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FRIENDS AND BENEFITS

My Date With a Crypto-Obsessed Mama’s Boy

He was desperate for a girlfriend, but that didn’t stop him from ghosting me.

Tootsie Haine
Published
Updated
Illo illustration of a notebook full of a high school doodles and a mom tattoo

Elizabeth Brockway/The Daily Beast

Welcome to Friends and Benefits. Follow our sex and relationships columnist into the lives and psyches of men and women, young and old, gorgeous and tragic, divine and insane. All names and identifying details have been changed to protect the privacy of the bachelors in question.

I once went out with a Hinge guy who reported (and occasionally did TV hits) on all things crypto and future tech for a news channel.

His job sounded fairly glamorous to me, but he was quick to cop to a low salary and wallowing feelings of career inertia. He didn’t even like New York City.

Hinge Man was also quick to whine about how desperately he wanted a girlfriend as we sat on a bench overlooking the Hudson River, 10 minutes into our first date. His mom, who appeared in several of his app pics, was apparently also desperate for him to get coupled up.

As he spoke, he looked in my direction, but past my face—at some vague spot on the horizon—as if he was talking to himself. Or to the camera?

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His job sounded glamorous to me, but he quickly copped to a low salary and wallowing feelings of career inertia. He didn’t even like New York City.

After that bit of bench-warming, we waded over to a West Village charcuterie joint where he had troubled to make a reservation.

The place was twee and abound with other couples on first and second dates, but I was impressed that he’d taken charge.

Hudson River and New Jersey landscape as viewed from Riverside Park South at sunset on the Upper West Side of Manhattan in New York City, New York.

As he spoke, he looked in my direction, but past my face—at some vague spot on the horizon over the Hudson River—as if he was talking to himself.

UCG/UCG/Universal Images Group via G

In my dating experience, most men offered few ideas or no plan whatsoever—you met at the dive bar he went to with his friends. This was a nice touch! I ordered a Diet Coke and settled in.

Over an array of delightful cheeses, cured meats, and pickled vegetables, I learned that the commentator was one of those guys who only had male friends. A fascinating and unnerving development, but also handy: The occasion prompted me to ask questions I had been thinking about for some time.

As he spoke, he looked in my direction, but past my face, as if he was talking to himself. Or to the camera?

“Do you think what a man really wants is a woman he can say ‘ret---ed’ in front of?” I posed.

He answered the question like it concerned the weather, with a straight face and utmost sincerity: “No, I think that’s mean,” he said. “But I love the word ‘f----t.’”

“What does masculinity mean to you?”

“Strong arms. Money. Knowing the answers. Good driver. Having a plan. Making the dinner reservations.”

“Is masculinity still important?”

“Yes. Girls still want to be taken care of.”

I was amused by his earnest contradictions; the juxtaposition of well-meant outrage over one slur with the fratty embrace of another.

His take on masculinity seemed hilarious, though I wasn’t sure I agreed.

And his take on masculinity seemed hilarious, though I wasn’t sure I agreed. He’d listed welcome attributes, though they were more blunt and superficial than the description I might’ve chosen: a stoic provider who has nothing to prove.

He paid. In my experience, men seldom offered to foot the bill.

Two gelato ice cream cones touching.

So as a token of parity and thanks, I offered him a gelato. Sweet dribble running down our chins, we made out next to a closed park.

NurPhoto/NurPhoto via Getty Images

Regardless, I’d been brought up to pay my own way: to enjoy egalitarianism; to owe and be owed nothing. So as a token of parity and thanks, I offered him a gelato. Sweet dribble running down our chins, we stood against the wrought iron fence of a closed park and made out.

“Sorry, I like a lot of tongue,” he said as he pressed his groin into me.

“My, my, I could ‘me-too’ you for that, Mr. Commentator!” I replied, my threat deflating his threat at once. “I had a nice time,” I continued, and cautiously meant it.

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“So did I,” he said, careful not to use the now-triggering movement slogan himself. He paused before continuing: “We get along. I think it’s because we’re both very blunt and honest with each other, in the same way.”

I was inclined to agree. Though I wasn’t smitten, I liked him and thought he might be up for some further hijinks, so I texted him a week or two later, not caring too much what happened either way.

He didn’t respond.

I can only hope that he has since quit his job and fled the state with the love of his life.

Got a question about dating, an opinion on intimacy, or a comment about Tootsie’s tales? Share your thoughts with our dating columnist at tootsie.haine@thedailybeast.com.

Tootsie Haine
Tootsie Haine

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