Truth in Craigslist Dating

I’m single.  Yep, it’s true.   I’m in the process of looking for a new car, one that doesn’t cost a lot or guzzle gas.  I have to admit, however, I’m partial to trucks.  I like the fact that you can haul stuff if you have to because I’m a thrift store shopper and occasionally need to load up right then and there with something I’ve spied and simply have to have.

 

Not long ago I answered an ad posted in the Men Seeking Women section of Craiglist.  Craig, by the way, is one of my best friends.  I don’t really know him, I just love his site—warts and all.  The ad was fairly straightforward, a request for a woman who was adventurous enough to want to get out and discover the best restaurants in Los Angeles.  But straightforward usually isn’t a concept that Craigslist is known for, so I had to ask a couple of questions up front like “what’s the catch”?  He responded there was no catch, that he just wanted a congenial dinner partner who appreciated good food and was available to dine on a Saturday night.  Did he expect sex, I shot back.  No way was he going to sucker me into that one.  “Not at all,” he answered.  He claimed he was the perfect gentlemen.  On top of that, his ad started out with the word “handsome.” 

  

When I read posts for guys looking for dates that claim they’re sexy and handsome, what’s the point?  Aren’t those things in the eyes of the beholder, as they say?  Even if someone is handsome to some women, that person may not be good looking at all to others.  It’s much classier not to mention it and just be a nice person.  But before I could even ask for a pic (which is way normal in Craigsland), the guy suggested that we just surprise each other without a photo.  This, dear gals, is a disastrous proposition that usually means he’s ugly.  However, since he didn’t know what I looked like either, he would also be taking a chance.  I could be horsey looking and hideous with hairy moles on my face just like Sarah Jessica Parker.  On the other hand, it could mean he was desperate for a date, any date.  On the other, other hand, we had selected a very nice restaurant.  As long as he didn’t stink, like the homeless guy who stops to pet my dog every day, how bad could it be?

 

Before our date we had several conversations, in which we found we had a few things in common and certain sensibilities that seemed to make each of us laugh.  So far so good.  He told me he’d be wearing a dress jacket with a turtleneck and jeans.  Classic.  I went for a more urban chic look with a designer jean skirt, knee stockings, kitten heeled shoes from Harrod’s and a black Mark Jacobs jacket with a huge black leather bag.  As I circled the block, I saw him waiting in front of the restaurant.

 

I parked, walked up to him and introduced myself.  Okay, so he had short graying hair and glasses.  And I must admit that he had the vague look of a rodent, with eyes that were very close set.  So now I knew why he didn’t want to send a pic—because he would never have gotten a date with anyone except a professional, if you know what I mean.  Most importantly, he had small hands.  Don’t ask me why, but I can’t deal with guys who have tiny hands.  I suspect it has something to do with feeling safe being held in them, but it’s a real turnoff for me.  On the other hand, I know that’s irrational and I was determined not to let that bother me.  I can endure anything for a couple of hours, and, I thought, perhaps he’d turn out to be a nice guy.  Because that’s exactly what I’m looking for. 

 

We were seated, wine was ordered, and we even discovered we had an acquaintance in common.  During dinner he sat back and admitted he was worried I might not have shown but that he was glad I did.  He could not have dreamed up a better partner, he said.  He wasn’t a bad conversationalist, but politics were not his thing at all.  When the wine was poured, he picked the bottle up after the waiter had placed it on the table, and he proceeded to fill his glass to the brim.  Slightly déclassé, but whatever.  It’s something that was terribly, oddly noticeable, however.  And soon he ordered another bottle.  I had only a taste, because I can’t drink a whole bottle of wine without being totally wiped out.  I was not there to get wasted. 

 

Now here’s the bad part.  When the bill arrived, he asked me if I wanted to split it.  I was aghast.  Not only had I emailed him in advance as to any catch the evening might have, I wasn’t about to pay for a first date—especially for one that was $400.00.  I looked at him and said “hell no.”  And then he argued that the post had had been in the platonic section, which it totally hadn’t and which I later emailed him to prove it.  He did pay the bill, complaining, and then asked me if I’d drive him home because he was drunk and had taken a cab to begin with.  Are you fucking kidding me?  Cabs, I believe, drive in the other direction as well.  Then he asked me if I was a dinner whore.  And then I asked him if he looked like a possum all the time or only when he was drunk.  I left in high dudgeon, going over all the details of the evening.  I mean, email is such a hinky medium sometimes.  Could there have been an honest misunderstanding? 

 

He emails, I don’t answer and a week goes by.  And then it just so happened that I see him drive by the dog park where we both take our dogs.  My heart did a little syncopated dance as I noticed he was in my favorite vehicle, a giant black pickup truck.  Which then reminded me of his small hands—you know, the measurement rule by which women can gauge how big a guy’s dick is by the size of his hands.  Thank god I dodged that bullet and finally had the proof I needed:  The bigger the truck the smaller the fuck.  I’m sticking to my Prius.