Dateless-Man vs. Warm Approaches (Or The Lack Thereof)

It’s almost the end of the month, which means it’s time to get in another installment of my thoughts and feelings about my love life (or lack thereof). A part of me is disappointed that I couldn’t get in an article for a second Leap Day in a row, but I just didn’t have much to work with. In terms of general updates, not much has changed since my last post at the end of January. Being the caretaker of a mother who has cancer (and is now suffering from a hernia of some kind) is taking up a lot of my spare time which isn’t already accounted for in online writing about comics, fetish writing about softcore bondage, or binging geeky stuff on DVD.

I have been making more of a concerted effort to reconnect with one of my longtime pals, who has been mentioned in prior adventure posts as “M***.” I was hardly a social butterfly before Covid-19 hit in 2020, but I’d gotten worse since then. Just in the last 3 months I’ve hung out with him and some other mutual pals at least 4 or so times. In fact, a few weeks ago for my birthday, a bunch of us went to a bar since a couple of them shared the same birthday. In the past, I used to avoid doing this because I didn’t like binge drinking, was too introverted for bars, and I didn’t like feeling as if I was second or third fiddle on my own birthday. But now that I am (officially) 42, I decided to take some of that stuff less seriously. Plus, M***’s recently divorced roommate has quit drinking and he actually went to the bar for the food and some of the game room activities — especially something called “feather bowling.” It was a lot of fun with some food and zero alcohol, nor any pressure to get blitzed. It was kind of nice. I didn’t go in with any expectations to meet any women nor any sense of disappointment for not doing so or not having an opportunity, which is also different from my 20s or 30s.

Incidentally, during the feather bowling session, M*** and the divorced pal acknowledged they never were good at regular bowling for various reasons, and neither was I. It felt good to come across another example of how some personal fact or non-opportune detail about myself doesn’t have to mean I “suck” or am “lame,” it’s just a preference or something different. I didn’t realize I was simply an introvert who gets overstimulated by loud noisy bars packed with people, rather than someone who was “lame” or “sucked at bars,” until I was pushing 40. It would have saved me a lot of needless (self-inflicted) misery if I realized that 10-15 years sooner. But, no one ever said the path to self-improvement was linear or quick.

(I realize some people, especially the online guru I read, Harris O’Malley/Doctor Nerdlove, often say the same thing about older male virginity. That it is just a fact about someone which doesn’t have to have a positive or negative judgement atop it; it is just a life detail. I would contend that the social expectation that someone has had sex by a certain age is far more well defined and important than whether someone likes bars or is good at bowling, or to use the example Doctor Nerdlove likes, “has ridden a roller coaster.” Admitting any of those things won’t run the risk of immediately shutting down any potential romantic progress, regardless of whether it is a first date, third date or tenth date, and having someone demand you exit their life immediately, never to return. Older virginity can. Older male virginity, especially, has been seen in a negative light specifically because of the sheer volume of serial killers, spree shooters, Internet trolls, right-wing podcasters, and general sexists/racists/homophobes who share this detail. It is seen as an indicator to a lot of other maladaptive behavior or practices, especially by women who literally have to protect their own lives every time they interact with new men, and many times that’s not entirely wrong. There is a difference between “not good at bowling,” and “has never kissed a woman at 42,” and anyone who claims otherwise is either overly optimistic, fooling themselves, or thinks helping others involves teaching them to fool themselves.)

A few weeks ago I happened to witness an interaction at a local grocery store (particularly, a fresh produce one which caters to the Slavic folks in the neighborhood) which caught my eye. Like many grocery stores, the clerks at the registers are young adults; perhaps in their teens or early 20s. Two were young women and one was a young man, and all could be considered “conventionally attractive” for their ages. They weren’t shy about their personal conversation, especially since things were slow at that time and I was about to become their only customer on line to ring up in several minutes, at least.

One of the young women was telling the young man about how one of her friends found him “cute.” At first he didn’t believe it or thought they were joking around, but both were quite serious about it. One even mentioned that she’d come to the store and seen him in person once, instead of just online. However, when he asked for the telephone number and other personal information about this “secret admirer,” the woman whose pal this was was hesitant. It seems the young man had a reputation as “a player,” and was supposedly dating someone else currently. He immediately denied that it was anything “steady,” and then had to promise that he wouldn’t “be bad” to this friend of a friend. It did not take much cajoling for him to get some of the information he’d wanted, and for his co-workers to pretty much set up this date for him themselves, like matchmakers.

What I’d just witnessed is known in the dating circles as a “warm approach,” in which someone meets (or is about to meet) another due to some mutual acquaintance. It is different from a “cold approach,” which is literally chatting up a stranger at a bar, or a nightclub (or via an online dating app or service). Warm approaches are considered easier and more likely to succeed — a vast majority of people meet this way. Practically every friend I have, male or female, gay or straight, has had at least one lover (if not several, or all) enter their lives via this method. Sometimes it can be one mutual friend trying to “hook up” two single people in their lives, or it could be like the example I witnessed, where someone’s friend (or relative) admitted an attraction to another pal, and the first one tells the target of that attraction and/or tries to arrange a meeting. There is nothing wrong with this; it is natural, as a social species such as humans are supposed to be. And it vastly decreases risk, since someone can “vouch” that the other person is “safe,” or at least not crazy or so on.

Beyond getting an unintended glimpse at some soap opera hijinks while trying to buy bananas or pita bread, something else garnered my attention. This was a situation, or luxury, that I never benefitted from. From junior high thru college, and past college, I never had one friend indicate some peer of theirs was single that I might make a “good match” for. At no point did they ever know or notice anyone “check me out” or “think I was cute.” If they ever did, I was only ever told years later as a for instance when any viable attempt to capitalize was futile (i.e. they’d married or moved away, or there were too many years removed). Now, I will concede that most friends who do this tend to be female, or homosexual, rather than straight men. But I’ve had (and still have) pals who are women and/or homosexual who’ve never done this or talked to me about this, either. That “secret in,” that “recommendation,” that is normal for most people at least sometimes, I never experienced.

A lot of times, people (especially those in the “dating advice” game) do not understand where a lack of self confidence or a maladaptive self-image comes from. They think it is just “all in your head” and as such, it can change with enough will, focus, or perspective like a childlike fear or a misinformed opinion (as if THOSE are easy to change in people). What they don’t understand is that these self-destructive or limiting believes are often backed up by at least some moderately reasonable facts. For me, it wasn’t just that I’d never been told by a woman that she liked me, nor ever had one “come onto me” or flirt with me. It was that not only had none of my closest friends across many years and genders not seen someone do so, or do so themselves, it was that none of them ever recommended me to someone they knew who was single. Not a single one of them, ever, had some single friend or relative and thought, “Y’know who would be good for you? Dateless-Man. He’s a swell guy. I’ll tell him about you.” Nope. Never. Not even once.

For most people, this isn’t something that comes out of a demand. Most single people, of either gender, do not tell all of their friends to “be on the lookout” for single folks in simple, blunt and specific terms. It is almost universally considered embarrassing to do so. Instead it is something which develops naturally, much like meeting new friends thru other friends. And in the realm of social media, it is even easier for pals to know who is single and who isn’t. Most social media profiles outright offer a widget to mark whether someone is single or not. And most people know if they have a friend who is single for an extended period, or forever. Not a single one of my friends has ever seen me date, or kiss anyone, or talk about dating anyone. Because I never have.

This isn’t a matter of “wanting someone else to do all the work for you.” Even a warm approach is not a guarantee. Some folks just aren’t a match. This is simply an observation that for many people is a natural and organic development, for others it just does not exist. And for those for whom this very natural, very organic thing does not exist, it can get very easy to wonder, “why not me,” and come up with a variety of conclusions. And when one is young, it is easy to make those conclusions seem temporary, such as “bad luck” or “circumstance.” But once someone is past 25-30, and especially past 40, those sorts of explanations just don’t seem logical anymore. For me it was easy to believe that there was, or is, something fundamentally wrong with me. That within me is some sort of “thing,” which I half-jokingly call “the Anti-Hormone,” where attraction and romantic love neither entire nor escape. And that no matter the clothes, or the scenery, or the age group, that “thing” remains, because it is as part of me as my eye color. And if even my longest, closest, dearest friends cannot and have not ever considered me a viable romantic candidate for anyone they knew, know of, or have ever known of…what hope can I, or anyone, expect of a perfect stranger? What will a random woman on OkCupid or a bar see in me that a platonic friend who has known me 15-25 years be blind to? Especially as someone who’s never been able to rely on a perfect chin or any kind of traditionally attractive looks?

