Welcome to a new facet of
desperation OkCupid, Kill Me which I will lovingly refer to as…
You know where this is going: I’m about to divulge an entirely self-depricating account of the “joy” that OkCupid has offered me in the short time that I’ve imbibed in its enabling of bad judgment.
Today’s tale begins, well, on OkCupid when a boy (this becomes more poignant later) IM’d me after briefly looking at my profile. We’re talking briefly as in maybe 20 seconds after the notification popped up - I received an IM.
“I’d love to buy you a drink,” he says. “I know I sure could use one.”
This is a great way to start a conversation with me, by the way, and will usually result in some kind of response. After quickly scanning his OkCupid profile, I decided - yes, I will egg this on at least for a short while.
He proved to be articulate, interesting, and physically attractive, so I decided that it was an okay time to bust out my highly regarded flirting skills. This progressed for about 45 minutes until he had to step outside for a cigarette and offered his telephone number to continue our conversation via text message. I’m not shy about such things, so I accepted.
After sending my first text message, aka my generation’s version of “let’s exchange numbers”, I decided to do a more in-depth review of his credentials. As I scanned his profile, I noticed what is not considered a glaring oversight: 20 / Male / Single
Do I continue? Do I retreat? I’ve been drinking, it’s late at night, and I’m so excited to see someone spell out the word “your” that I barely care about gender anymore, let alone age.
Things get a little saucy (not too saucy, mind you, I’m a lady), though I decide that I will probably never meet this person. This makes it easier to be saucy.
The conversation dwindled and fizzled out - nothing out of the ordinary - and we spoke briefly in the following days.
The kicker arrives when I get dumped by a guy that I’d been pseudo-regularly seeing. My ego was bruised, and I was dumped 5 drinks into an evening, so naturally my judgment was top notch. As I walked home from the bar, naturally I decided it was the perfect time to cruise my phone’s contact list for any potential ego-boosters. I see his name, and I decide that now is the appropriate time to announce, via text message, “I’m kind of drunk and want to call you.”
Not two minutes passed before my phone was ringing - the sound of an eager college student on the other end. “Come over,” he taunts, “I will give you beer and attention.” Okay, maybe he didn’t say that, but that’s what I heard. After some pretend “Should I or shouldn’t I”s, I turn around and head to his “apartment.”
Why is that in quotes, you might ask? Well, upon arriving at the subway stop, I realize that I am standing square in front of a liberal arts school… ‘s dormitory.
Yep, you see where this is going.
I meet him and, yes, he’s cute. But boy, oh, boy - he is young. I might only be five years his senior but, at this point in life, those things matter. As we walked into the card-key-secured foyer of his building, I am greeted by “Grace”, the night guard.
“Grace is awesome,” he says. “She is the best - right, Grace?”
Oh… my god. Ok.
She tells me that I’ll need to hand her my ID. Yes, I’m over 18 - definitely female, and not a murderer. As I reach to receive my ID back, I am instead handed a visitor’s pass. A visitor’s. Pass. My ID will be returned to me upon my departure, wherein I must bring this kid back to the front desk with me. What am I doing here?
We proceed up to his room where there are 4 young men huddled around an X-Box, avidly playing something called “Call of Duty.” Ignore, ignore - it’s for the best.
His friends eventually depart, and I’m drinking fucking Coors Light, and we’re alone. He puts on some stand-up comedy and offers me a seat on his elevated bed — complete with drawers beneath for what I assume are his care packages from Mom and initialed boxers. I am trashed, at this point, and oblige him by laying near him. He tries to touch my hand in a way that would typically be appealing if a) I weren’t wasted and b) he could enter a bar legally.
“Say… Where… is your bathroom?” I ask, probably not inconspicuously. The room was spinning, and I was feeling horrible.
“Across the hall. Hurry back!”
Jesus. I go into the bathroom and proceed to vomit up warm Coors Light, PBR, and the three gin & tonics I’d had earlier that evening. I kept it quiet, of course. I remember college and the subsequent ridicule one undergoes when vomiting loudly.
I come back into the room feeling a hell of a lot better and really, really needing some gum. I had considered stealing some toothpaste from their bathroom, but decided that coming back from the bathroom minty fresh would be a little too suspicious. I remembered that he had bought some gum while he was waiting for his friends to buy him beer (trust me, I want to die at this point, save your judgment for someone who doesn’t agree with you). I make up some cute story about how I want to try it, and shove a piece into my mouth.
I laid with him on his stupid bed watching Daniel Tosh criticize, well, everyone and I notice the sexual tension increase. Weeee are definitely about to make out.
One thing leads to another and we are definitely, definitely making out. I am definitely making out with a 20 year old.
Something happens which turns our massive kissing session into a deep conversation about relationships - I wasn’t there for the transition, but I was definitely there for the aftermath. He describes to me how every girl he’s ever dated has cheated on him, and I scrunch my nose and furrow my brow partially in disbelief, and partially because — well, wouldn’t you examine your actions at that point instead of victimizing yourself? But I digress.
He notes my facial configuration and immediately sits up, turns to me and says, “Why would you make that face? Why would you do that? How completely inappropriate.”
My face resembles that of a raccoon staring into the grill of a Dodge Charger.
“I will not be treated this way!”, he continues. “I don’t deserve this and I will not tolerate it. I won’t.” Instead of choosing to participate in this nonsense, I decide that’s my queue to leave. He notes my acquisition of my jacket and shoes and gets even more upset.
“So you’re leaving? You’re just going to leave. That’s fucking great. Go on, then, I don’t deserve your disrespect anyway.”
This continues while I assemble myself and make my way to the door, before I realize…
“So, um… I need you to come to the front desk with me so I can… get my ID back…”
Sigh. Is this my life? Really?
We go to the front desk and talk to Grace about getting my ID back. As I approach the exit, he informs me that he’d like to walk me to the subway.
“Sure, why not?” I say. I mean, I feel obligated, at this point, as the designated adult to… ahem be classy? He walks me to the subway entrance and looks at me, longingly. “I’m sorry that happened,” he said, being sure not to associate himself with any of the responsibility (which, judging from the source of the outburst, is not uncommon with this specimen). As I’m about to turn and head down the steps to the trains, he grabs my arm, spins me around, and lays a fat, sloppy, fill-my-mouth-with-your-tongue kiss.
I immediately start to feel badly about never, ever seeing him again.
I put my iPod headphones in, smirked at the kid, and walked down the staircase to the trains.
Thanks, OkCupid, for that moment in history.