I Deleted the Dating Apps. And Then This Happened

Disclaimer: This blog post is memoir. It reflects the author’s present recollections of experiences over time. Some names and characteristics have been omitted or changed, some events have been compressed, and some dialogue has been recreated.

“Are you ‘Straight As Double Ds’?”

The three of us looked up from our table to see a tall, smiling, 30-something-ish man standing over us.

“We are!” Erin, Michelle and I exclaimed, delighted that this cute, normal-seeming guy recognized us by our trivia team name.

“I was at trivia last night on [the winning team]!” he laughed, explaining how he recognized us.

“Booooo!” we teased.

“No fair – you have a ringer on your team!” I added.

We bantered back and forth for a minute and Erin kicked me hard under the table. Not an hour earlier, the three of us had been describing our Dream Men. Despite being close friends in our early 40s who’d all been through the dating gauntlet in our small, central Oregon town (including dating the same guy), we’d never had that conversation before.

“Well apparently I like tall, bald guys,” I had joked, referring to the last guy I’d fallen for.  “I just want him to be kind and funny.”

Our newest fan club member uncannily fit the bill on all fronts. He introduced himself as Fred and we liked his unassuming nature so much that we found ourselves saying,

“Come sit with us!”

It was Wednesday karaoke night at a downtown dive bar, and while we’d normally be in bed by that hour on a weeknight, it had been an emotionally charged evening and we had decided we needed a little more time together. 

“Why did you kick me under the table?” I asked Erin the first chance I got.

“Because that’s your boyfriend!” she squealed.

My gut immediately told me she might be right, but I also resisted.

“Did you see his phone!? It looks like a burner phone! There’s no way.” 

Fred went on to boldly sing two rap songs, further wooing us with his unabashed performances. 

“I’m from Jersey,” I explained to Fred near the end of the night, at which point he pulled out his [ancient burner] phone to show me his favorite Jersey Shore meme.

 “Oh my god, you have to send me that!” I exclaimed by way of getting his number.

I insisted on also trading last names.

“We met in person so we should be on the up and up,” I said. “But don’t Google me.”

We both proceeded to immediately Google stalk each other and, seeing that he had no criminal record (because that’s a thing that happens way too often), I invited him to another, more mellow karaoke night with my entire family (who were about to visit from New Jersey) a few days later.

Fred arrived to Karaoke Night Reloaded on the early side and seemed nervous. He charmed everyone with his sincerity, sweetness, and eye-wateringly off-key rendition of “Buddy Holly” by Weezer. By the time we ended the night at a 90s Dance Party, we slow danced and confirmed a mutual spark.

I tried to temper my excitement. After four years of dating in central Oregon, I’d finally deleted the apps (Bumble and Hinge) two months earlier – for good.

“Do you want to see Sylvan Esso with some friends and me on Sunday? Tickets are down to $18!” I texted Fred the following week.

He replied with a screenshot showing his ticket purchase confirmation. I like his style.

“Do you want to meet before the concert for a one-on-one drink?” I asked.

“Is this a date?” he clarified and I confirmed.

When date night arrived, I was nervous. Really nervous. Despite having spent two nights together during which he met most of my friends and family, now a feeling of expectation permeated the air.

“It’s really hot out and I’m going to assume you don’t mind that I’ve opted for less clothing,” I teased.

With two minutes to spare, I pulled into the agreed upon parking lot and saw Fred tearing ass down the sidewalk towards the bar where we were meeting, clearly terrified that he’d be late. I laughed out loud and, as soon as I parked, texted him.

“Don’t run! I just parked!”

“Okay I won’t,” he answered, not catching on that I’d seen him running.

He offered to buy our drinks and when I said I liked bubbly, he looked confused.

“What does that mean?”

“Like champagne, sparkling wine.”

“They have that here?”

“Yeah, only one kind.”

“So I just ask for ‘bubbly’?”

I tried not to giggle and nodded. We awkwardly picked a spot to sit down and I hoped that a couple of drinks would soothe our collective nerves.

“So… I live with my parents,” he blurted almost as soon as we sat down.