In years past, a scene like that in the grocery store would have made me envious, and then later a bit depressed. Quite a few postings from 2014-2020 were born from that. This entire blog was arguable born of this; to finally release all of my thoughts, feelings, pain, sorrow, and confusion about the black hole of my love life into another medium beyond my own mind. That’s where everything comes from, right? Anything which is said, built, drawn, done, painted, written, etc. began in someone’s mind. I am glad to say that now, those reactions don’t emerge anymore. It is easier to remove emotions from it, as I am too far removed from those things now. I deal with my romantic void as a chronic condition. It is not something which is, or can be, permanently removed. It is simply something that pops up, and has to be acknowledged, and dealt with, and then moved on from.

That was my mistake in 2017, when I was obsessed with “Zen.” I wanted such pangs to be removed from me, like a tumor. That’s impossible, barring some far worse trauma or tragedy. Instead it is something I can manage, like many other conditions. It is another part of me, which I can’t remove without losing a part of myself, but I can do my best to avoid losing more of myself within. It isn’t wrong or bad to sometimes wonder what it would be like for a hand to meet mine, and sometimes feel disappointed or frustrated that it never happened. But the key isn’t to deny that, or run from it, but to acknowledge it when it happens, and then move on. There are worse things in life, and other things within it to do. Life is short enough; why spend more of it making myself miserable about something I have little or no way to change currently?

To torture a metaphor nigh to death, the mask of the Dateless-Man cannot be removed. To paraphrase a line from, of all things, Spectacular Spider-Man: “We all wear masks, but which one is real? The one over your face, but the one that IS your face?” But I don’t have to make myself miserable focusing on the texture, or the edges, or hate myself for having it over my face at all. I can choose not to focus on it, until I forget it is there, at least most of the time. And if I encounter a situation or scene which calls attention to it, or reminds me it is there, I can acknowledge it without wallowing.

And that is what this is, and this blog is for. That, and hopefully for someone to realize they’re not the only one dealing with this.

Thanks for reading.

As always, I remain…the Dateless-Man.

Dateless-Man vs. Caretaking (And Other Related Things)

It’s a new year, whether you, me, or the New York Giants want it or not. This time around my inspiration to blog actually comes from an article which is about a month old. I considered double-posting in December, but since I sometimes struggle to maintain a “one entry a month” average lately, I didn’t want to rob myself of a relevant topic. And as the weeks have gone on, it actually became more relevant with certain developments regarding “My Oldest Female Friend,” who hasn’t gotten a mention in this space since October 2020. This is a non-fiction blog so I don’t set out to have things ebb and flow, but sometimes the natural course of life shifts that way.

And no, I haven’t gotten laid. I am still the captain of the Virgin Airlines Space Shuttle, on its way to planet Untouched in the Chaste Nebula, despite pushing 42. But that kind of topic will come up later on.

Onto the article. To the surprise of few who follow this space, it’s one of the Q&A columns from the only online dating guru I’ve ever followed or put much stock in — the very wise, yet very flawed, Harris O’Malley/Doctor Nerdlove (DNL). It relates to a column from December 20th (2023), and it isn’t even about the lead writer. For those in the comments, most of his Q&A columns (which make up the bulk of his free content lately) feature two letter writers, or “LWs.” The first is always LW1 and the second is always LW2. Now that some of the jargon is out of the way, I took immediate notice of LW2, who was nicknamed “Blokeless On The Coast.” O’Malley will often give letter writers a nickname to hide their identities, and that’s the best he could come up with a week before Christmas.

Without reposting the entire letter, it gained my attention for two reasons: it featured an example of the kind of women who are now within my “dating cohort,” and she had a life experience similar to my own. “BOTC” said she is 36 years old and while she is not a virgin, but she hadn’t had sex since her son was conceived, which was when she was about 20. In all of that time she has not only been raising a son while working multiple jobs, she has also been the caretaker for several of her elderly relatives and effectively has had no dating (and little of a social life) in all that time. Her letter was about having nervous breakdowns and crying fits anytime she interacts with her siblings, and she is worried she will make a scene at her kid sister’s wedding. The advice which DNL and many of those in the comments went on was that her problem wasn’t being single, but it was her extreme burnout for being a caretaker for almost two decades and she needed to resolve that problem first and just de-stress before even bothering to date anyone. He and they offered a variety of “remedies” for this.

The letter really made me think just how long I, myself, have been a caretaker (or co-caretaker) to a relative and just how stressful as well as emotionally, physically, and financially draining it can be. One of the major motivations for starting this blog in July 2014 (yes, nearly a full decade ago) was to create a record of my woeful or non-existent attempts at romance onto another medium besides my mind, to create a body of evidence that I wasn’t just a garden variety failure. I was uniquely burdened with a variety of romantic disadvantages and inefficiencies which rendered me unable, incapable, or even unwilling to have any success with women on any fundamental way beyond platonic friendship (which is no small thing which I do appreciate). And while most of those examples were about myself personally — my lack of confidence, or charisma, nor dashing looks or coordination — it made me wonder just how much I have glossed over this very real, and significant chunk of my life. And most importantly, its effects.

When I was young, I was raised by my divorced, single mother who worked to support us. My aunt lived in New Jersey and aside for occasional sleepovers and mailed presents, I rarely interacted with her. My only other available relative was my maternal grandmother, who lived about an hour’s train ride away. Once she started being unable to maintain her bills (coupled with various ailments, from thyroid issues to losing her vision to breaking bones in falls), my mother started taking care of her when I was in my early teens. For most of junior high and high school, in fact, grandma unofficially shared a room with me on a spare, smaller bed which was there just for her visits. As I grew, so did my responsibilities. And before I was through with high school, my own mother’s health started to fail due to a variety of things (including fibromyalgia and a fall of her own), until she began legally handicapped at the end of the 90s (when I was 17). So not only was I helping her with grandma, I was helping her, period. It wasn’t so easy to be a carefree teenager, only focused on girls, parties, or other things. I couldn’t so easily or avidly attend functions, or spend dwindling resources.

One clear example was at the start of college when some of my friends went on two annual “ski trips” which were just excuses to go out of state to a ski lodge, get plastered, and in most cases get laid with similarly snockered women. It required a $1000 deposit from everyone who went, and I couldn’t blow that kind of money for so frivolous a thing. Add in the fact that I didn’t like excessively boozing nor fared well at bars or clubs (which I attributed for decades as “me being lame,” not merely being an introvert), and that was just the most obvious example off the top of my head. The other was that I almost always had to clear things with “the family” before I did anything beyond a routine, local hangout session at a pal’s house. It wasn’t just because I was shy or anti-social, but because real events happened. Very soon into college, after grandmother deteriorated further, my mother and I had to arrange for home health aides, which was so nightmarish a process that eventually my mother just lived with grandma full time for about 2 years. And during that period I was aiding on the weekends as well as trying to land or keep jobs. By the time grandma did pass in early 2010 (at age 89), my mother’s health was failing further, and I still had to find steady work.

I can say for most of the last 13 years I have worked steady, and most of that time was with two companies (including the place where I work now). But caretaking for my mother got no easier even before she was diagnosed with colon cancer in late 2021, with a years long and well documented eviction battle against the landlord during a good chunk of that time. Beyond the loss of time or careful accounting of finite resources, it was easy to fall into a routine of coping. Dating has always been a stressful, unrewarding, miserable experience for me, atop a life where free time for anything which was not work or chore related had to be carefully structured.

These are problems most of my friends did not face. Most of them came from steady, middle class, two-parent households where they could easily save money to move out because they never had to cover expenses like rent, food, or utilities (even well into their 20s). Their parents never fell apart physically in their teens. They never considered things like orange juice luxuries for years of time. I am not saying they’re all millionaires in lives of luxury, but they faced at least one or two less hurdles toward settling down with a wife and kids than I did. Maybe a good chunk of my problem wasn’t that they’d cracked a code and I didn’t; maybe they simply had fewer chains around their bodies.

Most of the recommended “solutions” for BOTC did frustrate me because they’re mostly made out of well intended ignorance. The biggest is “negotiate with other family members to share responsibilities.” That makes perfect sense…if humans were genuinely good and honest creatures, and families were not usually collections of mismatched people linked by circumstances and genetics. Most families with siblings not only do not share caretaker responsibilities, but refuse to. In most families where this becomes an issue, one person is designated as “the caretaker,” and it all is heaped on them for convenience. My aunt had a car, a house, and far more income, yet she did virtually nothing to tend to her own mother; she deliberately left it to her older, handicapped, poorer sister because it was more convenient. My grandmother’s relatives, who are mostly “performance-Christians” who live in California and are upper middle class, had been telling her to take care of herself anytime she asked for help by phone or mail, going back to the 1970s. And that is how most families, or at least native born, American white families tend to treat each other. Most of the time, that “designated relative” is a woman; a daughter, aunt, sister, mother, etc. My situation is rare. But then again, there’s no choice. I am an only child. It was either caretake or leave my mother to die, and I cannot do that.

