Simon.
Uh-oh.
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. My anonymity means that I rely on word of mouth to grow my subscriber base, so if you’re enjoying what you’re reading, I encourage you to share with friends. And if you’re already subscribed, won’t you please consider a paid subscription?
Simon, the divorced dad, has resurfaced. I was right: He did Google me, though what he found doesn’t seem to be so much a turn off as a curiosity. Anyway, he wants to get together again. I tell him I’ll reach out when I get back to Los Angeles from my travels north.
Also: The guy I matched with on Hinge — the Belle and Sebastian “softboi” — has asked me out to dinner. Before I leave for the Bay Area we have an hour-long phone call during which I learn that he’s in an open marriage. I’m annoyed that he didn’t put this in his profile. It’s less because I’m judgmental of polyamory but because I’m starting to realize that at some point I want to meet a man for whom I can be number one.
Two weeks after I hand over control of my Bumble account to Astrid we have a check-in about how her attempts to engineer my dating life are going. She tells me that she’s come to the conclusion that the app is “not the place” for me.
She’s not excited about anyone, she says. And the men who pique her interest never respond after she matches with them and makes the first move.
“You do get a lot of likes,” she says. “Your profile is circulating. It’s just that the people who are seeing it don't feel that compelling. The old guys seem too old, the young guys seem too young. No one is hitting just right.”
Astrid tells me about one man, a screenwriter and novelist. She says he resembles Andrew McCarthy, she says, and loves books, the arts, dark chocolate, plums, sports, and earth tones. But he’s five foot eight.
“Is this the guy who is really five eight or is he actually five seven?” she asks. “You know what I mean?”
I know what she means. Men on dating apps like to round up their height.
“I don't really care,” I say. “I mean, it's not ideal, but I’m more interested in interesting men than I’m interested in guys who are taller than me.”
“Okay, she says. “But there is something else about him.”
She scrolls through his profile again, looking for something.
“Ah, right he wants kids,” she says. “So the answer is ‘no.’”
Astrid brings my attention to another man’s profile. His profile says “no vanilla.” Astrid and I wonder whether this means that he doesn’t like white girls or whether he doesn’t want vanilla sex. He also looks like a bit of a meathead, she says. I tell Astrid we can move on.
The last guy Astrid shows me is a man who works in film and tv production and went to UCLA. He doesn't drink, doesn't smoke, and smokes pot socially. She says that he’s both spiritual and liberal. But not Christian.
‘He only has two pictures,” says Astrid. “In one, I think he's cute and in the other one, I think he's less than cute.”
I tell Astrid that having a profile only having two pictures is a bit of a warning. The guy is either lazy about filling out his profile or trying to hide something.
Astrid sighs. “I’m really feeling like Bumble is not for you,” she says. “It doesn’t feel like you’re going to find the diamond in the rough there.”
“It’s validating that you’re experiencing the same thing I am,” I say. “But is it because I’m too picky?”
“What I think is interesting is that I actually heard you asking that question in my head as I myself was being discerning,” she says.
“Maybe I should give up,” I say.
“I don’t think we ever really quit, do we?” Astrid asks.
“No,” I say.
“We’re always looking,” she says.
The Belle and Sebastian “softboi” — let’s call him Matthew — invites me to dinner at Dunsmoor, which has been on my list of places to try: The restaurant has just been put on a NY Times short list of the best restaurants in Los Angeles. I’m excited but also concerned: The restaurant is very expensive, and I am not feeling flush at the moment, which means that I’m also hoping that Matthew, as the inviter, is not going to expect me to pay.
The night of our date I pull my hair back into a braid and put on black liquid eyeliner and a nude colored lipstick. It takes me 10 minutes to get to the restaurant — I’m early, which is normal for me. Sometimes I spend the entire day inside my house, working, and am so anxious to leave that I show up for social engagements 10-15 minutes before I’m scheduled to arrive.
Matthew and I don’t really talk about his marriage at dinner, though we talk about mine, which has been over for over a decade. I explain why my husband and I split up and try to take responsibility for my part in the breakup, lest I come across as one of those people who blames everything in a divorce on an ex.
We talk about our parents, our childhoods, our elderly pets and Los Angeles infrastructure, about which I know very little and Matthew knows a lot. I talk about my love of LA, and how I’m going to see the Philharmonic at the Hollywood Bowl the following evening. He tells me about his favorite museum in LA — the Museum of Jurassic Technology — and we both get sad when he tells me about an exhibit about the dogs that died for their country when the Soviets launched them into orbit during their space program in the 1950s and 60s.
