Blocked.
Disappointing dates and blocking bad dudes on the apps. Plus: a temporary scare regarding my Substack.
My name is not Naomi. It’s a nom de plume to protect my identity. Though names have been changed, all the stories in Gen XXX are true. If you like what you see, please do share with friends. I rely solely on word of mouth to grow my subscriber base. Also! A note to readers: I’m hearing reports that the Gen XXX newsletter is not reaching some email inboxes due to what may be a Google block. If you’re experiencing issues like this, please write me at sexliesselfies at gmail dot com and I’ll have someone look into it.
A bunch of duds. The past two weeks have been full of duds.
The married, polyamorous man with whom I have a nice hike and lunch never resurfaces after kissing me next to my car. (Maybe I had coffee breath.) There’s no spark between me and the next guy, a very tall, 50-something writer/filmmaker. I know I’m not physically attracted to him from the moment he sits down at the bar, and, after about 15 minutes of chatting, it’s clear he’s not into me either. But he’s a total gentleman, texting me the next day and saying that he isn’t feeling a romantic spark but can we be friends? I say “yes.”
The really smart, silver-haired European rocket scientist — a literal rocket scientist — is also a disappointment. He doesn’t ask me any questions, for one thing. Then, after the date, he swoops in, open-mouthed, for a kiss. Open-mouthed! Out on the sidewalk in front of Lamill in the middle of the day, no less!
“Maybe you should give him another chance,” suggests my friend Alison, after I tell her about the date. “Maybe he’s just a friend with benefits.” But my stomach turns at the visual of the rocket scientist’s tongue readying itself for entry into my mouth, and I tell her so.
“Maybe not,” she says.
Next up is a Turkish 30-something that I meet for coffee at Intelligensia on Sunset after a brief back and forth on Bumble. He’s attractive — sandy brown hair and beautiful blue eyes — but he has very little to say, other than what he offers in response to my questions. I learn that he’s new to the United States and that he drives for Uber Eats, which gives me some pause. (I guess I’m a snob.)
Things are a bit more lively online than off. TJ, the young guy from the South Bay, shows up again in my sex app inbox. “Johnny” makes a return as well; I notice that he’s amended his profile to take out specific mention of farts. I guess he’s trying different things, hoping for a different result. I have to give him credit for his determination, though I fear that he’s going to have to give up the ghost at some point.
Then a guy named “Sam” likes my profile on Bumble. I’ve seen Sam before — the self-described “Scorpion King” is tall and blond and bearded and he looks pretty pleased with himself in his pictures. The first time we match on the sex app, Sam and I have a conversation about how much he loves blow jobs — hence the phrase “acts of service” in his profile — before he unceremoniously disconnects from me.
The next time Sam surfaces, we have a somewhat longer conversation before he disappears. The third time he shows up, I match with him again just to amuse myself and so that I can ask him whether he remembers me from before. (He claims he does not.) Then comes the fourth attempt at outreach; this time he’s coming to me from Bumble, which informs me that Sam is “new here” and that he likes to “find meaning in life’s margins.”
“Love langs desired: touch & acts of service,” his profile reads.
I roll my eyes and take a look at Sam’s “Opening Move,” a prompt that Bumble members can use to initiate a conversation with the object of their potential affection.
“What fact or stat would you like to see floating above people’s heads?” it asks.
I hit the checkmark on Sam’s profile and begin typing.
“I’m that guy who can’t shut up about how much he loves blowjobs who has liked your profile at least 4 times on different apps for no discernible reason other than trolling,” I write.
I wait until I see the text bubble appear that tells me that Sam is typing a response. Then I unmatch and block him before anything he says can make it through.
Maybe it’s a millennial thing. They’re much more badly behaved than the Gen X-ers I encounter. Take the guy — conveniently named “Guy” — who finds me on Bumble. He’s cute – tall, thick brown hair, bearded – but he’s 33-years-old, and it shows. When we make an initial plan to meet up this past Saturday night, Guy is quick to clarify that he’s looking for something “casual,” i.e. a hookup. I say that this is fine, but that I need to meet him in a public place so I can suss out the vibe and get to know him a bit. I suggest The Black Cat on Sunset.
“Is that near where you live?” he asks. I say “yes,” and he sends back a smirking face emoji.
A few minutes later I get another message; Guy is running a bit late. “Just let me know your eta,” I say. “I’m five minutes away from the bar.”
“Ok,” he responds. A pause.
“So we are going there for one drink and if we vibe going to your place?”
Good grief, I think.
“I am interested in talking to see where things go but it sounds like you need reassurance that we will have only one drink before making a decision about going to my place,” I respond.
“Yes understand where you coming from,” Guy says. “I’m sorry for being so specific lol. But really just looking for something casual. I mean, straight to the point lol.”