In other communities, there can be some more sharing. As an example, in most nursing homes in America, it is very rare to find people of Asian, African American, or Latino backgrounds. The “clients” are predominantly white people, and it isn’t just because of finances. It is because white people are trained from cradle to grave to only care about “number one,” and that old people are only worth what they can give you monetarily. When they can’t or if they never could, they’re abandoned to their fate so the next generation can thrive. And having been to many nursing homes and/or recovery homes for the elderly over the past 20 years off and on due to caretaking, I can honestly say that prison inmates are better taken care of. At least if enough inmates die or are mistreated long enough, eventually they will get attention. The elderly in America are so badly mistreated that on AARP article I read last year indicated that many detectives don’t even bother to investigate their deaths for any signs of crime or trauma unless it is bullet hole/stab wound obvious. Even if someone is in their 60s, has bruising, and a ransacked apartment, the general opinion of most precincts is, “eh, they’re old, they fell over.” That is usually how occasional “elder killers” can seem to pass through gated communities, hospitals, or nursing homes for years and no one connects the dots. No one darn well cares.

At some point in 2016, I once reached out to one of my best friends (who is of Asian-Polish/Jewish descent) for some aid, even if emotional support, with my mother and I. Her health was bad that month and I was afraid she’d die and leave me in worse straights. And his words, over Facebook messenger, still haunt me. To paraphrase: “I’m not afraid she’ll die. I am afraid she’ll live another 20 years and by the time she dies, it will be too late for you to have your own life.” He then recommended I toss her in a nursing home and “visit every week.” I knew at that point to never ask him for help again, and I haven’t.

I also related to BOTC because of her age in relation to mine, and the fact that her life’s history wasn’t so atypical. Not every single woman over 30 is some stereotype of “SEX IN THE CITY.” In fact, most aren’t. Here is someone who is 36 (well within my stated age range) who may have gone on fewer dates in the last 16 years than I have with a teenage son, and her own caretaker war stories. I imagines myself meeting someone with that kind of experience, and would I be willing to date her if we clicked. My answer to myself was, “sure,” with the caveat that I can’t be a caretaker of two households while being understanding and supportive.

Now, you would think that my experience as a caretaker would make me seem, at least, sympathetic to single women. Many are in that situation or know someone who is, and in theory it means I am at least capable of things like responsibility or balancing a budget. You would be wrong, and I do truly believe it is a regional thing. In the south or more midwestern areas, I might get more mileage as a romantic partner over that…the only problem are the women in those parts tend to skew more conservative than I am. And in New York, it isn’t that my tales of being a caretaker to an elderly mother aren’t met with some compliments, but it immediately takes me off the table as a viable romantic paramour. No one thinks “41 year old man taking care of his cancer stricken mother” and goes, “That is the kind of man whose penis I want inside me,” at least not unless he is painted like Fabio on the cover of a romance novel or looks like one of the “Marvel Chrises” (Chris Evans, Chris Hemsworth or Chris Pratt), or isn’t able to ooze raw charisma despite all that skin to James Bond. I am just “such a sweet guy,” and women don’t sleep with sweet men. They sleep with fun men. And despite my own sense of humor and jokes, beneath it all I am a nerd with too many responsibilities running him ragged. I am, at best, a woman’s boyfriend’s wacky pal.

There’s the practical challenges of caretaking, too. Every every person I go to or place I visit on a date, especially in a post-Covid world, risks exposing my cancer-stricken mother with new germs. For an easy example, I now have enough money and paid vacation days to be able to go to Las Vegas and finally become a man via one of the many legal brothels. At this point I am no longer morally opposed to it; I may as well lose my virginity like a circus freak might. But I cannot even do this because between two airports, two airplanes, a new city with a lower per capita vaccination rate, and the experience itself, I am almost assured to bring back either Covid or a nasty flu back home. I could, in theory, afford my own apartment now (which wasn’t true until last year), but I cannot afford two. If and when I move, my mother has to come with me. Even if I won first prize in the lottery tomorrow, I couldn’t just retire while riding a giant robotic T-Rex pulling a pool full of Swedish bikini models. I would have to make sure my mother is stable wherever she is first, and I’d at least have to check in.

So, that article inspired a lot of thoughts about my current options, or lack of one, as well as whether or not I would be willing to date someone with a similar life experience as I.

Now, onto the current developments with my long-time “female friend,” Sonia (whose name I type here is an alias). She’s since resumed Facebook chat contact with me a few months ago, after a period of years when she hadn’t. As I stated in the 2020 recap, she is facing her own health woes, despite being younger than I am. I thought back then it was some kind of cancer but she and her doctors are not sure. Right now she is a few month removed from a rehab facility, where she has gained a lot of weight, is almost bedridden and cannot work. She is trying to get social security disability benefits, which was a fight even in the 90s when mom applied (and waited about 2 years to be approved). She is currently living with her latest of a string of abusive boyfriends, out of a lack of anywhere else to go. I’ve chronicled some of the tragedies of her life, but they include having her father die when she was very young and being molested for years by her uncle (who her mother defended). Despite being bisexual, she has mostly dated men and every one of her relationships seems to grow abusive. I know at this point many would say, “maybe the problem is her,” but I have known her since the 90s and I can say her only “problem” is being vulnerable and a lot of men exploit that in women. Maybe that is how so many avoid being older virgins like me.

Admittedly, her latest reach-out involved something she does semi-annually; ask for money out of desperation for some basic stuff. I rarely was able to help out with that in the past due to being broke, but this time I could genuinely spare it (after all, I can casually drop cash on DVD binges pretty often). I don’t think the two are linked but it is a coincidence. Some other friends have come to me for help online, since this is the “Kickstarter for Life Woes,” generation we are all in, and I have been able to help a little with some without harming myself or my mother. Another friend of mine lost her common law fiance last year, for example, and I helped pay for the funeral. If I thought I was being suckered for cash I would have cut contact with her ages ago. I do not; I only see someone in need.

Since she is a long time friend, I have enjoyed having her back in my life to talk daily (or every other day). Once problem, or at least one major difference, is she is the only one of my friends who avidly asks about my love life. At this point I may remind readers who don’t have as perfect a memory for my posts as the Marvel Cinematic Universe expects of its films that Sonia is, to date, the only live actual woman I have ever known who admitted to once having a crush on me. Not asking for a date, but once telling me, “I liked you.” The problem is she has always been out of state, or far from me, and/or living with a boyfriend. Despite the reputation from my friends that she was “loose,” she does not cheat on her boyfriends (and if she did, it wouldn’t be with me, because I am not that mercenary).

Sonia is the first person in years who has asked me flat out if I was “still a virgin.” Despite having told myself and this blog I would not lie if asked that directly, I balked on the question and replied, “I don’t want to talk about it,” which I guess is enough of an admission. More to the point, Sonia has made more passes at me and being fairly straightforward that she finds me attractive and wants to sleep with me at least once. This is a drastic change from where things were even 3 years ago. At one point, unsolicited, she sent me a video of her exposing her breasts, which I guess is the closest I have come to a “sext” outside of text roleplay with fictional characters. A few times I mentioned having to speak sternly to callers at the call center I used to work for and Sonia has gone on about how “sexy” that seems. She has become very flattering, almost too much for me.

I suppose at least one person has reached this point and asked, “So why haven’t you slept with her, you crazy moron?”

The first is that I am not going to sleep with a nearly bed-bound woman who is currently living in her boyfriend’s house while said boyfriend and his mother are living there. That is diving crotch first into a love triangle situation which has a risk of ending with an episode of DATELINE NBC where Keith Morrison is narrating the murder of one of us in his usual annoying folksy dialect. The second is that Sonia needs a solid and supportive lifestyle and I am not certain that I can provide that, and if we sleep together that will just jerk her around. It isn’t that she has gained weight; it is that she, too, sort of needs a caretaker. I cannot caretake for two people, and even if my mother was not around any more, I find myself hesitant to leap from one caretaking assignment to another. It isn’t as if I would be opposed to being a caretaker for a spouse or significant other if we grew older together — I would. But the idea of never getting a break from having to do that, since the time I was maybe 16-17, until the day I drop dead is giving me pause. Is that wrong? Does that make me evil or terrible? To want a break from that? Just for, like a year or so between whenever my mother passes and my first lover, ever? Is that so terrible? Or should I just risk being shot or stalked by a pissed boyfriend just to lose my V-Card to a friend? Is it worth that kind of drama?

