ChatGPT.
What happens when AI offers dating advice. Plus: The problem of polyamorous men.
My name is not Naomi. It’s a nom de plume to protect my identity. Though names and identifying details have been changed, all the stories in Gen XXX are true. My anonymity means that I rely on word of mouth to grow my subscriber base, so if you’re intrigued by what you’re reading, please, please, please do share with friends.
The Israeli research doctor pops up in my inbox on Friday night, after I get home from a party at the LA Times Book Festival. It’s late, but I’m wide awake, and I “like” him back.
The doctor is younger than me by 14 years, and he’s in a postdoc program at a prestigious university in the Bay Area. He’s handsome. Soulful blue eyes and thick brown hair and olive skin. He looks like someone famous, but I can’t figure out who.
We make a plan to meet up the following night. I’m confident he’ll keep the date. I like to say that the best thing about dating foreign men is that they don’t tend to flake or ghost. But Olivia disagrees. At least with regards to the French. She holds a special disdain for them, and I defer to her because she once lived in France and is good at summarizing the soul of a place and its people. (You should hear what she has to say about Naples, Italy.)
The Israeli doctor is the second date I go on in less than 12 hours. 7 hours before we meet I have coffee with a divorced, polyamorous father who lives in one of LA’s northeast suburbs. He looks like a dependable, Midwestern dad, though I don’t actually know about the Midwestern part, or, for that matter, the dependability.
The divorced dad and I meet at Lamill. I hate Lamill’s expensive, mediocre coffee, and I’m wary because I once got ghosted there. But whatever. The divorced dad arrives on time at 2pm and we talk for a little over an hour — well, mostly I talk and he listens — and then an employee tells us that it’s closing time so we get up to leave. The divorced dad says he has a friend coming into town that evening, and I remember that he’s told me that his “primary” comes to visit once every three months or so.
Before we part, the divorced dad suggests meeting up again — maybe a hiking date, he says — but he doesn’t respond to my text later that afternoon saying that it was nice to meet him. Nothing from him the following day, either. I wonder whether the suggestion that we go on another date was just him being polite. It didn’t feel like a brush off, but who knows? All I know is that at this point, it does me no good to overthink these things. Men will come and men will go.
Also, to be honest, I’m sort of sick of all these poly and ENM guys. There’s something a little off-putting about them. They can come across as entitled and self-satisfied. I get the sense that most of them are new to this particular lifestyle and that they’re a little high on their own supply. Men have always wanted to have their cake and eat it too, and now they can, and seem “cool” and “open-minded” and transgressive while they do it.
Remember Nomad No. 2? Well, he’s also poly, though he has no primary. (Or secondary, for that matter.) I get the sense that he may be auditioning me for a lead role but I’m still unsure whether I want a part in his particular play.
(Apologies for the metaphor.)
Even so, I take Olivia and Alison’s advice and go out on a second date with him: A visit to an art exhibit at Hauser & Wirth followed by dinner at a fancy “farm to table” restaurant called Manuela. And then…who knows? Maybe I’ll invite him home. I just hope he remembers that I have cats, and that he’ll need to take his allergy medication.
The art is underwhelming. A lot of moody large canvases with naked brown figures that bring to mind Picasso’s “Les Demoiselles d’Avignon.” The adjacent bookshop however, is a delight. Full of curiosities and treasures — a $35 book about pet cemeteries, for one thing — and shelves of work of favorite contemporary artists. I point out books by Sophie Calle and Jean-Michel Basquiat and Yoshitomo Nara, and look over Nomad No. 2’s shoulder as he reads Edward Gorey’s The Gashlycrumb Tinies. (We agree that “K is for Kate” is the most gruesome of the entries and that “T is for Titus” is the most devastating.)
After our stop at the bookstore — I leave with the book about pet cemeteries — we head to Manuela. The food is delicious, albeit overpriced. (Thankfully, Nomad No. 2 is paying.) I forget what we talk about. Not a good sign, I guess. After dinner, while Nomad No. 2 and I wait for the valet to bring our cars, I decide to take my own erotic temperature and lean over to kiss him. I’m curious to see what I’ll feel.
The kissing is not bad. Tender. Erotic, even. I have a sudden intake of breath and feel a little shiver up my spine. Who knew? Maybe there’s something to this guy, I think. But I’m still not going to invite him home. I tell myself that this has something to do with my desire to remain chaste before Antoine’s arrival, though that theory flies out the window two nights later when I meet the Israeli doctor at a whiskey bar a few blocks away from his downtown hotel.
