Do you ….?
When a promising first date takes an unexpected turn
I recognized him a half block away even though we had never met in real life. The shoulder-length hair, the leather satchel across his back, the black-and-white patterned shirt on his diminutive, yet muscular frame. As he waited for the light, I caught up to him and introduced myself.
We had met “virtually” on OurTime, a dating site for people over fifty. Or as I like to explain to those who’ve never heard of it, the dating app for older folks making a last-ditch effort to find love before devoting whatever energy is left to shopping for Depends.
I’ve come to believe OurTime should be called Just in Time. I was sixty years old and had been on a slew of dating sites since leaving my decades-long marriage. In the past four years I had dated over seventy men, but this was my first suitor through this site. I was exhausted from all the bad dates and dashed expectations. And then a friend, who was unexpectedly successful on OurTime, suggested I sign up… before giving up.
We walked through my Manhattan neighborhood to a wine bar. We chatted about his job as a biology teacher in a Brooklyn charter school — a noble profession in my opinion. It was early September and the school year had just started. He wore glasses as did I. He had a neatly trimmed salt-and- pepper goatee that set off his kind smile. From where I was sitting, his profession, his pride at being the father of a spunky twelve-year-old girl, and his good looks placed him in the “hot” category.
We sat next to each other and looked out onto the street. The sun was setting, we watched passersby on the sidewalk, and the conversation flowed seamlessly. That is until his cell phone rang. Usually, when on a date, the guy will apologize and silence his phone.
Not this guy.
“Hey”, he said and listened. “Yep,” he responded, followed by, “All good. Talk to you soon, man.”
Had this guy answered a “safety call”? (This is a call that women sometimes arrange with a friend who phones at a particular time to make sure the woman is safe, or just not into the guy, and needs an excuse to bolt.) This was the first time I’d been with a man who had done this. I was intrigued. Clearly, he had someone in his life who cared about him to make the call. But besides being intriguing, it concerned me. Why did he need someone to check up on him? We were meeting in a public place, in a non-sketchy neighborhood, in the early evening. Couldn’t he leave if he wanted to? Did he need an excuse?
When we were close to finishing our drinks, and I assumed I had passed the “safety test”, he suggested we continue our date and have dinner. This was unusual for a first date. Most guys I had met would spring for drinks, not dinner. He explained that he had scoped out an intimate hole-in-the-wall Chinese place.
I was pleased that our date would continue and that he had made an effort to find a place, even before meeting me. We walked to the restaurant holding hands. We even stopped to kiss once or twice.
His hand felt good in mine and his lips were soft. I started getting ahead of myself: Will I sleep with this guy? I knew I would. When will I sleep with this guy? Tonight? Most likely because I am, after all, on the dating site for those of us approaching the end of our life span.
I believe that it’s mandatory to have sex on the first date. I might be dead tomorrow.
At the restaurant, we were escorted to a table in the back, where there were cleaning supplies, a vacuum, and extra wooden chairs stacked nearby. The clutter didn’t bother me. In fact, I was impressed that my date knew about this “under the radar” place and he also knew what to order.
“I love the Hot Pot,’’ he suggested. “They do it really well here…and the soup dumplings. If you haven’t had soup dumplings, you’re in for a treat.”
“That sounds great,” I replied. I liked this man’s suggestions and his assertiveness.
He continued scanning the menu. “I love spicy food. Do you?”
“Yes, I love it!
This was a good sign as I considered our mutual love of spicy food a harbinger of our sexual compatibility.
Again, I was getting ahead of myself. What did he look like undressed? Where was his tattoo? How would that luscious head of hair feel in my hands when he went down on me? Had I had shaved? What if the condoms in my nightstand didn’t fit him? Had I remembered to pre-dim the lights in my bedroom?
“Ok, he said, breaking into my thoughts. We’ll get the soup dumplings and a Hot Pot with pork, bok choy, and… what do you think?”
“Chinese mushrooms?” I suggested.
He agreed. “Anything else?”
“No, that sounds good.”
He smiled and then declared, “Oh, and bamboo shoots! They’ll be great with the pork.”