I don’t think so, so I haven’t. But to not blog about it when it clearly links up to the start of the entry and is very relevant bordered on malpractice.

This weekend I am going to hang out with some friends for the first time in over a year and I am really looking forward to it. No romantic opportunities, just something social, and not related to any jobs, on the clock or otherwise. Where I can just…be for a while. I didn’t realize how much I missed that kind of thing until I lost it.

Maybe I, too, don’t need a girlfriend as much as a life of my own, but a life of my own not at the expense of the one who gave me life. And that’s the riddle.

Thanks for reading.

As always, I remain…the Dateless-Man.

Dateless-Man vs. MARTY (or, “The 34 Year Old Virgin”)

This blog entry, which may or may not be the last of 2023, is of a series which are a little different than my usual bleating about being lonely, a virgin, facing ED or admitting my (light) bondage fetish. It’s of a series closer to the kinds of articles I do elsewhere, in which I review things, which match the theme of the blog. So far I’ve done this twice, with reviewing my thoughts on “THE 40 YEAR OLD VIRGIN” for obvious reasons, and “THE MASK” for less obvious ones. To a lessor degree, an entry about “youthful animation crushes” from 2020 qualifies, and if anything, meshes a little better with my initial “fetish admission” post.

My “end of year” posts are also exercises in linking the other entries for the year in one convenient spot, which I do for borderline obsessive-compulsive reasons. I used to just title them, “Dateless-Man vs. [YEAR IN QUESTION],” but those usually got boring and low views even for me, so I’ve been more creative since. Or, sometimes events just got more exciting, like my mother being diagnosed with cancer, or one of my rare chats with my deadbeat father. You know; the “fun” stuff.

But, no; this time it will wrap with my thoughts on a film which is 100% relevant to the topic at hand, which I have mentioned (and had mentioned to me) many times. That is, “MARTY” from 1955. It’s hardly what one would call a “cult” film, since it was produced by United Artists and won 4 Oscars (and was nominated for another 4 atop that). I am fairly confident it still airs routinely in many “classic movie” TV stations, whether on cable or traditional digital broadcast, and is likely streaming somewhere. Yet people don’t talk about it too much compared to some movies from the 1950s, especially horror, sci-fi or B-movie stuff like “CREATURE FROM THE BLACK LAGOON,” “THE FLY,” or even “FORBIDDEN PLANET.” It was the film version of a 1953 teleplay that aired on an episode of “The Philco Television Playhouse,” an anthology series that aired from 1948-1955, and at least one of the actors from the TV version reprised the role for the film. That sort of thing happened often in those days. It’s a drama, but is mostly optimistic with moments of comedy, though not a comedy like either of the other films I reviewed above.

Like many movies of any era, it’s partly a snapshot in time — specifically, the mid 1950s. It’s filmed in black-and-white, which was common for many films and TV series even into the early to mid 1960s. Televisions had been around since the 1930s and 40s, but at that time were expensive and often seen as toys for rich people, with sporadic programming. By the 1950s, their prices had gone down (and the economic fortunes of many had gone up thanks to “New Deal” stuff from the 1930s like unionization, social safety programs, and so on), so more “average” working people had them. For a fun glimpse at that kind of thing, watch The Three Stooges shorts. In the 1930s and 40s, only the stuffy rich people whose mansions the Stooges demolish have televisions. By their last shorts in the 1950s, the Stooges themselves (during the era of Shemp and Joe Besser) started having TV’s in their apartments. Ed Norton, blue collar city worker from “The Honeymooners,” had a television set. It was a modern luxury. Other snapshots are the prices of things (i.e. cuts of meat being under 75 cents a pound), telephone booths and so on. These become subplots and details in the narrative, but they’re just moments in time. It’s similar to how in “The 40-Year-Old Virgin,” released in 2005, features a diatribe where the male lead goes on about how DVD will replace VHS very soon (or that another character has an entire porn collection in VHS in a box).

I digress; like I often joke, it was my minor in college. The titular Marty is Marty Piletti, played in the film by Ernest Borgnine (a mostly comedic actor in a rare dramatic role). He’s 34 years old (or “almost 35” as he once laments) who lives with his old Italian mother (Teresa Piletti, played by Esther Miniciotti) in a large house in the Bronx, and works in a butcher shop (another of those things common in the 1950s which vanished a decade or two later). He comes from an extended family, including four siblings (three sisters), as well as various cousins. During his workday, he often listens to his customers. A recent family wedding is the talk of the neighborhood and at least two customers get on Marty about being unmarried at 34, saying he “should be ashamed of himself.” After work, Marty hangs out at a local bar/diner with his best friend Angie (Joe Mantell, reprising the role from the TV play, with his name possibly being short for “Angel” or “Angelo,” we never know) and another pal, Ralph (played by an uncredited Frank Sutton, easily recognizable for his later starring role in “Gomer Pyle, U.S.M.C.”). Ralph is always borrowing money from Marty, while he and Angie often spend idle hours drinking beer, reading the newspaper, and debating about what they want to do that night. It’s become routine for them to just watch “the Hit Parade” on television (possibly, “Your Hit Parade,” a show which went over hit songs on radio and TV from the 1930s until 1959). Marty is considering buying the butcher shop from his boss, who wants to retire and move out of state, for approximately $5,000 (“Though I think I can talk ‘im down to four.”). Marty is concerned with competing with larger supermarkets moving into the area (a then-novel concern for mom-and-pop businesses, which later proved true), as well as owing the bank for the loan.

Teresa has subplots of her own, which dovetail in with Marty’s. She is also concerned that he’s still single and unwed into his mid-30s and seems to have no desire to date more. Her nephew Tommy (Jerry Paris) and niece-in-law Virginia (Karen Steele) are newlyweds with an infant babe to care for, who are at their wit’s end living with Marty’s aunt, Catherine (Augusta Ciolli). After having a fight which involved either spilled milk or a thrown milk bottle (depending on which version you believe), Virginia and Catherine have become unmanageable together, and the newlyweds want Catherine to move in with Teresa and Marty. They reason that “they have that big house all to themselves and we need time to settle into marriage.” Feeling pity for Marty, Tommy even mentions a local dance parlor for singles, which was where he met Virginia.

When Marty goes home to have dinner and watch TV after a brief hangout with Angie, his mother nags him to not stay home and try the dance parlor (even awkwardly using some of the slang Tommy did, referring to the single women there as “tomatoes”). This leads to an argument where Marty’s facade crumbles and he admits that he’s miserable, but trying to date brings him more misery. He’s gone to the dance parlor “every Saturday of my life” and it always ends poorly. Since he is “a fat, ugly man,” the women treat him like “a bug.” Earlier in the evening, Marty had tried to call a woman he and Angie had a double date with a month prior, and had been rejected (and barely remembered). By this point, Angie is already looking like a wanna-be lounge lizard who relies on Marty to, at best, take “the ugly/fat one” anytime they try to go out looking for women (who usually have a friend). Frustrated with his situation, and snapping at his mother, he relents and agrees to go to the ballroom with Angie, despite thinking it is a waste of time regardless of which suit he wears.

The place, the Stardust Ballroom, is a more conservative type of nightclub where people dance to live music (or sit with some drinks). There are designated sections where single people (who are “going stag”) stand. This is where Angie and Marty live, and while Angie eventually works up some courage to ask a woman to dance, her friend has no interest in Marty, and he’s dejected. In the meantime, another couple are on a double date, and one of the women is a schoolteacher named Clara (played by Betsy Blair, in one of her biggest roles since her then-husband, Gene Kelly, had been blacklisted due to the McCarthy era). Clara’s blind date is a creep who is disinterested in someone as “plain” as her and immediately looks for any opening to ditch her. He finds Marty in the “waiting area” and asks him to take Clara home for five dollars (over $57 in today’s money), which disgusts Marty since it’s impolite (if not cruel) to ditch a woman in the middle of a date. The guy finds someone willing to take the offer, and Marty follows them. It turns out the second guy finds Clara too much of “a dog” to even take home, but STILL wants to keep the five dollar bribe. It’s open to interpretation whether Marty really followed them out of concern or boredom, or possibly an opportunity (though since Marty is presented as a nice, sympathetic character, it’s easy to interpret his motives kindly). At any rate, Clara has retreated to the roof in devastation, and Marty awkwardly asks her to dance. She breaks down in sobs on his chest, and he’s so unused to holding someone that he barely tries to hug her.