The Israeli doctor is an engaging and energetic conversationalist. Smart. Funny. Quick on his feet. Some of my friends, like my gay friend David, don’t care much for getting to know someone before a hookup but I do. I want to know as much as possible about them, in fact. I consider it a form of foreplay.
The Israeli doctor and I discuss his favorite Tarantino movies (Django Unchained and Inglorious Basterds), our families, the influence of porn on our lives and what we do for a living. At one point early on, we get onto the subject of October 7th, and how some people on dating apps are appending their profiles with emojis of watermelons, symbolizing the colors of the Palestinian flag. I don’t let the Israeli doctor know how I feel about this and I don’t know how he feels about this, but it is clear after 10 minutes of dancing around the issue that maybe complicated discussions about Israel/Palestine are best avoided on what is clearly a sex date.
Two hours later, I’m in the Israeli doctor’s 27th floor hotel room. It faces east, towards the Eastern Columbia Building and the planes on final approach to LAX. We kiss for a while on the couch, but when he tries to undress me, I push him onto his back and pull his pants down and take out his cock. He guides my hand down towards his balls and then a little further below that. I appreciate a guy who’s not afraid of having his ass touched. It means he’s not too precious.
Eventually we make it to the bedroom. Soon, he’s fucking me from behind, pulling my hair with one hand and holding my neck with the other. I tell him that I don’t like choking. “Okay, no neck,” he says. He’s respectful about it.
I do like spanking, I say. The Israeli doctor gives me a playful slap on the ass. He jokes that he learned how to spank when he was 12 from watching porn. “I’m a millennial,” he explains. I laugh. He’s making a joke about my general distaste for men of his generational cohort.
The next afternoon, the Israeli doctor messages me “hello.” I ask him how his presentation went. It was fine, he says, but he’s exhausted and he has a dinner that night. I’m tired as well — the late night out plus the alcohol really did a number on me. I tell him that it was great to meet him and I’ll let him know the next time I’m in the Bay Area.
“You’re sexy as fuck and great to talk to,” I write.
“I feel the same,” he responds.
Later that day, my sister will inform me that it is the six-month anniversary of my mother’s death.
The following morning, a 35-year-old Brazilian with whom I had a coffee date in January shows up in my sex app inbox again. I recall that he lives in Long Beach and loves going down on women. He’s very attractive.
He asks what I’m doing this week and I tell him I have a visitor arriving on Thursday who will be in town for 8 days.
“A visitor? Hope he will do you,” says the Brazilian.
I take “do you” to mean “fuck you.”
“Yes — he’s a lover,” I respond. “From Paris.”
A “lover.”
“From Paris.”
It sounds so sophisticated.
“Perfect! Hope he’s gonna make you go crazy,” the Brazilian says. “After some days taking it my tongue will be helpful for your little [cat emoji]. A soft massage to heal after some hot days with a lover.”
“Yes,” I respond. I’m not sure how else to respond.
“I’d love to help you with the healing,” he continues. “Oral services for you, Naomi!”
“I love that you love going down on women,” I say.
“It’s my passion. And you can consider my mouth yours for anything you want. Just oral nothing else! Would you ride my face till you cum?”
C-u-m. I hate that spelling.
“Maybe,” I say. I’m unimpressed by this guy. And I’m iffy on “riding” faces. I don’t want a man gazing up at my flabby stomach a few inches above his face while he’s having at me. It might ruin the mood for both of us.
It’s just two days before Antoine is set to arrive. I’ve gotten my toes done. (“Big Apple Red” by OPI.) I’ve also gotten waxed. (“Deep bikini” and upper lip.) As someone who complains that millennial men expect women to have what one of my friends calls “an immaculate pussy,” I sure was quick to have my pubic hair ripped out by the roots.
I’m excited about Antoine’s visit, but also a little worried that he and I will get sick of one another. Or that I’ll embarrass myself. What if I fart while I’m asleep? Drench the sheets in sweat overnight? Cook a crappy meal? Or hate his? One of these things is bound to happen!
Oh, and did I mention that he and I are going away to the Grand Canyon for two days?
“What if you catch feelings?” my friend Margot asks. I hadn’t considered this. She suggests that I consult ChatGPT. As she’s said previously, she looks to AI for advice about all her boy troubles.
I open the app and write:
I have a male friend and lover coming to stay in my home for 8 days. What do I do if we don't get along during his visit?
ChatGPT responds within a few seconds:
It's understandable to feel uncertain about what might happen if things don't go smoothly during his visit. Here are a few ideas for navigating the situation:
Set Expectations Early: Before he arrives, it might help to have a conversation about your expectations for the visit—what you both want out of the time together, whether it's relaxation, fun, or connecting. This can help prevent misunderstandings.