“That sounds fantastic,” I replied.
My mouth was watering and my mind continued wandering. Had I suggested ingredients that implied I was sophisticated and well-traveled? Was I adventurous enough for this guy? Would my body look too old when I was naked? Why was he on OurTime when he was only fifty?
My reverie was interrupted when he closed the menu and asked, “By the way, do you squirt?”
I wasn’t sure I’d heard him correctly. “I’m sorry, what?”
“Do you squirt?” he repeated.
“Um, no, I don’t.”
“Have you ever tried? I’m good at it. I can make a woman hit the ceiling.”
My head was spinning. No date had ever asked me this, nor bragged about their prowess in getting a woman to perform this feat. And this bravado was coming from a guy who answered a “safety call”? And why was he in such a rush to know if I would satisfy his squirting fetish? Couldn’t he have waited until we had eaten?
This wasn’t adding up. I felt my heart sink. I would never ask a guy on a first date, while ordering dinner, “Oh, by the way, will you be able to stay hard and pound me for a full ten minutes and then ejaculate inside me?” Why did he think it was okay to ask me if I squirted…now?
My thoughts drifted back to a trend I noticed on dating sites. Men talked about how much they were into women squirting. Initially I had no idea what they were talking about and needed to do some research. It turns out that squirting is sometimes called female ejaculation. Everything about it is controversial — even whether it exists. Most experts agree that some women emit fluid when reaching orgasm, but there is no agreement on the nature of the fluid, or how it’s discharged. Some think it’s a form of lubrication, and others think that the woman is experiencing urinary incontinence at the time of orgasm. Regardless, men are into it.
Why? Porn. Many men watch porn and sometimes their entire sex education comes from watching porn. Plenty of guys think that women like to be slapped on the fanny when they’re having sex, because they’ve seen female porn stars (pretend to) enjoy this. And now it seems that men who watch porn think all women are capable of and enjoy squirting. (While we’re talking about porn, in case you’re curious as to which porn stars can squirt, you can find their names on Wikipedia! I had no idea one could become immortalized on Wikipedia for having the ability to emit a fluid — possibly urine — while achieving orgasm.)
What are we mere mortal women supposed to do? Apparently, it’s no longer enough for a woman to enjoy sex with her lover. She must now be multi-orgasmic, know how to access her G-spot, be receptive to all kinds of penetration, and squirt for a guy to feel accomplished and satisfied in bed.
But if we think about it, OurTime is probably the best place to find women who squirt, especially if we’re talking about urinary incontinence. Get us to sneeze while we’re having sex! It could be that easy.
So, there I was, seated in a restaurant with a man I didn’t know, but who was interested in my squirting ability. And how would I do this? Is there a target on the ceiling? Am I evaluated by how high it goes, or the velocity, the quantity, and for that matter, what fluid I emit? Was he interested in my ability to squirt or was his question more of a probe to gauge how edgy and sex positive I was, as my dating profile suggested?
In the few hours that we had been together, we had talked, we had kissed, we had held hands, and we were having dinner. To me, that was the beginning of a potential relationship, sexual or otherwise. But I wasn’t clear about him. He appeared to have an agenda. Why does a guy discussing the virtues of bamboo shoots suddenly pivot and ask if I squirt?
Where was the romance in that? I strategized my exit. I had walked out on bad dates before — and I might add, without a safety call. But was this a bad date? Did his bluntness and poor timing make me feel so uncomfortable that I had to leave before our food arrived?
What did I risk by staying? Nothing. What might I miss out on if I left? Plenty… including dinner.
Swallowing hard and sitting upright, I replied, “No, I’ve never tried it, and I don’t want to. I’m not ruling it out completely, but I’m not interested. If you need to do that, I’m not your woman. I don’t have goals in mind when I’m having sex. At this point in my life, I just want to play and have fun in bed.”
He smiled, extended his hand toward mine, and gave me a high-five. I smiled and relaxed into my chair. My anxious ruminating took a rest. And while I slurped and savored our yummy meal, I continued to fantasize about getting my hands into his luscious hair, no longer caring whether I had pre-dimmed the bedroom lights or not.