Now, no one ever says the “v-word” anywhere in the film. They couldn’t; it was 1955. When we meet Clara’s elderly parents later in the film, they’re not even allowed to be shown sleeping in the same bed (much like the Ricardos in “I Love Lucy”). But if you read between the lines, and consider the time, it is heavily implied that Marty is a virgin. Sex outside of marriage did happen, with tremendous social pressure for the couple to marry if the woman was impregnated (at a time with little to no birth control). The term, “and the baby came early,” was the acceptable way to explain how a newlywed couple saw a child arrive in under nine months. But, it was socially frowned upon for folks to “hook up” outside of marriage or even kiss without the pretenses of a date or dances like at the Stardust Ballroom. The fact that some of Marty’s friends read “girlie magazines” or later have extended raving sessions about Mickey Spillane novels (yes, of Mike Hammer fame) is seen as deviance since they’re all in their 30s. Later on, Aunt Catherine will feel like (and be treated like) a withered old maid because she is widowed at 56 years old. Yes, a woman who isn’t even pushing sixty is treated as if she’s 105, which was typical of the time. And this is the America that most Republicans and “incels” yearn for. At any rate, Marty’s virginity is heavily implied and his awkwardness with women due to inexperience is beyond apparent.

Fortunately for Marty, Clara is a kindred spirit. As a college educated schoolteacher, at a time when women went to college at far lower rates than men, she’s already considered “too smart” for many men. Even Marty’s old world aunt considers a schoolteacher or any kind of professional woman to be “ten inches from the street,” as if a prostitute. While folks who call Clara “a dog” are clearly intended to be showcased as mean and short sighted, the film intentionally means for her to appear “plain,” especially compared to some of the women at the ballroom. And in fairness, Betsy Blair would never be confused with Betty Page; this was not a film where someone was “Hollywood homely,” i.e. a total supermodel in a sweater and glasses. Though some of their conversations are very awkward, each of them enjoy their time together. Clara mentioned going to the ballroom twice before, but hadn’t come after the last time because she spent “about an hour and a half” sitting alone. Though Marty is very clumsy about it, he mentions how he may be “a fat ugly man” and she may be “a dog,” but together they’re alright for each other. His attempts to flatter her include lines like, “You’re not such a dog,” or “There’s nothing wrong with your face.” Thank Mickey Spillane for low expectations! At one point Clara bluntly mentions that she’s 29 years old, and is both surprised and pleased that Marty doesn’t care.

Each of them, in their own way, is on cloud nine. Once they leave the ballroom, Marty is talking a mile a minute (and criticizing himself for doing so and smothering the conversation). We learn that he graduated high school in the 1930s and was drafted into World War II, which would have been typical. He was considered a crack shot in his unit, but only because he got lucky and one of his trench-mates was cross-eyed. After returning from the war, Marty “felt lost” and lacked direction, and only became a butcher out of need of a job better than what he had before the war. Marty was very conscious about the blue collar work of a butcher and how it wasn’t a profession that impressed anyone (especially compared to his cousin Tommy, who was an accountant). Yet he also wants to buy the shop and try to flex with the times, such as unite with other grocers to make his own supermarket. Once Marty shuts up, Clara has a chance to reveal that she, too, lives with her parents. Most nights she just watches TV shows with them, such as Ed Sullivan. She enjoys being a teacher, but has an opportunity to become an administrator in a private school which would mean higher status and money. However, the commute from New York City would be too drastic, which would mean leaving home. Each of them convinces the other to take the opportunity, and make tentative plans to go to a movie the following Sunday afternoon, after church.

Angie, meanwhile, has been rejected by the woman at the ballroom and finds to his horror that Marty is gone. Ralph spots the pair in a car, where he and some of “the boys” who love Mickey Spillane novels have found “some nurses” eager for a good time. Marty isn’t interested in that kind of superficial nonsense and uses chivalry as an excuse to get Ralph to drive off. Angie finally runs into Marty and Clara as they’re on their way home and also wants Marty to brake his date to continue “looking for action” with him. Marty, also, ditches him for Clara.

Marty briefly brings Clara to his house, while his mother is out visiting his aunt. At one point he tries to kiss her, and Clara turns away. Marty is devastated and almost breaks down in tears on the spot. Clara quickly insists that she didn’t mean to reject him; she simply was never in such a situation before and didn’t know how to handle it. She practically begs him for another date and pleads that she has become very fond of him, and then they do, briefly, kiss. Not long after, Teresa comes home, but with very different ideas in her head. Catherine, the 56-year-old spinster, is bitter about being kicked out of her home mostly by her son’s young wife, and warns Teresa that “these are the worst years for a mother” and that eventually Marty will marry someone and abandon her, too. Seeing Marty on a date is now a bad thing for Teresa, who isn’t very friendly. Marty takes the bus with Clara and walks her home, and is so giddy with joy that he all but skips home himself, and is all smiles the next morning.

The next morning lives up to the old saying, “Hell is other people.” Everyone else in Marty’s life is eager to take him down, mostly because his happiness goes against their convenience. His mother is eager to dismiss Clara as “no good” for any reason, such as the fact that she’s not Italian or because she thinks she’s 35 (“[29?] That’s only what she tells YOU.”). Tommy had been grateful enough to offer to pay Marty for taking Catherine in and offer advice for his business ideas, but the following day he is so angry about the situation that he dismisses Marty and all but yells at him for wanting to get married or gain additional responsibilities. The rest of Marty’s friends are even more dismissive of Clara, claiming she’s “45” and “a dog,” unless Marty got “some action” from her. It is very clear that Angie is envious and cannot handle being a good friend to Marty, reliant on him being “the ugly friend.” They drag Marty down to their misery and he fails to call Clara in the afternoon. Later that evening, she breaks down in sobs watching Ed Sullivan alone with her parents again (after gushing to them about Marty the evening prior).

The film comes to a climax at the diner/bar, where Marty realizes he’s giving up something good just to return to the same rut for the sake of other people. He eventually gives an epic speech to Angie:

“You don’t like her, my mother don’t like her, she’s a dog and I’m a fat, ugly man! Well, all I know is I had a good time last night! I’m gonna have a good time tonight! If we have enough good times together, I’m gonna get down on my knees and I’m gonna beg that girl to marry me! If we make a party on New Year’s, I got a date for that party. You don’t like her? That’s too bad!”

After getting even on Angie by saying he should be “ashamed of himself” for not being married at 33, Marty ends the film by calling Clara on a payphone. We never do learn what happens to them, because in 1955, not all films were expected to give neat and clean, cookie cutter endings. Whether they lived happily ever after, or Clara rejected Marty for his tardiness, or if they dated a bit but didn’t marry, is up to the viewer’s imagination. All we know is that Marty called her, and Clara answered the phone.

So, the fact that I found this to be a better movie than “THE 40-YEAR-OLD VIRGIN” is an understatement. That flick never won any Oscars, nor was nominated for any. It also was more “typical” of a Hollywood production, in that the leads were all conventionally attractive and there was a definitive “happily ever after” ending. In fairness, it was a comedy, and comedies do tend to end like that, whether they’re a Judd Apatow film, or “ERNEST SCARED STUPID.” All of the stuff with ballrooms, Mickey Spillane novels and “girlie magazines” was just the stuff of the time. If “MARTY” were redone today, his pals would just be “pick-up artists” or “incels” watching online porn, hentai, or posting on Reddit.

I found myself paying attention more to the subplot about Marty’s mother more than I intended. At times I go through similar diatribes with my own mother, who I have been a caretaker for (in some capacity) since the end of high school. My mother, an ex-Hippie who was still avidly dating until the 2010s in some capacity, has been lobbing me various flavors of “advice” since I hit puberty. As I have gotten older, she’s often gone on with being disappointed or saddened that I don’t date and haven’t settled down, or had sex. I am usually the one, in efforts to end the conversation, to point out that my lack of a social life has benefited her tremendously. Most self respecting women, especially around my age, would have no tolerance for a man my age whose life revolves around his mother. The circumstances don’t matter; in America, the socialized goal is to suck any wealth from parents and either leave them to fend for themselves, and/or dump them in nursing homes to die, as Catherine lectured. There are some exceptions (primarily, non-white communities), but that social norm stands. Maybe in some ways, America has only evolved so far from 1955. I thought this would change since my mother got cancer, but if anything, it has gotten worse. Now she’s worried more about my happiness once she dies, since her mortality is closer now than ever. I keep telling her not to worry herself with that, as that’s my problem.