“Yeah, I know,” I replied.

“You did do your homework,” he said. “And you still showed up. That’s good news for me. I’m really only now getting to a point where I feel comfortable going out and spending any money.”

He went on to briefly explain his situation and it was as I’d suspected. Crappy jobs, no jobs, and bam. Living with the parents. For years. Up until that point, I never would have considered dating a middle-aged man who lived with his parents due solely to financial troubles, but he seemed so genuinely kind that I felt like I had to give it a chance.

“Financial situations can change,” I explained to friends, “but character doesn’t.”

My friends and family, knowing how much I struggled to find a partner who was pure-hearted, stable, and emotionally available, supported my decision to see where this might go.

Fred and I were feeling a lot looser by the time we walked over to the concert, and when the sun began to set, we wrapped ourselves up in each other, swaying to the mellow, dance-y beats.

When the lead singer’s 50-foot tall image appeared on screen in a tight jumpsuit, Fred said in my ear,

“That’s not a very flattering outfit.”

I drew my head back and pulled away, looking at him with furrowed eyebrows.

“What?” he replied, his expression dropping.

“I think she looks amazing.”

“I didn’t mean anything by it! I was just saying it’s not the most flattering outfit! What, I’m not allowed to say that?”

We parted ways for a couple of minutes while I tried to figure out if I was overreacting.

“Sorry,” I said, touching his shoulder. “I just don’t like people commenting on other people’s bodies. Especially men commenting on women.”

“I thought I blew it,” he said, looking relieved.

“Man, I should have shaved my knees!” I joked a little while later, realizing my knees and thighs were visible in my mesh dress.

“I am NOT into hairy legs,” Fred immediately retorted. “I like fully waxed.”

Again I drew my head back as my stomach sank. I had flashbacks of the Navy pilot and the guy who asked for his key back – the two boyfriends I had in 2014 right after my divorce, back-to-back, who both had more than a few red flags. One of the first signs was commenting on other women’s bodies, positively or negatively. At the time, I didn’t have the vocabulary to articulate what my gut was telling me, but nine years later, alarm bells rang loudly: NEXT HE’LL TELL YOU HE HAS MOMMY ISSUES. RUNNNNN.

“What? I’m not allowed to have a preference?!” Fred argued.

Later, in the parking lot by our cars, I had the opportunity to explain where I was coming from.

“When you judge other people’s appearances, I take it personally and assume you’ll say the same unkind things about me. I also don’t think it’s anyone’s business or place. My body is the least interesting thing about me.”

Having lost and gained so much weight since childhood, struggling with binge eating (which I had told him about over drinks earlier), I had grown to have zero tolerance for body shaming or judgment of any kind.

He apologized and said he understood. I felt comforted, believing he was just inexperienced but willing to learn and grow. Cue: an intense, long make-out session until a security guard came over.

“You can have ten more minutes before I have to kick you out,” the security guard said, realizing we weren’t stealing anything besides smooches.

When Fred and I had our second date two nights later, the body grooming topic came up again.

“I’m sure there are preferences you have, too!” Fred insisted. “Like I’m sure you’d prefer I had hair and didn’t live with my parents.”

I said nothing because, unlike Fred, I knew when to keep my mouth shut.

“If you want to get anywhere with me,” I explained, “your job is to build me up and make me feel like the most beautiful woman in the world, no matter what.”

By then he’d already made a number of sexually forward comments and I couldn’t help but wonder if he got all of his “preferences” from porn. Right before the end of the night, the topic of children somehow came up.

“Wait, do you want kids?” I asked, taken aback. “Because I’m 41 and I have an IUD.”

“I mean I know we’re basically the same age, but I’m still open to it. I could always date someone younger.”

Though he hadn’t said it pointedly, I couldn’t help but bristle.

“I just don’t want us to waste each other’s time,” I answered.

He assured me it wasn’t a dealbreaker.

A few days later, Fred picked me up for a third date, putting in the effort to hold open doors, buy me a small present, and pay for my ticket to a beer tasting event. I still wasn’t sure how I felt; the “nice guy” I thought I’d met definitely had some chinks in his armor. …But were they really gamestoppers?

