Poised, Pms,

Well, a : lovely, intelligent, ferociously literate(!), irrepressibly jovial, culturally-sophisticated, flora and fauna appreciatin’, terrifically sexy, esthetically-astute, worldly, beer-sippin’, astonishingly active, highly-caffeinated, vocalizin’, canine-friendly, deliciously curvaceous Mom with a healthy appetite, and who can cook……………who wouldn’t be completely enthralled !

Orwell wrote, “At fifty, everyone has the face they deserve”, and you have a very provocative, mischievous, and sensual, one, so I thought I’d take a chance and write. I don’t know that Orwell ever commented specifically on lovely locavores who favour tight, sexy, tops, but I have no doubt that he would have found you very attractive ( you really do have a terrific smile, THE : largest, loveliest, eyes, and that scrumptiously fit, athletic, figure !!!!!!!!!!! ).

I’d like to think that I possess at least some of the qualities that you seem to be looking for ( I don’t wish to appear immodest, but on a good day I am a fairly bright and amusing fellow : ) You would find me an excellent conversationalist who can knowledgeably discuss an appallingly wide variety of subjects, and good company for your outdoor excursions, and in general. I am : creative, absurdly passionate, insufferably opinionated, fairly open-minded, and deliciously intense fun at nap-time !

I adore bright, unconventional, creative, women, and swoon over clever, libidinous, ones ; ) I know some terrific local beaches, there is an adorable puppy for you to play with, kids really like me and I just bought an old farm !

I’m sure you are curious about my face ( and figure ; ) as Wilde so cleverly put it, “Of course, only the superficial person DOESN’T judge by appearances” and of course having seen your images, reciprocity would only be fair.

(The gentlemen then attached a link to photos. I’ve seen them. Let me summarize as such…)

He’s not bad looking, just seems like the sort of guy you’d expect to be looking through a peephole into a woman’s hotel room. The email goes on, but I think you get the drift. And in case you didn’t, he writes her THREE more times. Without her ever responding. One was very brief, and featured only this picture.

I get what you’re trying to do, dude, but stop. The poor dog. And yes, it’s cute. But it’s the sort of thing my grandmother would attach to the end of an email, not someone who I wanted to get it on with. Dogs in party hats might be humorous, but they are decidedly not sexy. NOT sexy.

And while you’re at it, sir, you may also want to stop writing annoyingly long lists, ending words with “in’ ” instead of “ing”, constantly quoting famous people, ever using the word “scrumptious”, and referring to yourself as “deliciously intense fun at nap time.” I don’t know exactly what that means, but I’m sure it’s gross.

Have a story that you think is award worthy? Send it to It’s Not a Match here! 

Posted in Internet Dating is Weird, Your Awful Stories | 6 Comments

The Girl Who Wouldn’t Let Me Leave

Posted on January 19, 2012 by B

When you make a date, I find it’s best to keep it. Rescheduling, even if you have a really good reason, just sends a wave of doubt through an already doubt-riddled experience. “Hey, I’m not feeling well, can we do it another night?” sounds a lot like “Hey, I’m not feeling this, can we pretend like we’ll do it another night, but really never do it at all?”. It’s not a great vibe to introduce, even if you do genuinely want to meet the person, so I try to avoid it. Plus, if you’re really not feeling well, it’s easy enough to gauge the chemistry, then end the date early if necessary, right? Sometimes right. Sometimes totally wrong.

When she walked in, I was a little surprised. It’s not that her pictures weren’t of her, they definitely were. It’s just that sometimes no matter how accurate or recent a photo is, it doesn’t capture a person’s essence. This was he she looked on Match…

But this was the reality of her essence:

There was still a lot of her that looked like Halle Berry. And even a little bit is, frankly, far more that I warrant…but there was something up with those teeth. Believe me, when she miraculously agreed to go out with me, I was well aware how preposterously far outside my league I was straying. My league is more Hall and Oates than Halle Berry. So I was excited, but then, two days before our date, I started to feel sick. But when a woman that beautiful agrees to go out with you, you go, even when you have one hell of a sore throat. You wonder if you’ve made a mistake when she shows up with a smile like Michael Strahan’s, but that’s Internet dating. You pay your dues, you take your chances.

So I bought Halle a drink, and we began to chat. She was a film student, which was part of the reason why I was so excited to meet her. Having studied film myself (try not to swoon too hard, ladies), I thought for sure we’d have a lot to talk about. And we did, for a while. But I’m gonna let you in on a little secret about sore throats – it turns out that the more you talk, the worse they actually feel. Shocking, I know. Also, another word to the wise, alcohol and Dayquil are not a great combination. Unless you’re auditioning to be on Intervention. And as the conversation began to fade, my sharpness was going right along with it. When I caught myself staring into the gap in her teeth, I knew it was time to go to the bathroom. Luckily, my drink was almost finished, so I could head home to bed shortly…

When I returned, Halle had bought us a second round. The number of times a date has purchased me drinks unsolicited, I can count on one hand. Hell, I can count them on one finger. But it was a nice gesture, and I was happy she was having a good time, so I figured I’d do my best to keep up. That’s when the shots showed up. She’d ordered us shots. Who orders shots on a first date? And it was tequila…on a Tuesday afternoon, at like 6. Apparently Halle Berry was a little bit of a frat boy. Which normally, I totally could’ve hung with, but when’s the last time you slugged tequila with a sore throat? It’s painful. Like medieval healing remedy painful. As I was choking it down, I could almost hear an insane jewish grandmother cackling, “the best thing for a sore throat is mexican liquor. Then…leeches!” I was getting drunk now, and so very tired, and, again, was having serious trouble stopping myself from staring at her teeth. They were fine teeth, really. And she was very pretty. It was my problem, not hers. But every time I closed my eyes I kept seeing this.