One of my good friends recently lost her common law husband to various ailments, and she is going through a lot of grief. One of the many things that comes up is having more free time and opportunities to rest, and the “survivor’s guilt” that comes with that. But I try not to worry about some things until they happen, if only so I don’t go through the grief twice.

I can’t say my guy pals were as bad as Angie or Ralph were. I never got the impression that they saw me only as a lonely, virginal schlub and would have gotten ravenously jealous if I’d gotten laid. There could have been some drama if I ever tried to hook up with one of my friends’ exes, but that boat sailed a long time ago (if it ever came to port). I can’t ever say that my friends ever sabotaged my attempts at a love life, nor saw me just as someone they could use as a tool for their own pursuits. I was always on the side or in the background, watching from afar. That said, my friends never did me any favors in that regard, either. They never tried to “hook me up” with anyone when they were single, because they cared only about their own crotches. They eventually dismissed any advice or perspective I had about any of their relationships because I was “alone and miserable.” On one or two occasions a pal claimed he “almost” tried to help me pick up a woman or see if one was single to recommend, but that’s some Bart Simpson level of underachievement. “I can’t say I’ll try, but I’ll try to try,” indeed. Instead I am one of the last of our group who is unwed and still in the same neighborhood, and by and large they’ve abandoned me. At least a few of them mocked my virginity and considered my love life a lost cause online about a decade back.

I do like “MARTY”‘s message to look twice at some less than typical women and to keep expectations reasonable, and to see more than physical beauty. In the movie, Marty tells Clara a long story about his own “ugly” father who was nonetheless happy because he found someone who he could talk to for hours every day. I think if other lonely dudes could put aside the dated references, this might be a better movie to relate to than “40 YEAR OLD VIRGIN,” and it’s not even as long. It reminds me that women who aren’t gorgeous have had it just as rough, if not rougher, than most of the “fat ugly men” out there. And that as one myself, I should tend to my own expectations.

On the other hand, I related to Marty’s perspective that he was tired of being hurt by pursuing what he thought was a doomed, lost cause love life. He does find someone to bond with, and they relate to each other’s faults, but it IS just a movie. At this stage of my life, especially after spending so much time as a caretaker and passing thru nursing homes and hospitals, I see loneliness, lust, and/or romantic pangs as chronic conditions. They are not things that can be permanently removed, as I once desired about. They are as much a part of me as my eye color or my ears. But they can be managed to the point where I have as good a quality of life as I can achieve, and that is where I am now. This is why I am putting more effort into, say, fetish writing on Deviantart or getting back into running a tabletop RPG instead of going to my own online Stardust Ballroom (otherwise known as OkCupid, Bumble, or Plenty Of Fish). After almost 25 years of futility and pain, I am not deliberately seeking more of it. Sure, there is the concept of “no risk, no reward.” But in this one area (my love life), it has been “all risk, no reward.” I have never experienced mutual desire. I have never met someone I liked who wanted more of me. No woman I have ever met saw me as more than a friend, or their boyfriend’s friend. It is as remote an outcome to me as stumbling upon the Holy Grail or the Fountain of Youth. It is the dream of a child. Now I am a man, or as close to one as I can be, and part of being an adult is learning which is achievable. Some thing just are not meant to be for certain individuals, and that is okay. It is okay to mourn that loss at times, but not to allow it to consume me, just as I wouldn’t be consumed for never being an MMA fighter or being six feet tall.

I am not the first or last man like this, and as “MARTY” proves, even in 1955 this was something which enough people experienced that it become a TV play, a screenplay, and won Oscar recognition. People who fantasize about some mythical “simpler time” either never lived it, or only see it from a skewed viewpoint. I don’t imagine some “simpler time” when I would have fared better; I do not need nor want women coming to me out of a lack of financial or fulfilling options, and I am glad we are past the point where a 56 year old widow is treated like a ghostly hag (at least if she is Marisa Tomei in a Spider-Man movie). I am even glad a new generation of people are arising who don’t see masculinity in such a limited binary and men who like geeky things, are sensitive, where awkwardness can be adorable, and even have different body-types can still be considered appealing. I don’t lament that such things are mostly for folks in their 20s. I don’t see pain as a rite of passage. I am content to be of the last generation where boys didn’t cry and older virgins were worthless. And if I have to be the last to close the door on that era, I say so be it, and good riddance.

“Whatever women like in a man, I ain’t got,” Marty says at one point. That may as well be on my non-driver’s state ID, next to my blood type.

Happy New Year if I don’t post again before January, and thanks for reading as always. I know I’m not as engrossing as Mickey Spillane. But then again, who is?

As always, I remain…the Dateless-Man.

Dateless-Man vs. The Ideal Age (For A Lover)

Considering the recent stream of post instalments — where I freaked out over finally admitting my bondage fetish as well as presumed age related erectile dysfunction — this entry should be mild in comparison. In fact this is a topic I haven’t discussed much at all, but I decided would get a chapter based on my reaction to something which was totally unrelated. And that is what this blog is for; a safe place for me to express the thoughts I never (or hardly ever) share with folks in my life, at least without an online avatar or screenname. And this time it is a detail which I’ve occasionally mentioned in prior posts but usually dismissed or didn’t focus on. Yet it is kind of important, if only because literally every online dating website or app, going back 20 years, has had some kind of filter for it. That’s right: what age would I prefer a potential date or lover to be?

It all started innocently enough. I was engaging in one of the many interests I have online besides talking about my virginity, my dateless life, or my fetish. Without being specific or naming names, I was watching a video from one of many YouTube channels that I follow from a poster who’s been producing content that I’ve watched since college. Part of the oddity of this modern era where people watch “influencers” as much or more than some TV shows is that over time you get to know a little about their lives beyond the theme of the show or “stream” or so on. Like many content posters, this fellow has a live-in girlfriend or wife (I honestly don’t know which and it doesn’t matter) and she has her own stream. They usually stream their content live over Instagram or TikTok and then post edited versions for YouTube. Part of the fun is the contrast in their demeaners; he is more cynical and bitter about certain things and often trolls those in his chat (many of whom are also trolls), whereas she is more perky and upbeat. They occasionally guest star in each other’s streams fairly constantly.

As it happens, both of them had separate videos about the same thing, so it was fun comparing and contrasting their attitudes. I was watching the woman’s video when she casually mentioned that she was “in kindergarten” when she saw the film “THE NIGHTMARE BEFORE CHRISTMAS.” That would have been October, 1993. And out of anything, it was this which made me stop focusing on the video and think. Her boyfriend/fiance/husband, who between the two is the more “well known” online personality, is 43 years old. I know because he states his age all the time while usually shouting down fans half his age. I did some quick math and assumed that the age gap between them was eight years, approximately. And it immediately think about what kind of age gap I would prefer in someone I was dating, whether serious or short term, in a way which I haven’t since high school (or college).

Part of the reason for that is when I was young, I didn’t give it much mind. Most of the peers and women around me were my age or only a little older. As a freshman in high school around 13-14, I was rarely going to meet someone who wasn’t staff who was over 18, and every class would have peers my own age. There’s more variety in college (since someone can be any age and I went to some campuses where seniors in their 60s were taking courses to make up for lost time), but generally it is very easy to find folks one’s own age or not much older (or younger). It felt like the gulf between years only happened more after college, especially when at jobs or trying to look for lovers, however uselessly, in the “real world.”

In the adult world, the two initial cornerstones of that are legalities. Someone under 18 cannot give legal consent to anything, and someone under 21 cannot legally consume alcohol or enter a bar. But there is far more to it than that, at least for me. Once I aged out of my 20s, and then started heading down the end of my 30s, all of a sudden it became more of a big deal to me how old, or young, someone I wanted to date should be. Add into the mix tons of well meaning but conflicting advice I got from folks about that. Some would always suggest dating someone “older” or “more mature” than me who was more understanding, supposedly, of my faults. Others would go the other way and suggest someone “younger” who “had more time” or was “more adventurous” about dating some sad sack like me. Throw in social stereotypes related to age and my own half baked opinions about women and it gets confusing fast.

My default idea age for a woman I wanted to date was always simple: equal to my own. When I was 14, I wanted to date someone who was also 14; same as when I was 18 or 21 or 28 or 38. That just seems the easiest to shoot for; if we’re the same age, we experienced the same period of time and at least, in theory, are more likely to have compatible perspectives and/or be nearing a similar stage in life. I know these are all ideals, as everyone is on the same journey. Lord knows as a 41 year old virgin, my life’s journey is way different from most other 41 year old men, and women. Besides, age and maturity often have little connection to each other; just look at the average Jerry Springer or Maury Povich show, or Congress.

