“Sex is really important to me,” Justin wrote in a text message, “and I’m attracted to only men with great bodies.” My chest burned with embarrassment. “Sorry, just being honest,” he added.
Ouch.
He was a handsome redhead with the clichéd Hollywood double major: actor by day, catering server by night.
When he’d first reached out to me on a dating app, I did that thing I do: made a few jokes and self-deprecating remarks to manage a potential date’s expectations of my looks. I’ve never been body-confident – I have many plastic surgery bills to prove it – and I’m committed to being truthful with anyone who shows interest in my profile. I know my best angles and what lighting works for me and can, therefore, take a nice photograph, but I always make clear that I also know how much I enjoy pizza and a hot fudge sundae. Sure, Justin behaved like a tactless asshole the moment I implied that I would never be a Mr. Universe contestant, but at least he was honest about his shallow approach to selecting mates. He wanted washboard abs or nothing at all. He had no interest in getting to know me if I couldn’t promise a perfectly hard body, which, at the time, bruised my already fragile self-esteem.
After stewing in the upset for a couple of days – and showing Justin’s texts to all of my friends so they could agree on how vacuous he was – it became clear that Justin had done both of us a favor. He’d revealed himself to be the kind of superficial dater whom I try desperately to avoid while, at the same time, saving his own time and energy for someone with a chiseled body and lower standards.
Soon after came Andrew, a mid-40s screenwriter whose sense of humor and adorable dimples made him a charmingly viable suitor. He appeared to be bright and respectful, not to mention less interested in physical attributes than most of the men who made up his romantic cyber-competition.
My first date with Andrew went incredibly well. The conversation flowed without even one awkward pause, and our sensibilities were nice complements. Date #2 was also successful, other than a relatively lengthy bathroom break that kept Andrew away from the table for a good 10 minutes. “There’s either an unusually long line at the men’s restroom, or the turkey lasagna did a number on his stomach,” I thought, as I sat alone, scrolling through my Facebook page to keep occupied in his absence. When he returned, he offered no explanation for his extended “skip to the loo” but did express interest in seeing me again that coming Saturday evening. He confirmed our weekend plans when he dropped me off at my house but didn’t offer a hug, kiss or any other affectionate gesture. I wanted to lock lips, but I wasn’t bold enough to make the move – a product of my on-going fear of rejection that could easily become the focus of 100 additional columns.
Our next dinner was delicious and romantic, never mind that Andrew had become drunk after four Moscow Mules. As we walked along the beach afterward, he had his right arm around my shoulders, and it became obvious, on this third date, that he was ready to smooch. Maybe the alcohol had made him particularly amorous? Or was it his attraction to me?
Reaching into his pocket, Andrew pulled out a small bottle of Listerine spray, freshening his breath with a couple of spritzes before leaning toward me and touching his lips to mine. I recoiled as I tasted the unmistakable stale and sour hints of too much booze and tar on my tongue. “Wait, did you have a cigarette today?”
“Yes,” he said sheepishly, putting both of his hands in the sides of his jeans and lowering his eyes. “Five or so. Never more than six a day.”
“So, when you told me that you don’t drink or smoke during our initial phone conversation – and, by the way, you described yourself as a ‘non-smoker’ in your actual profile – you forgot about this five-a-day routine and your passion for ginger beer?”
“Not at all, but I don’t think of myself as a smoker or a drinker,” Andrew answered in all seriousness. “I mean, I’ll stop someday for sure.”
“By your logic then,” I retorted, “I could put an M.D. after my name on my dating profile because I might go to medical school in the future?” I don’t judge people who choose to smoke – get drunk, though, maybe – but that particular habit in a partner is a personal turn-off.
It suddenly dawned on me that his disappearing act on our second date was likely not a rush to the toilet at all but rather a cigarette break; the lack of a kiss, moreover, was probably to maintain his “non-smoker” cover for at least one more night.
The spark, pun intended, was gone. Andrew had lied, knowing full well from our first chat that I was resolute in my dislike for any kind of smoking or too much drinking around me. He admitted that he’d hoped I’d fall for him and eventually overlook his vices. Dishonesty, though, is something I have a harder time getting past than puffing on Marlboros and over-imbibing.
It would seem, looking at Justin and Andrew’s approaches to truth-telling in the dating sphere, that one can’t win for losing. If a guy tells his truth distastefully, he may be labeled a prick just as quickly as another man might be for lying or withholding information. I’d started to have feelings for Andrew, which made his transgression even more disappointing. When there’s deceit at the beginning of a courtship – or even a friendship, for that matter – I have difficulty developing trust, a necessary foundation for any relationship.
And, sure, Justin proved himself to be a total dirtbag from the outset, but we both benefitted from the reveal of his true colors. I didn’t want to date a vapid jerk for even a second, and he didn’t want to be coupled with someone who didn’t have Channing Tatum’s body. He was a low-life, but an honest low-life – and there’s something to be said for that.
PORN AGAIN: A MEMOIR by Josh Sabarra is available as a trade paperback, eBook and audiobook at Amazon.com or wherever books are sold.