After we leave, we stand awkwardly on the sidewalk outside the restaurant.
“Thank you so much for dinner,” I say. “I appreciate it.” I’m relieved he paid.
Matthew puts his hand on one of my shoulders.
“I’m an affectionate person and it’s hard to be affectionate when you’re sitting across the table from someone at a restaurant,” he says. “I mean, the formality makes sense for a first date. But would you like to go sit down and talk somewhere else?”
I tell him I would.
We settle in at a bar down the street called The Grant. It has a sumptuous, old-school vibe, with low, upholstered couches set behind small cocktail tables. There’s virtually no one inside, which feels perfect, should Matthew and I decide to start kissing. We order two non-alcoholic cocktails ($12 a pop) and pick up where we left off. I am vibing off his geeky, nerdy energy and leaning into that side of myself as well. He takes my hand with his left and squeezes it. I can feel the cool of his wedding ring and wonder whether or not he’s ever worried that people he knows might see him out with a woman other than his wife.
Matthew and I end the night with a series of goodnight kisses on the couch — soft, somewhat tentative and tender. I always feel weird making out with a man in public at my age. I wonder if it comes across as gross to others.
Matthew waits for me as I pay the valet and wait for my car to arrive. We tell one another that we’d like to see each other again.
“I’m around until the 24th, then away, then back on the 29th,” I say. I hope this doesn’t sound too pushy. Matthew nods and says he’ll have to look at his calendar.
Back in the car, I check the messages on my phone for a bit before pulling out into the street. Two blocks down Eagle Rock Boulevard I narrowly miss hitting a pedestrian who has stepped out into a crosswalk. (My fault, not his.)
It takes me a moment to realize that the pedestrian is Matthew.
The next morning, while I’m on my way to meet Penny at her fancy social club in DTLA, Matthew texts me a lovely note.
“Hi,” it reads. “I’m the kind of guy who likes saying what I’m feeling and reinforcing the obvious, so I wanted to share that I have the good kind of hangover — the happy mood sort — from spending time with you.”
“I appreciate that we were able to transition easily from a friendly and interesting conversation over good food to an affectionate hangout with very well aligned exploratory kissing.”
“Hope you have a fun time at the Bowl this evening. And let’s look at calendars for a follow up date.”
“Well-aligned exploratory kissing.”
This makes me smile.
Astrid and I have one last meetup at Figaro before we bid adieu to Bumble forever. I tell her about my date with Matthew and show her the text he sent me.
“He thought about this before he sent it,” she says. “He took some time with it.”
“Yes, it’s nice,” I say. “He’s age appropriate.”
“It’s interesting, the way you’re talking about it,” she says. “I keep hearing you mention this idea of ‘age appropriateness’. Which I’d put quotes around, because what is that? Is that another way of saying ‘mature’?”
It takes me a second to realize that she’s right. Maybe I’m avoiding the word “mature” because it feels like another word for “old.”
“It’s just occurring to me, as we sit here, that it sounds like you’re working towards a better sense of what you’re looking for,” she says. “Does it feel like that?”
It takes me a moment. For whatever reason, I’m reluctant to say — or admit? — that it’s starting to feel like I’m looking for a “mature” relationship. A word that has other connotations. Namely, “serious.”
“I have so much to do in the next six months,” I protest, even though Astrid is not accusing me of anything. “I just can’t get too excited about a guy. Getting rid of Nico has shown me how much energy I have for other things.”
Famous last words.
That night, I have a date with the divorced dad, Simon. He picks me up from my house in his large BMW for dinner at Little Dom’s. I like that he picks me up, and I like that he gets out of the car and opens the passenger side door for me. I also like that we have an awkward little peck on the mouth when he greets me. Warm but not overly familiar. I’m happier to see him than I thought I would be.
We climb into a booth in the front of the restaurant. There’s enough room for the both of us to stretch out, and it’s in the mix of things: The restaurant’s bar is a few feet away, and the entrance to the kitchen is a little further around the corner, meaning that servers are constantly walking by with plates piled high with food. Little gem salads with avocado. Plates of beef carpaccio. Spaghetti and meatballs.