However, trying to date as an adult seeking only people one’s own age quickly becomes limiting if not darn near impossible. And everyone’s measurements for “too young” or “too old” vary. My mother, I was recently reminded, seems to have no problem with me dating someone so long as they were over 18 and I “couldn’t get in trouble.” I find the concept of dating a teenager as disgusting regardless of it being legal. Even a 21 year old is roughly half my age, and nothing screams “mid-life crisis” or “sleaze-ball” than dating someone “young enough to be your daughter.” Some women have recently gotten into that game (at least more publicly), and have been dubbed “cougars.” But the problems are numerous, the biggest being the sense of taking advantage of youthful naivety. A damn lot of toxic men seem to worship the idea of dating drastically younger women, especially in the “incel” or “lonely men” enclaves. Neil Strauss’ Bible of sleazy man behavior, 2005’s “THE GAME,” actively features stories of “Pick Up Artists” who were pushing 30 or over actively courting 17-19 year olds as ideal “targets” and deliberately taking advantage of them (especially after too many drinks). And I have read diatribes from men online who are around my age or older who speak of women as if any older than 25 are hags beneath their notice. Even more disturbing is the idea that many many men deliberately seek out drastically younger women not only to pray on their inexperience (especially in and around “organized religious circles” where they’re already used to domineering, authoritative men), but to eke out some measure of revenge against the “cheerleaders” or models who wouldn’t touch them in the past. I find that entire concept gross.

My mother, an “ex-Hippie,” was often a bad example when it came to questions about dating or relationships. Her background had a lot of tragedy and she actively dated older men for a great deal of her life. My biological father (the dead-beat who I often refer to as “the sperm-doner”) is 14 years her senior. When she had me she was 25 , and he was pushing 40. She often spoke of how “mature” she was and how she’s dated tons of immature men who were her age or not much older. But I still don’t share her more mercenary perspective.

The one and only major experience I had with dealing with drastically younger women was an experience I chronicled years ago. It was a speed dating event held at the 2015 New York Comic Con. It was intended for “21 year olds and up” but in truth nobody carded at the door. At the time I was 33 and a half years old and nearly all of the women I spoke to there were, at best, “a day over 21” as I termed it. The difference in perspective clashed immediately; I often spoke of things like my jobs or being a caretaker and a lot of them had some version of, “Golly, I don’t know, I just graduated.” Since this was a comic con, folks were often cosplaying or comparing geeky hobbies, and I realized I kept mentioning being a fan of shows that, at best, these women couldn’t remember because they were either still toddlers or weren’t born yet. I quickly felt like a vampire sitting up out of my coffin. The irony is if one of them came onto me, I might have been put off even more. And that was before I was 40. Now, if a 21 year old women was hitting on me, it would feel as if a pre-schooler was putting on makeup for the first time.

The criteria I usually go for in terms of an “age range,” if only because I have to have some criteria, is the old rule of thumb: “half your age, plus seven” (or the variant I learned, “half your age plus eight”). By that rule, and rounding up, I shouldn’t be dating anyone younger than 28 or 29 years of age. But even that feels kind of creepy for me. A 28 year old is a Zoomer; born in 1995 with few coherent memories before 1999. I literally have DVD’s older than that. If I casually mentioned, “I watched ‘X-Men: Evolution’ in college,” she might, at best, say, “Oh, I loved that show in first grade.” It might be sincere and free of judgement, but I would still feel like a dirty old man. It would be someone who literally did not live during a time before home Internet access. Atop of the heaps of anxieties and self-doubting feelings I already have about dating, I don’t think these reactions would do me any favors.

Now, I realize I am being stereotypical and dismissive. A woman who is 28-29 is not a child; in fact, many that age actually have children, which is one of many experiences I have not had. Some might say I am unintentionally being hard on myself, or seeking to make my dating life (or lack thereof) as challenging as possible because deep down I don’t believe I am worthy of love so I make it hard to try to date anyone. I’m chaste; I’m not naive. It might even be said that a difference of perspective might not be a bad thing, but a possible give-and-take balance. In theory, I might feel more at ease about being less experienced in the bedroom if I was more experienced in other areas. Rather than feel like I was eternally beneath her, it could feel like an exchange of perspectives. She might take the lead on perspective in the bedroom, but I could take the lead in perspective out of it, such as in certain fandoms or historical events or so on. A younger woman might even find that more fascinating than I can fathom. But I can’t shake the feeling of discomfort at being around someone that young and having any kind of romantic inkling. I’d feel like I was taking advantage of someone too young to know better (even though, I know, someone who was “pushing 30” is not the same as a teenager).

How about the age gap as in my YouTube personalities: eight years? That would mean, as of this writing, a woman who was 33 years old. Hardly a child, born in 1990 (with coherent memories by 1994). Heck, at that age women start feeling intense social pressure about “biological clocks” if they haven’t had kids or have heaps of magazines and makeup ads starting to act as if they’re ancient. I would certainly feel a little more at ease around someone who was in their 30s, even if I would still feel like a dinosaur if I ever said, “I remember staying up late some nights as a kid and watching Johnny Carson,” the best she could do is shrug as if I mentioned Abraham Lincoln. But where do I draw the line? Five years younger? Is a woman who is 36 years old a peer, but a mere 36 months earlier she’s a juvenile to me? What kind of sense is that? Especially for someone like me who frets about having less romantic experience than most sixteen year olds?

But it isn’t just an obsession with younger women that is a black mark on some men (egged on by the media and society); it is the social oblivion often hoisted on older women. How would I feel to date a woman who was, say, 48 or 58 or over sixty? The stark irony is that the few times I have experienced overt romantic flirting by the opposite sex, it was usually a drastically older woman who was not my type (either physically or intellectually). Due to aiding in the care of my grandmother (and my handicapped mother) since I was in my 20s, I’d been to no end of nursing homes and hospitals where dozens of old women over the years would candidly say I was “cute” or “handsome.” I worked part time for a few years handing out flyers for a woman who always seemed to look at me twice (and which usually earned me awkward glares from her husband). And I have chronicled the interactions one of my mother’s older friends had towards me where she’s arguably been making “hits” on me anytime we interact. I’ve often joked I could be “a nursing home gigilo.” The one time I went on a date with a “drastically” older woman, at the time, was in my third (and final) individual date in early 2008 which was a blind date where the woman I was with was 33 and I watched her face turn pale when I truthfully replied that I was 25. At the time I sensed I was losing her and I meekly replied, “In another month I’ll be 26.” It didn’t work, but I understood.

For one thing, I don’t believe I would be comfortable dating a woman too close in age to my actual mother (who turns 67 this year, God willing, since she has cancer). So because round numbers are easy to remember, my firm cut-off would be a 60 year old woman. I think most fair minded people are willing to date someone 5-10 years older and that feels doable; a 51 year old woman at the long end of it. One of my best platonic friends just turned that age and we get along fine.

The dynamic, at least theoretically, would be reversed. Now I would be the one who she might see as some kind of inexperienced kid. Women who are close to my age or older, typically, do not have time or patience for “games” or “baggage” and if women are single in that cohort, it is because most of the single men they encounter are “projects” for one reason or another. And BOY, am I a project; I may as well come with a tub of Elmer’s Glue and some paint. On the positive, the “baggage” I have is less typical; I don’t have any kids, or ex-wives, or alimony, or felony convictions, or bad credit. On the other hand, most men by my age have far more relationship experience. An older woman might, fairly, assume I would gain more out of it than her and all she was doing was “training me” for someone else (likely younger). That isn’t to say older women don’t like to get frisky or have more casual flings within reason, but typically, the risk of dating a younger man is the added insult of being rejected for a younger woman. For perfectly valid reasons, my life does revolve around my mother, which most older women also have no tolerance for. Yes, I am a caretaker; no, that does not matter in New York. Most men here would find a way to date more while whoever they’re tending to was on a ventilator.

I can imagine, especially at this stage in my life, I could get frustrated dating someone who more life experience in everything because I would feel the need to defer to her judgment more often. The woman would automatically have more relationship and sexual experience; now she would have life experience too. She would get to be the one name dropping things like seeing Cary Grant movies in theaters and me shrugging and saying, “I rented that from Blockbuster once.” She would be the one getting thru the feeling of dating some punk kid, even if I am over forty.

