Okay, let’s talk about attraction.
It’s kind of hard for me to specify what I find attractive without feeling guilty, because I think what shapes my (and many other people’s) perceptions of attractiveness is a bunch of toxic, oppressive bullshit we internalized from being force-fed Western-white-supremacist-cis-heteronormative-ableist-sizeist beauty standards all our lives.
“You like white guys,” a couple of friends have (half-jokingly) accused.
Um, excuse them. I used to passively like or meet up with guys who happened to be primarily white, but now that I’m much more sociopolitically aware I have overcorrected to make up for my internalized racism and unconscious bias by vocally and explicitly preferring guys of color.
When I first started out on OKCupid, the racial breakdown of my (16 total) dates looked like this:
- 62% White
- 19% Asian
- 13% Black
- 6% Multiracial
Which actually isn’t that bad for someone with internalized racism!
So once I got off OKC and gave Tinder a shot with my new militant racial justice lens, the stats looked like this, 12 dates in (percentages calculated based off 28 total dates–OKC + Tinder combined):
- 39% White
- 32% Asian
- 18% Black
- 7% Multiracial
- 4% Non-white Latino
See, Oscars? That’s how you stop being so goddamn white. Be open and intentional about who you wanna fuck with (in your case figuratively, in my case literally) and don’t let your implicit biases turn you into an accidental white supremacist.
Anyway, at this point in my dating exploits, white guys were certainly not my type.
“Hipsters,” said my friend Darcy. “You’re attracted to guys who look like hipsters and then you become immediately repulsed by them when you find out they’re douchey, or whatever.”
“No! Well…” I thought about the most attractive guys I had been on dates with. I mean, sure, they wore trendy, fitted clothing and occasionally put on ironic or condescending airs about low-brow culture and routine work life, but… “Okay. Maybe,” I admitted.
So what, I’m attracted to dudes who dress well, and maybe that includes a plaid button-down and some degree of pretension. Sue me!
It’s difficult to really pinpoint anything else though. This is where the toxic, oppressive bullshit comes in; stuff that I have recognized is likely problematic and will take ongoing time and effort for me to sit with, reflect on, and change as necessary. I have a tendency to be attracted to dudes who are on the thinner side, but not too skinny; they need to be sturdy enough that I could assess their ability to give me a piggyback ride with full confidence. I am unbearably heteronormative and I’m not attracted to guys who showcase stereotypically or traditionally feminine physical attributes or mannerisms; but I am also not attracted to guys who showcase hyper-masculine physical attributes, personality traits, or mannerisms. (This especially applies to the way a guy speaks or sounds, as many of my friends know.) Okay so what the fuck are you attracted to then, you might be wondering. If I had to quantify my personally ideal mix of (binary) gender expression for a prospective male dating partner, it would be approximately…70% masculine, 30% feminine. (Keep in mind, this is purely physical. Personality-wise, 100% feminine please.)
As you can see, I am arbitrarily particular about the physicality of the guys I go on dates with, which okay yes, has been somewhat of a factor in why I have not had much success with dating. A couple of friends have (half-jokingly) accused me of being shallow. But I take into account other shit, too! Jeez. It’s not just about looks. As has been made clear by previous dates, I will immediately stop liking you if you are completely ignorant about rape culture, if you make unfunny jokes about lesbians, if you express a preference for virgins, if you are a white dude and justify racial preferences in dating, or if you play devil’s advocate.
No wonder I’m going to die alone!
In the meantime, however, I just needed temporary rebound dick.
Okay, not literally, actually, because in the winter of 2016, I was too sad and self-hating to be horny. I just needed some male company that would make me forget about the asshole who devirginized me. I was swiping frantically on Tinder, trying to line up dates that would hopefully ease the pain of being fucked over by a trash dude.
I ended up matching with a guy I will call…Francisco. Francisco had an actual bio with substance, which is a rarity in the cesspool of Tinder. (Okay, so maybe I don’t remember specifically what was so substantive about his bio, but…whatever!) Unfortunately, he also had shitty pictures (DUDES WHY DO YOU ALWAYS DO THIS STOP DOING THIS I SWEAR I’M GONNA START UP A BUSINESS WITH MY FRIEND LAURA TO FIX YOUR WACK ASS DATING PROFILES), but it seemed like he had the potential to be hot, so I clung to that.
Francisco was sweet in his messages to me. He complimented me on a poem about capitalism that I wrote and posted on my Instagram, which had never happened before with a random dude from the Internet. So when he asked me out to drinks at Starline, a bar/restaurant/venue in Oakland, of course I said yes.
Someone who appreciated my writing, recognized capitalism as an oppressive system that should be dismantled, and didn’t seem like an asshole? I was all in!