Then this.

And also this.

I told her I had to leave.

Halle: But we just got here. I think you need another shot.

Me: No, I really don’t. I’m sorry, I’m actually not feeling very we-

Halle: (to bartender) Can we get two more shots over here?

It was like I was on a date with Don Draper. Except sooner or later, Don passes out. I had a feeling Halle was just getting warmed up. I decided I need to be more firm.

Me: I’m sorry, I know this is lame, but my throat is killing me. Do you think we could pick this up in a few days?

Halle: What, you’re not having fun? Here, drink my shot.

Me: No. Please. I really can’t have more shots. I shouldn’t have had one to begin with.

Halle: Well, just finish your drink, I’m sure you’ll feel-

Me: NO! I really can’t! I really need to go.

And that’s when shit got awkward. It’s ok to say you have to leave, but if you do a little too loud or a little too angry, you seem like a lunatic. I did both, making me just a scooch short of Charles Manson. And Halle’s face showed it.

Halle: OK, sorry. God. You don’t have to be rude.

And from there, we were pretty much done. I apologized profusely, and told her I was feeling SUPER sick. She asked why I didn’t just reschedule, and because I couldn’t really say “because your pictures were smoking hot and I didn’t want to mess things up”, I just said, “I don’t know.” Halle was unimpressed. Frankly, I was too. I told her I felt really sick again, for probably the fifth time, but at that point even I stopped believing me. It was all just a little too much.

I called Halle a few days later when I got over the cold and asked to take her out again and make things up to her, but she never responded. I can’t say I blame her really, and frankly I was a little relieved. The Dayquil was out of my system, but I wasn’t sure the teeth wouldn’t get me again. I guess that makes me a pretty bad date. But hey, it’s the Internet. You pay your dues, you take your chances…

Posted in Horror Stories | 3 Comments

How is This My Match? Vol 8

Posted on January 13, 2012 by B

What I'm willing to spend on a date.

After arguing that men should not necessarily pay for a first date last week, I got one of my favorite emails ever. I’ve had women email trying to set me up with their friends, their moms, themselves, and I think even one of their cats, but this note warmed my heart more than any other. You ready?

You cheap mothafucker, thats why youre single.

Thank you, Miche0177, you are a sweetheart. And while I appreciate your input, I have to admit I’m a little offended. I know it’s fun to cast off anonymous angry emails, but my willingness on occasion to let my date to split a tab is not the reason I’m single, and I’m offended by the suggestion. I’m single because of the rashes. The full-body, head-to-toe rashes. And the night terrors. And the crying. And very possibly the fake leg. Which may or may not be the source of my rashes. But cheapness, Miche0177, cheapness has nothing to do with it.

Imagine my delight, however, when I received a new recommendation from Match that seem to dovetail perfectly with my recent post. It’s as if they’ve discovered my site! (If they have, apologies to every woman I’m currently conversing with, they’re totally deleting my account.) But anyway, here’s what my new match would like to do on her first date…

I’m not so sure about that walking down the beach business (remember, fake leg), but otherwise, this is a woman after my own heart! Normally this is the time where I ask “How is This My Match?!”, but I’m not gonna do it this time. Good work, Match. I think you might have finally nailed one. I mean, come on, look at these pictures…

Wow. Foxy, right? I’m not totally sure about the butterflies on the wall (read a little Sweet Valley High if you ask me) but other than that I certainly can’t complain. And the last picture with the shoulder tattoo? Now you’re playing my number! I’ve dated several women with tattoos, and 100% of them were totally insane, but I sure had fun figuring that out. I was starting to get quite intrigued, until I came across this little chestnut…

18 year-old woman
Los Angeles, California

18 year-old woman?! 18?! 1-8?! How many times can I write the number 18? What the hell is going on here? Is that even legal? Are you trying to catch me in a sting operation, Match? I keep expecting to turn around and see this guy step out from behind a curtain…

And say “why don’t you have a seat? I’m Chris Hansen, and I’m from Dateline.” And if he does, is Match.com gonna bail me out? How could you do this to me, Match, after all we’ve been through together? I want to state for the record that my desired age range is 27-37, and there is no combination of the numbers 1 and 8 that fall inside that window. I would also like to speak to my lawyer.

Don’t worry, it get’s worse…

What She’s Looking For: Hey, My name is Nxxxx Xxxxxx, I am not subscribed so look me up on Facebook and feel free to contact me directly!

That’s gotta be entrapment, right? I’m pretty sure this is how they nab the guys on How To Catch a Predator. You start on a dating site, nice and innocent. They show you a few risqué little tattoos, then ask you to contact them directly on Facebook. You do and a few minutes later you somehow end up in a seedy Internet chat room, and before you know it you’re driving to their house wine coolers and a few of the more suggestive episodes of My Little Pony. I know how this shit goes down, Hansen, and I’m not falling for your little trap! Now I know why the butterflies on her wall read Sweet Valley High, because she probably just graduated from Sweet Valley High last week.

Now I know it’s not technically illegal for me to date an 18 year-old. Or at least I think it’s not. It’s not, right? But the whole thing is too close for comfort. And is that really what you think of me, Match? That all you need to do is show me a smiling face and a little skin and pretty soon I’ll be traipsing around with teenagers?! Well, how dare you? I am a grown adult. And, I can’t traipse, on account of the fake leg. Thanks for bringing it up. Again.

Come on, How is This My Match?!

Posted in How is This My Match? | 5 Comments