Well, I met my first potential tuition-funding guy this afternoon. It was not the worst date I’ve ever had, but that bar is set so abysmally low that I can’t say clearing it is an achievement or even complimentary.
I met him on SeekingArrangement.com, so my expectations were not particularly high to begin with. What I was expecting was an average-looking middle-aged guy in his 50s, probably cheating on his wife, whom I would not be attracted to but would not find offensive, either. Ideally, I’d like him a little bit and think Yes! He seems cool and has a good attitude, and I could totally spend a few hours a week with him and not dread it. But really, I would be content with someone I could tolerate. With standards that minimal (realistic, I told myself, realistic), I thought I wouldn’t be disappointed. I mean, as a guy, how do you fuck that up? Bathe, be friendly and polite, diplomatically but clearly state your expectations, listen to her questions and preferences, and schedule a session, or “intimacy,” as its referred to on that embarrassing website.
Well, this guy fucked it up.
We met at a Starbuck’s, and I ended up being glad that we did. I wanted a place where I could GTFO if necessary and not be trapped with a jerk over dinner, hating life and pondering the decisions that have led me to this cruel fate.
“No-obligation coffee date,” I wrote, in an email explicitly stating that didn’t plan on having sex the first time I met him. “Just to assess mutual compatibility and get to know each other a little bit.”
He showed up on time, and I was pleased he was not physically repulsive. A six-footer in a polo shirt and pants (thank God no shorts) with most of his hair, including the bit that came out the opening of his shirt. He’d said that his ethnicity was Persian/Greek, which had made me side-eye his profile a little–I’m not a fan of macho cultures, and Iran, well, do I have to enumerate things that suck about Iran?–but I figured, what the hell, it’s unfair to judge a person by their nationality.
He didn’t order anything and sat down at my table. We shook hands. I gave him a fake name. He said his name was “Ryan.” That’s probably fake, too.
“So, why are you on SA?” he asked him.
I thought it was pretty obvious what I was doing on SA, since I said so in my ad and emails to him, but spelled it out: “I’m going back to school in the Fall and I need to make money for that. I’m currently completely single and I don’t have kids, so I can do whatever I want, and I decided to try this and see if it works out for me.”
“What are you expecting financially?”
Ah, reader, that’s the question, isn’t it? I’ve asked myself a million times what it ought to be. I spent some time cruising the local sex worker ad malls to gauge the local market and asking myself how much I could reasonably expect from a delusional psuedo-client who wanted the facsimile of a vanilla relationship without paying escort prices. Then I asked myself what I could charge and still keep my self-respect.
I gave him a number that was more than a prodomme session and less than what I could charge as an escort in San Francisco, the nearest big market. Frankly, I think the man (or men) who eventually get it will be getting a hell of a deal. I bring a lot to the table
He winced and then said that he could do it.
I did not like that wince. I do not like it at all. Rude! The only acceptable reactions are to grin like you just uncovered your lucky numbers in a scratch-off lotto ticket or to respectfully decline with dignity. Don’t wince like you just got a massive unfair parking ticket.
“So, what kind of sex do you like?” he asked me.
I met this guy five minutes ago.
I think a civilian woman would have picked up her handbag and walked out. It was enough to make me remember the girl I once was, a million years and another lifetime ago, before I became totally accustomed to interviewing men and being questioned about sexual matters in the consultation rooms of dungeons.
I sighed. Yup, it felt like I was back in a consult room at a dungeon, maybe dealing with some rando dungeon barnacle who was asking me what I wanted to do, what turned me on, except that this man was not a sub, and I could not say “Sensory Deprivation and caning,” which is what I always told to time-wasters who offended me.
“I like a lot of things,” I said, but not with you, I thought.
“Do you have toys?”
If you only knew, I thought, picturing the big green suitcase that holds all my gear. Probably not any toys you’d like, though.
“Do you like other girls?”
Oh jesus CHRIST, I thought to myself. I put my tablet into my handbag and sat up straight, away from him. I crossed my legs. Any idiot could have read my body language.
“I don’t have sex with women,” I said.
“No threesomes with another girl? You never tried it? Not even once?” He had a big smile on his face, as if I’d said something preposterous, like I don’t eat fruit.
“No. I’m not sexually attracted to women.”
This is true: I’m a Kinsey 0, a pure heterosexual. But I have had MFF threesomes, of a sort: I’ve had sexual experiences with my ex, the Surgeon, and another woman…but I didn’t have sex with her. Just a little eye-candy touching above the waist, no making out, all very superficial. I did it for him, and I was happy to do it–we had fun–but there was no way I was going to share this with my Starbucks date. No way on God’s green earth.
“That’s too bad. It’s something I really like to see, two women, you know, really going at it.”
I swear to God, he was polite in his emails.
He started to reminisce about threesomes he’d had.
“Where do you find the women? Do you hire escorts?” It was an honest question, as it seemed to be the only logical explanation.
“No! You can find women, pick them up in a bar or restaurant, bring them back to your hotel! Especially young women. They just want to have the experience! Try something new! Maybe you see them again for a little while, maybe it’s just a one-time experience.”
I sat there, trying honestly to imagine what type of woman this man could pick up who would be willing to go back to his room and have a threesome with him. I was having a hard time imagining it. I sure as hell never would have gone home with him, not even when I used to drink in bars and was smashed half the time. He wasn’t ugly, really–I mean, I guess you wouldn’t have to put a bag over his head–but he wasn’t good-looking either, and he didn’t have a great figure or sparkling conversation to compensate for it. He definitely wasn’t a charmer. Quite the opposite, in fact. So how did it happen? How did he pick up women? I was mystified. I am still mystified. Does anyone have any ideas? Maybe he was offering them unlimited drinks and cocaine?
“Well, that’s okay, if you don’t like other women. I can do that with other girls. You don’t expect me to be monogamous, right?”
“I absolutely don’t.”
“Just as long as you love sex!” he said.
I had already made up my mind that I was never, ever going to sleep with this asshole. The only thing that could have made that possible for me was twice the money I was asking for and three martinis and a taxi to jump in the minute it was over, and since none of that was happening, I was gone.
“Can you get together next week when I come back here?” he asked.
“Sure! Just send me a text!” I said, and hustled out the door. I know, I know, I should have told him off, but really, what would that do? Do you really think that telling him he was an offensive swine who gave me immediate sandy vagina would have been a transformative experience for this guy?
Well, he’s blocked on everything now. The entire date took about 18 minutes. I checked my watch repeatedly.
I am not giving up. I’m telling myself that I got a bad apple. These guys are like clients, I’m telling myself: the shitty ones are so bad that they destroy your will to live, but most of them are perfectly okay and some are even wonderful. So I’ll try again. The tuition isn’t going to pay itself!