Well, until I wasn’t. I found myself once again crying in my office at the end of the work day, because I was still stuck in the pain inflicted by The Asshole and I didn’t know how to get out of it. This time my coworker Jakki was there to witness my embarrassing meltdown, but she was being very nice and non-judgmental about it while I sniffled and ranted and looked at the time and bemoaned how I was too much of an emotional wreck to go on a date tonight plus the scarf I was wearing smelled kinda funky but I had to keep wearing it because my outfit didn’t work without it so hopefully he wouldn’t notice the smell since I sprayed Febreze on it ugh omg did I have to go on this date I should have cancelled when I had the chance but now it’s too late and in fact I really should be going over there now oh fuck I’m gonna be late ok bye Jakki see ya!
The bar was incredibly packed when I arrived, several minutes late. I took a moment to survey my surroundings. Francisco had texted me to let me know he was already here, but I didn’t see anyone who looked like what I thought Francisco would look like. I got the sense that this was a bad sign. “Learkana?” asked a stranger now blocking my view.
“Oh, hi!” I said, smile plastered on. Francisco looked…well, he looked like this was going to be another disappointing night. It’s not like he Catfished me–I could see the resemblance. But he also was just…burlier and plainer than I expected. Don’t be a shallow asshole, I told myself.
Francisco asked me what I wanted. I got my usual cider, and we both sat down at one of the small tables by the entrance. I remember enjoying the conversation. We talked about our families, our jobs, our passions. He asked thoughtful questions and was a good listener. I could tell he was into me. He spent a good while talking about his niece and how he wanted to make sure she knew about feminism and the strength of women, which I recognized was an attempt to impress me. On occasion, he would ever so briefly and gently put his hand on my leg or the small of my back.
In one of these moments, I looked at his hand touching me, and then I looked at him. I thought to myself, This guy is sweet and sociopolitically aware. He likes me. He’s not ugly. He’s probably good in bed because he probably cares about the sexual pleasure and wellbeing of his partner, unlike some asshole I know. So why not let this happen?
But I just couldn’t see it. “It” being a future with him. A future in which I felt more than vague detachment at his hands on my body. A future in which I made out with him and felt aroused. A future in which we laid naked with each other and I didn’t want to leave the bed. It wasn’t there, and I wasn’t going to force it. Every subtle touch from him spelled out trouble instead of possibility. A part of me was sad. Sad that I couldn’t feel anything for this guy, who didn’t seem like an asshole, because I was hung up on a guy who was. I finished my drink, wondering how to end this.
By the time he walked me to my car, I still didn’t know. He asked me for my number. I smiled, flustered, and told him I would message it to him. He took it in stride, said good night, and walked away. I got into my car and cried again on the drive home.
The next day, I sent him a lengthy message explaining that while it was great meeting him, I didn’t think it would work out because I was still recovering from a really bad dating experience. I told him that meeting up with him made me realize I needed to focus on myself instead of dating. He said he understood, and wished me well.
I unmatched with him and felt terrible. Part of what I said was true, but mostly, it was a lie to cover up the fact that I wasn’t physically attracted to him.
I wonder if men feel this bad about rejecting women based on their appearances. Do they inwardly chastise themselves for being shallow? Do they spend a majority of the evening trying to convince themselves that their date is attractive in a certain light, a certain posture or gesture, a certain circumstance?
Looks aren’t everything. But they are something. Yes, my perceptions of what constitutes attractive is most likely rooted in fucked up desirability politics that I’ve unconsciously internalized over the course of twenty-five years, but that couldn’t be undone in just one night. And as much as I felt guilty about rejecting Francisco based on his looks, I also thought it would be even shittier of me to continue seeing him while secretly still finding him unattractive. I would never want someone to date me in spite of my looks, so why should I feel obligated to do so? One could argue that attraction takes time, but as my dating exploits have demonstrated, time has never been on my side. I understood that much. Time was primarily allocated to chasing our dreams or chasing stability, traveling, and fortifying ride-or-die relationships with loved ones already in our lives, not hit-or-miss dates arranged on millennial dating apps. I was giving and getting scraps, and suffering as a consequence of it. But reframing the situation was beyond my capacity at the time.
I should have quit Tinder at this point, but I had no real intention of doing so. Being a shallow asshole on a dating spree wasn’t the greatest or healthiest coping mechanism, but it was the only one that gave me a sense of control, even if the reality was me spiraling out of it.
tl;dr Learkana is emotionally fucked up from losing her virginity and goes on another meaningless date in an attempt to fill the void in her heart and her vagina!
Now it’s time for…
RATE THAT DATE VENUE!
Venue: Starline Social Club
Review: Honestly, I didn’t stray too far beyond the entrance of the bar so I can’t really judge. I should go back there with friends sometime. Seemed very popular judging by the loud crowd and difficulty in finding my date even though he was literally three feet away from me. Also I heard Solange performed there, so it has to be somewhat legit right?