Create Space for Both of You: Living together in close quarters can be intense, especially if things aren’t going well. Make sure there’s room for both of you to have alone time, whether it's retreating to different rooms or having separate activities. This can give you both space to cool off and reset.
Communicate Honestly: If tensions start rising, it’s important to communicate openly but calmly. Share how you're feeling without blame. For example, "I feel like we're not getting along, and it's making things tense between us."
Identify the Source of Conflict: If the issues are arising from something specific—like mismatched schedules, personal habits, or different expectations—discuss these things to see if there's a compromise or change that can be made.
Have a Plan for Boundaries: If things feel too uncomfortable, it’s okay to set clear boundaries. You don’t have to continue engaging in activities or conversations that aren’t working for you. It's important to prioritize your emotional well-being.
Evaluate the Visit’s Purpose: If the situation doesn’t improve and you're both not enjoying your time together, it might be worth considering whether extending the visit or continuing the stay is the best option. You could suggest that he stays elsewhere for the remainder of his visit, especially if you feel that time apart would help both of you.
Ultimately, the goal is to manage the visit with mutual respect and open communication. If things don’t work out as planned, it’s okay to make adjustments for your well-being.
None of this is particularly surprising.
This past Tuesday I have another date. With a 49-year-old high school art teacher, making him the second educator I’ve gone out with in the past six months. We meet on the terrace of the cocktail bar above L&E in Silver Lake. He’s tall and handsome, with a square jaw and twinkling eyes and a nice mouth. Though his style of dress is corny — he’s wearing a leather jacket and striped jeans and Doc Martens — he’s confident and straightforward.
As we talk, I learn that he is in an open relationship with an older woman who lives a block away from me. They’ve been together for over a decade, he says. Then he gets a weird look on his face.
“I just realized we never told one another our names,” he says.
Oh shit.
An hour later, the art teacher and I have exchanged names and having started kissing on the outdoor couch. The bartender pokes her head outside to inform us that it’s time to wrap things up. Last call.
We head downstairs to the street.
“Want to make out in my car?” I ask. I’m not sure if I want to bring the art teacher home.
“Let’s make out in mine,” he says. He gestures to a minivan parked in front of a Pilates studio a dozen feet away. When he opens van’s sliding door I can see that he’s removed the back row of seats; he needs the space for his art supplies and canvases, he explains. He grabs a thick blanket and arranges it on the floor of the van. We hop in.
I am aware of the absurdity of two middle-aged adults fooling around in the back of a Toyota Sienna on a major LA thoroughfare. But I feel like a teenager again. The window are steaming up. A bra comes off. (Mine, obviously). Then a pair of pants. (His.)
This goes on for about an hour and a half. The art teacher mentions having a condom, but my hard boundary is having sex in a minivan. Or any vehicle, for that matter. I won’t do it. I sort of want to, but I won’t.
I think about how much easier this would all be if we were in my home, on an actual bed.
The next day, I call David to tell him about the encounter.
“Is it weird or gross that we fooled around in a van?” I ask.
“Is it any worse than letting a strange man into your home?” he responds.
Good point.
David laughs. “Did you let him into your home?”
“My hip flexors hurt,” is all I’ll say.
I remember that when the art teacher was fucking me I imagined it was Nico.
Later, I’ll ask David how many men he’s slept with over the course of his life. Like me, he’s 51.
“You’re going to be shocked,” he warns me.
“Try me,” I say.
“Guess!” he says.
I guess 150. I think this is a lot. David laughs.
“More like 500!”
The next day, I ask ChatGPT the average number of men that a straight female of 51 years of age has had sex with.
It comes back with this:
The number of sexual partners for any individual can vary widely depending on personal choices, cultural context, and other factors. However, studies on sexual behavior can provide general trends. For example, surveys like those from the Kinsey Institute or National Health and Social Life Survey (NHSLS) suggest that in the U.S., the average number of sexual partners for women over their lifetime can range between 4 to 8 partners.
For a 51-year-old woman, particularly one in a heterosexual relationship, the number could be on the lower end of the spectrum if she has been married or in long-term relationships for much of her adult life. However, this can increase for women who have had multiple short-term or casual relationships, or if their sexual activity was influenced by factors such as divorce, the sexual revolution, or societal shifts.
So, to give you a rough idea, a 51-year-old heterosexual woman may have had around 4 to 10 sexual partners on average, though individual numbers can vary greatly depending on her unique experiences.
Okay.
I guess I’m nothing if not unique.