I roll my eyes at the “lols.”
“’Casual’ doesn’t have to mean we don’t talk a bit,” I write. “You should be able to be casual without being tacky — but that’s not how you’re coming across. You seem very focused on the end result and not very interested in enjoying the journey to get there. Let’s skip. I’m turned off now.”
I disconnect and block.
The other exchange I have that weekend isn’t much better. I match on the sex app with a retired MMA fighter in his early 40s who lives in Long Beach and considers himself “a gentleman.” He seems a little manic, and I suspect that he voted for Donald Trump, but the MMA fighter has a smoking hot body and his conversational skills are surprisingly sophisticated. Then, about half an hour into our chat, things take an unfortunate turn when the MMA fighter starts asking me probing questions about my sex life and how I groom my pubic hair. He wants to meet me that evening — he’s gotten all worked up, he says — and then he sends me a video, unsolicited, of him jerking off in the shower.
I don’t like unsolicited dick pics and videos. I write: “You’re gross. And not much of a gentleman.” Then I unmatch. A few hours later, the MMA fighter tries to connect with me again — perhaps to apologize, or maybe to tell me that I’m a bitch — but this time I block him.
Speaking of blocking, it seems like last week’s post about Nico, which my friend Leah claims is “pornographic,” got me thrown off Stripe, the company contracted by Substack to administer payments to writers. I get an email the same day that “Nico” publishes, informing me that my “business, Gen XXX, is in violation of the Stripe Services Agreement.”
The email reads:
“Specifically, we are unable to accept payments for sexually-related products and services, as mentioned on our Restricted Businesses List.
Due to the high risk nature of this violation, we are unable to provide you with a notice period. As a result, we have closed your account and you will no longer be able to accept payments.”
The email tells me that I can request further review, but before I do that, I look into Stripe’s definition of “restricted businesses,” and find the following language under the heading “Adult content and services”:
•Pornography and other mature audience content (including literature, imagery, and other media) depicting nudity or explicit sexual acts. [Italics mine.]
“Literature?” You can’t write about nudity? Or sex? And how does Stripe define “explicit”?
Upset, I text my friend Max, who runs a popular Substack. “Congratulations!” she responds. I laugh. Max points out that are plenty of other Substack writers who talk about sex in a no-holds-barred manner. Should I have been more circumspect? she wonders. Should I not be using words like “cock”? (Is “penis” okay?) Or is it the mention of sexual acts themselves that prompted the closure of my account? And why wasn’t I warned in advance?
I reach out to Stripe to request a further review and, within a day, I am informed that “unfortunately, following an additional review of your account we’re still unable to support your business as it falls under one of our restricted business categories.” (Why they think it falls into a restricted business category is never articulated.)
I decide that my next move is to escalate the issue, so I go on the company’s LinkedIn page and message a few people, including Stripe’s president, communications director and CEO.
To each I write some version of the following:
Hi John:
I’m a Substack contributor whose Stripe account has been blocked because my newsletter supposedly falls under the "restricted businesses" category. (I write about sex and dating.)
I'll be writing about the block for my newsletter publishing this Thursday the 27th and would love to talk to you about the policies that have prompted Stripe to close my account despite the many other Substack newsletters that deal with similar subjects around sexuality and romance.
Do you have 10-15 minutes to chat today or tomorrow?
Thanks so much.
Then, I wait.
Decision reversed! I don’t know what does it, but a few hours after I make my outreach to the three Stripe executives, including sending an email to their media and communications department, I hear from a representative that my account has been re-enabled.
Huzzah!
And also: Awkward!
Because just before this Stripe stuff goes down, I’m composing a message asking readers to…
• Share the newsletter with friends and suggest they subscribe
and
• Consider upgrading to a paid subscription
…as in, give me actual money. Which I really hate asking for.
Listen, offering me compensation for my work is not at all required or expected — I’m going to continue writing this newsletter for as long as I can, and I hope you enjoy it in whatever form it takes. But paid subscriptions are so so appreciated and they make things a lot easier for me financially. (As others can attest, those dating app fees are quite expensive. Like $75-100 a month expensive.)
Plus, by upgrading to a paid subscription you’ll get more bang for your buck. (Insert bad joke about “bang” as a euphemism.) You’ll be given the ability to comment, and you’ll get access to extra goodies, including guest posts and Q&As with interesting thinkers and writers who focus on sex and dating and middle age. (This Saturday’s post will feature writer and Substack writer Tracy Clark-Flory.)
Once in a while I may even indulge in some criticism around depictions of “older” women and sex in popular culture— I’m composing a post right now about one of the storylines on the new season of The White Lotus, and I’m also anxiously awaiting the release of the limited series Dying for Sex. (April 4; FX on Hulu.)
Join me, won’t you?