We have two cocktails each. Simon has Negronis. I have mezcal. We talk a bit about our childhoods, his ex-wife, and the best concerts we’ve ever been to. Simon says he loved seeing U2 and LCD Soundsystem. I tell him I’ll never forget Jane’s Addiction in the late 1990s and a triple bill of Pearl Jam, Nirvana and the Red Hot Chili Peppers in 1991.
I like the way Simon asks questions. I like the way he looks at me, and the intensity of his expression when he’s deep in thought. I like his laugh and his smile, and his earnestness and his sense of humor. I like his face, and his body, and his hair, which is thick and long enough to run my hands through. I feel somewhat awkward and nervous in his presence, but also powerful and sexy, which says something, though I don’t know what.
Last call for cocktails. It’s time to go. We pile into Simon’s BMW and realize it’s too late to go to Magpies for ice cream, so he drives me home.
Another thing I like about Simon is that he doesn’t have an air of entitlement, at least not towards me. Would he like to come up to my house? I ask. Sure, he says. I can tell that he was hoping that I’d ask but also didn’t expect it.
The cats are curious, and wrap their bodies around his legs when we arrive. We sit on the couch and chat for what feels like an hour. No kissing. At one point he takes my hand.
“You have beautiful hands,” he says. “And feet.” I stretch my leg out in front of me and flex my toes. I’m showing off my new pedicure. Cherry red.
Simon asks me if I’m dating. I’m vague in response. “Well, I’m going on dates,” I say. “What about you?” Simon, who is polyamorous, says that yes, he is going on dates. In fact, one of his partners is in town for a month, house-sitting in a residence not far from where I live. They’ve been dating for a year. It tells me something that I feel a twinge of jealousy when he talks about her.
Eventually, we move towards one another. Simon’s kisses are teasing and sensual. He never sticks his tongue far into my mouth or presses his face against mine too aggressively.
At one point we stop kissing and just hold each other, listening to the sound of our breathing. Simon sighs. It sounds like a purr.
“Do you like to make love slowly?” he asks.
“Yes,” I say.
We talk about how and when we lost our virginity. His story is better than mine.
It goes on like this for another hour or so: The physical coming together, followed by conversation, followed by more coming together. I ask Simon if I can unbutton his shirt. I want to feel his chest hair. He says “yes.” I open his shirt up and stroke his chest for a while, then guide his hands to the outside of my cotton tank top, arching my back so he can touch my breasts. Things are getting a bit hotter now. I clamber up on top of his legs, straddling him, and bend over to kiss and stroke his chest that way. His eyes are closed most of the time, and when they’re open he’s either looking at me deeply and directly, or examining my cleavage.
“I feel like I’m high,” he says, as I move against him. I don’t respond, and just keep on moving.
The furthest we get is that Simon takes one of my breasts out of my bra and sucks on it and I unbutton his pants and trace the outline of his cock on his underwear with my fingers. I want to get a sense of its size and heft.
“Did you think about this before?” he asks.
“Your cock?” I say. “Or the kissing.”
“My cock,” he says.
“I did,” I say.
I give him a big smile.
“Is this what you call ‘hanky-panky’?” he asks a few minutes later.
“I think of ‘hanky-panky’ as sex, but what do I know?” I say.
“Maybe what we’re doing is called ‘necking,’” he says.
“I really want you to undress me,” I tell him. “But not now.”
“We’ll save that for the fourth date,” he says.
Simon leaves at half past one. I’m both disappointed and relieved. Relieved because I’m exhausted. Disappointed because I could have continued on for another hour or so: the physical coming together, followed by the relaxed chatter, and then back deep into our bodies. I want to tell Simon that I’d very much like to see him again, and soon, but I’m hesitant. Who’s to say what he’s thinking? Who’s to say what I’m thinking, for that matter? Also: he has a primary partner, and he’s going on dates. And he has a young kid. He’s busy!
After I get into bed I check my phone. I see that Antoine has texted me during the night. I feel a flash of guilt and wonder if I should write him back. He’s 9 hours ahead of me, which means that it’s about 10:30am his time. He’ll wonder what I’m doing up so late. And I don’t wish to tell him. I decide to text him back in the morning, then I take my vibrator out of my bedside drawer. I think about Simon’s kisses, and the intensity of the way he looked at me. His long, bare torso. His purrs. His mouth on my breast. I imagine making love to him. Slowly, of course. Maybe with some breaks for conversation. I mean, why not?
It takes me just a few minutes to come.