When I talk to my friends about the men I’m talking to, we give them nicknames. It’s just easier to attach an attribute to them in this way, rather than using their actual name. It will make them easier to write about as well. They can retain their anonymity while I pull them into my story.
(Writing that out sounds horribly objectifying, doesn’t it? Maybe the men I’ve talked to have given me a nickname. What would I be? The Boobs? Minivan?)
The High Five was the first guy that I went out with after leaving my ex. I was looking for a random hookup under a guise of class – and I found it on Tinder.
I’m going to be perfectly honest here, because that’s what the anonymity is for. Well, I have no anonymity because hey – there’s my face. And in this instance I would probably like some, because this story doesn’t make me look great.
I saw The High Five’s profile on Tinder. The pictures are never great — men are terrible at selfies! Why do they even try? These pictures were of poor quality. He didn’t look overly attractive, but he didn’t look like an ogre either. His bio seemed normal enough, and he called himself a good guy. I swiped, we flirted, he flattered, I agreed to a date.
He lived a few cities away, so I decided to go there rather than have him come here and risk being seen by someone I knew. The separation still wasn’t public knowledge and I really didn’t want to put it out there. I texted his name, phone number, and address to a friend (because safety first, kids) and off I went.
We met at his apartment and then went for a walk by the water. It was lovely. We had lots in common and talked about movies and TV shows that we both liked. We stopped for ice cream. He offered to buy me dinner but this was during the time where I was so stressed out over my domestic situation that I was barely eating. So we went back to his apartment and listened to some records.
It was awkward. Imagine awkward — it was more so. I was not attracted to this man at all. I didn’t find him good looking, and while we got along well there was zero chemistry. But, I was on a mission. He asked me what I was thinking. (Why do guys always ask me this? I’ve always seen it portrayed on the media as women asking that question of their male partners, but I can honestly say I have never initiated a question on what a man is thinking and I have been asked countless times.) I asked him in return and he said that he was thinking that he would like to kiss me. I said “I think you should probably do that.” We kissed.
It was a terrible kiss.
I don’t have words to describe it, but I will try. Wet. Awkward. Teeth. Devour. Just…bad.
And of course, it didn’t stop there. I went there to mark the end of my relationship. I went there to really say to myself that it was over. I went there to have sex.
The sex was even worse than the kissing.
If I thought it was awkward before…I didn’t know awkward. He was lying there with his arms around me; I was lying there staring at the ceiling wondering when I could go home. He asked me what I wanted to do, and I said that I should probably get home to my kids. We got dressed and I got ready to go.
I thanked him for a fun afternoon. I stood awkwardly in his front entranceway wondering what I was supposed to do next. I’d been in a relationship for the past 11 years. My dating experience was nil. My hookup experience was in the negatives. So I looked at him, gave him the most discomfited smile you can imagine, and stuck my hand in the air. “High five?” I asked. He high fived me, and I left.
Regret Scoring: 2/10
I don’t actually regret this experience. It needed to happen. I needed to rip off that band-aid, get back on the horse, put myself out there — whatever you want to say. I needed it to happen. The High Five was a nice guy, his apartment was clean, he used a condom… All good things. The only reason this experience gets two regrettable points is that I was hoping my first foray back into the dating world could have at least ended in good sex.