“I can get angry sometimes, and I don’t want you to see that part of me,” he had texted the night before. “I can get mean, and my parents and I get into yelling matches sometimes.”

The text had come out of the blue and while it had made me incredibly uneasy, I decided not to jump to conclusions.

“Do you mean angry like ‘even medication doesn’t help’ or angry like, ‘I’m frustrated with life and the world is on fire’ [like the rest of us]?”

“I’m not on medication. I’m just afraid for the moment when you realize I’m not perfect.”

Oh lord, Fred. We are way past that.

“Well, if I haven’t scared you off yet, I really think we should give this a shot,” Fred ended the conversation.

The exchange played through my head as we entered the beer tasting event. Between that and knowing I was about to meet his parents, I was on edge. When we handed over our tickets, I learned that we still needed tasting tokens – the cheap tickets Fred had purchased only got us into the event.

“How much are they? For how many? And what does that get you?” Fred asked a series of questions to the token seller while I slowly died inside.

“I’ve got it,” I intervened and bought us enough tokens to cover a solid handful of tastings each.

We started the night out by bumping into a couple of guys from his trivia team who made several tasting recommendations.

“Oh hey, let’s try this beer!” Fred exclaimed a little while later, walking over to one of the booths.

“I’d never heard of this one,” I said. Before I could add, ‘Until your friends mentioned it tonight,’ he cut me off.

“[My friends] literally just told us about it.”

I pursed my lips. “I know, I mean I had never heard of it before then.”

Fred got drunk quickly and started trying to tip the vendors with tokens.

“Keep it, man,” one seller explained, eyeing him dubiously. “We can’t cash them in for money at the end of the night so you’re just wasting a token.”

Yeah, Fred. The tokens I bought.

“No, no, you take it,” Fred insisted over and over, clearly too buzzed to understand the concept that wooden tokens did not equal tip currency in Beer Tasting World.

Perhaps I should have been charmed by the attempt to tip in tokens, but I was too turned off by his refusal to listen to a simple explanation – a pattern that would only progress as the night wore on.

“Oh hey, there are some of my gaming buddies! Can we go say hi?!” Fred said, making a beeline towards two men before I had the chance to answer.

A little while later, his parents walked over. They were put together, aside from being tipsy, but didn’t seem especially keen on chatting, which struck me as odd. Were they not curious about the winsome blonde their son had wrangled? Fred immediately ignored us in favor of continuing his conversation with a friend, so I was left on my own to show them what a catch I was.

“[Fred’s dad and I] met at a roller rink!” his mom told me.

“Oh my god, no way! Tell me everything!”

For the next half hour, I played the role of Charming Girlfriend while Fred talked only to his friend.

I tried not to peek at my watch. It was official; I was not having fun. As the event neared closing time, I decided we needed to eat. Knowing how broke Fred was, I offered,

“Hey, I’m starving, how about I make us a pizza at my place?”

I had spent half the day –after an insanely busy and stressful month of job interviews, social commitments, visitors, freelance work, a broken toe, a broken phone, and a flat tire– cleaning and grooming in preparation for this date. I was hellbent on salvaging the night.

After pizza and a walk down memory lane reminiscing about our first concerts, a heavy make-out session ensued, my back pressed against the refrigerator. Maybe this can work… I pulled back and looked at him.

“So,” I began. “Are you prepared if things do get intimate between us?” I didn’t have any intention of sleeping with him that night, but I wanted to know where we stood.

“Don’t you have an IUD?”

“Yeah…but that doesn’t protect against STDs…”

“Well I don’t have condoms,” Fred replied. “But I’m good to go.”

I raised my eyebrows and he continued.

“I mean I haven’t had symptoms of anything in the past two months which is what the guidelines say.”

“Um, I don’t think that’s how it works,” I replied.

“Well if you want to go against what the research says…” Fred said before going on in great detail about his dating and sexual history.

“My last ‘real’ relationship was for a few months in 2018,” he rambled. “with a woman a few years older with kids. Like you, she pursued me.” I tried not to make a face as he continued. “We were gonna move in together and I was cool with taking on the kids, but then she said she felt like she was holding me back from my gaming dreams. I thought that was so nice of her. I wanted to stay together, but she was so awesome to not want to hold me back.”

Oh holy fuck, Fred, really? That woman was trying to get rid of your ass without drama!

He went on about one other “really nice” woman who was “there for him during the pandemic” until I held up a hand.

“I don’t need or want to know any of this. I just need to know that you’ve been tested.”

“I could ask you the same question!” he said accusingly. “Have you had sex with anyone since your last doctor’s visit?”

“No, I haven’t.”

“Okay, so you’re good. I’ll go out and buy condoms right now!”

How could I explain that he was missing the point? On top of being willing to put both of us at risk, he was clearly demonstrating a lack of safety, care, and maturity.

The conversation turned into a full-blown argument until I said calmly,

“You’re raising your voice. It’s late. I have neighbors. You said you had anger issues and I’m just trying to suss some things out here.”

“Now you’re spinning my words! How could you think I’d be so open with you and then put you in any kind of danger?!” he cried, seeming to still think he could convince me to have unprotected sex. I’d never wanted anything less in my life. “I don’t like being analyzed!”

“What I was hoping you would have said when I asked if you were prepared,” I took a deep breath, “was, ‘Of course. I’m happy to do whatever you need to feel comfortable, Jules.'”

“Oh, well, I’m sorry I didn’t say EXACTLY the perfect thing!” Fred spit back.

I started cleaning up the kitchen, talking more to myself than him.

“Look around, Fred. I’m a grown-up with a grown-up life. This is a normal conversation to be having when you’re starting a new relationship. How do I keep getting myself into these insane situations?”

Fred sat at the bar overlooking the kitchen sink where I was washing dishes and replied, “Now you’re just being condescending!”

“You’re right. That’s what I do when I’m pushed to my limit.”

“Fine, I mean I guess if I have to go through all of that…”

“All of what?” I asked.

“Getting tested.”

“Oh, so I’m expected to go through all of the pain and money and time of getting fully waxed on a regular basis, but you can’t go get tested ONCE?!”

I knew that would set him off anew, but I was done. He ranted and raved until I said what I should have said an hour earlier, or perhaps a week earlier,

“You need to leave.”

While he put on his coat and shoes, I went into the bedroom to snuggle Uncle Jesse (Doodle Wonder Dog) and calm my nerves. I was proud of myself for not exploding or hitting below the belt.

I came back out into the living room when I heard the front door open. Fred was staring at me with puppy dog eyes.

“I’m sorry, I hope we can still work this out. Thank you for the drinks and everything tonight.”

“Okay,” was all I could muster, eagerly locking the door and turning off the porch light as soon as he left.

I laid in bed wondering if there was any chance I had overreacted. No. This was genuinely fucked. Glad I know now, I texted to friends.

The next day, I visited Michelle at a local market where she had a booth selling her (stunning) jewelry. Another friend, Margaret, bumped into us and I told them both the latest drama.

“Wait, Fred who?” Margaret stopped me mid-sentence, putting a hand on my forearm.

My stomach dropped.

“Fred Cooper.”

“Does he have asthma? And does delivery for that pizza place?”

“Yes!”

“Jules, I know him! He came up to me like two weeks ago at a fair and chatted me up! He asked for my number! But then I lost my phone so I chalked it up to a missed connection!”

“Oh my god!” I slapped my forehead. “He acts like he’s so innocent and doesn’t date!”

“He seemed really nice!”

“Yeah, he does seem really nice.”

“God. I can’t believe that happened to you last night. I’m so sorry. That’s messed up!”

The entire day passed without a word from Fred. The following morning at precisely 11:11am, he texted,

“Jules I’m sorry about the other night. I’m not sure why I responded the way I did. I hope we can talk this through because you do mean a lot to me.”

I had one tiny moment of self-doubt before coming to my senses. I archived our message thread and said a prayer of thanks for having my head on straight and my heart intact through this one.

~*~*~*~*~