The social norms and dynamics are different at either ends of the extreme. If I date a drastically younger woman, especially in my circumstances, I am a “dirty old man” or “going thru a midlife crisis” or “robbing the cradle.” I would be adding to the generations of men who have dated considerably younger women as an attempt to retain the youth of their pasts, and a dot of ink to an ugly portrait. But if I date an older woman, now I am part of HER “midlife crisis.” Now I get to be a “boy-toy” to a “strong, confident woman who knows what she wants.” Sure, that is more infantilizing, but I’d rather be a boy-toy than a dirty old man (though I am not attractive enough to be a boy-toy, even for a woman who may not have perfect vision anymore).

Physical expectations also factor into age ranges. A younger woman may be used to, and expect, more energy and a toner body. Whereas an older woman might be forgiving of needing “helper pills” or having “a dad bod,” or a few dads’ bods. And that comes part in parcel with my own expectations being reasonable. My mantra has always been, “I don’t expect a supermodel until I myself am one.” Things droop, stretch marks happen, years of makeup can take a toll, no makeup is actually an option, grey hair is not the sign of the apocalypse, and so on. A younger woman might also see me as a stepping stone, whereas an older woman might just be thrilled to find a guy over 35 who at least appeared normal in public.

Now that I type it out, the “ideal” range would be 5 years under/over; a woman aged 36-46. My concern is life has never been “ideal” for me; instead I am usually either denies what I want or if I get close, it requires some kind of compromise. Much like only getting obvious desire from drastically older women I am not into, but no one else. And then I wonder what kind of allowances I feel I can make, considering my drastic gap in experience. Am I in any position to reject the 25 year old who shows interest because I am “so imaginative and mature” (literally any man over 25 is, baby), or the 62 year old who says, “Eh, you’ll do?” assuming both would be my type? Would I be able to enjoy a relationship with either amid subconscious thoughts of, “she’ll dump you the minute she is wise to your baloney” or “she’s just trying to recapture wasted youth and chose poorly” in the back of my head? I don’t know.

It is impolite to ask someone’s age, but it always comes out eventually. It turns out I had more thought about it than I’d imagined,. and all from some random video online. I just would prefer if I managed to date someone, or even multiple someones, before “half my age plus seven” is 50. Some people say, “age is just a number.” I say, “So are the digits on Big Ben, and they can still crush you if you’re directly beneath them in a crisis.”

Thanks for reading.

As always, I remain…the Dateless-Man.

Dateless-Man vs. ED (or is it Age)!?

For clarity, the “ED” means exactly what many commercials state it as — erectile dysfunction. As a warning, this entry will get specific and graphic as I talk about something many men drone on about but which I have rarely talked about: my penis. Or as Paul Rudd calls it in one iconic scene in 2012’s “WANDERLUST,” “mah dee-yuck!” Since it does relate to the topic of the blog, especially one which I have begun to worry about the last few weeks, and especially since I’ve become more cavalier about one deep dark secret (my fetish for softcore bondage), I figure if there’s one place I shouldn’t be shy on, it is my own blog. Especially after nine years. I mean what else do I have going on?

Whether I not I masturbate a lot, a little or “just right” is usually only something someone else, or Goldilocks, could determine. When I was a teenager, I somehow “beat it, just beat it” something like 2-3 times a day. I honestly don’t know how I found the time; not having a job and being free from school around 3:00 p.m. certainly helped. Adolescent hormones definitely helped. I was still maintaining that up through college, but in my mid to late 20s it went down to maybe 1-2 times a day, on most days. Often when I had a cold or the flu, or if it was unbearably hot, I took a break. Even into my mid-30s, I maintained that “once a day” average, at least from memory. I didn’t keep a pie chart going.

Once I got to my late 30s, though, I did slow it down a bit to about “once a day every other day” or thereabouts (again, approximately). Part of it was the fatigue of full time work and other stresses (such as having a handicapped mother to tend to, or fending off eviction proceedings). There were times I would deliberately put it off a few days so that when I did “self-pleasure” it felt less routine and more satisfying, and that worked for a while. But within the last couple of years — keeping in mind that I am now 41-and-a-half — this has declined further. It isn’t simply a lack of desire or fatigue or distraction. It takes a longer period of time for me to, ahem, “stroke until firm” and then the erection does not last as long as it used to, nor as easily. Again, I am not timing everything like a pitching coach, but I know it is a decline and more of an effort than it ever used to be.

Now, I know all about how hormones, especially testosterone, decline in men as they age. I can’t help but know. I still watch broadcast television and commercials for “man-boosting pills” shilled by ex-professional athletes are as common as commercials for pills for psychiatric disorders or Pop Tarts. A man’s physical prime, even if he keeps in excellent shape (which I haven’t) will dip once he reaches his 40s. Heck, considering the average life expectancy for men in America is under 80, I technically hit middle age around 37. And even without these commercials, virtually every corner “bodega” that I know of will sell some “horney goat weed” style pills somewhere near the counter (along with condoms, cigarettes, and chewing tobacco). Some of those even have box art that has “kept with the times,” such as one place where their boxes have “fan-art” of Ryu and Chun-Li from Street Fighter II, um, entering the “final round.”

Masturbation has played a key role in my sexual life. That role is the only method I have ever been able to gratify myself with. There are some folks who are “dateless” like me who don’t masturbate for various reasons; often religious or superstitious. I went to high school in the 1990s and there were still some kids who genuinely thought it caused extra hair to grow on the palms. I distinctly recall attending a sex-ed class in high school where someone brought that up and I replied, “Pfft, if that were true I’d have a whole forest growing out of my hands,” or words to that effect (which got a laugh). Suffice it to say, I have masturbated often almost as soon as I “discovered” it with puberty. It is an essential part of my routine, which I probably taken taken for granted. Now that it is becoming less “reliable” than I am used to has shaken me a bit. At least, it has concerned me enough to write about.

I have not gone to a doctor about this; heck, I haven’t gone to a doctor about my ingrown toenails. It could be due to being overweight, although losing weight when over 40 is itself a problem. It is also possible it could be psychological; my mother has cancer, my job is restructuring again and I see little opportunity to date steadily so long as my mother has cancer. Yet I still do the fetish writing and still have the “urges;” it just isn’t as easily to physically express it anymore.

Much like buying a “laser hair helmet” in 2021 did, it’s made me think more about aging and lost opportunities. A common dilemma for many “older male virgins” like myself, especially as they reach the ages of 25-30 when there seems to be less “justification” for being untouched, is the sense that they can reach a point where it is “too late,” where they either will never have sex for whatever reason, or that whatever sex they may have (or “is left”) will be inferior to the sex they “could have had” when younger (and often knew their peers and pals had). The one online dating guru I still read, Harris O’Malley/Doctor Nerdlove, as well as the folks who comment on his message boards often call bupkiss on this. Dating, they say, doesn’t end just because one reaches an older age. In response to a letter writer just this morning, Harris replied:

“People can and do have astounding adventures and exciting, heart-pounding love affairs at 30, 40, 50… s***, even into their 70s and beyond.”

Folks like me and others who fret about getting too old or “missing out” on life because I/we didn’t get laid by 18 like most folks do are often told we’re being maladaptive or sexist or irrational or so on. And to be fair, there are some individuals who whine about this because they do only envision “viable women” as those who are 25 or younger (which is an opinion that Hollywood has shared until very very recently with only a few examples). Well, when age related hormonal decline and/or erectile dysfunction happen, it can be very hard to just dismiss such claims as mere paranoia or delusions. I literally cannot get or keep an erection anymore as easily as I did at 18, or 25, or even 35. That is one area of my life I am never getting back. I will never be able to enjoy spontaneous sex with anyone, ever. I will always have to rely on taking some “little blue pill,” at the very least, some period before I expect an “encounter” to happen.

I know “penis in vagina” sex is not the be all and end all to sex. Oral sex is incredibly important. Statistically, less than a third or women can reach orgasm with “penis in vagina” (or PIV) intercourse alone. That is one of the reasons why “foreplay,” which seemingly any kind of sex or cuddling without penises is sometimes lumped into (usually by straight men), is so important. I get that my hands and mouth, and tongue, can never go flat. I don’t deny that. I envision sex as more than just a few thrusts, but an extended affair where I stroke and caress her body and kiss her a lot, among other stuff. I have always imagined intercourse as a long term, sensuous collaboration between two people.

But I also know few women respect a man who cannot “get it up,” even if they need oral sex to be gratified sexually. I have overheard them on trains, in bars, in cafeterias, and occasionally read their statements online. Even some of the friends I have who are women who have complained about some ex of theirs, if he was impotent, it was usually among the top five things they bring up (usually somewhere after immaturity and abuse, but above stuff like “never did the dishes”). I have long feared being unable to satisfy a woman sexually and dreaded the idea of my first sexual experience possibly being the most humiliating moment of my life. And it can be for many people; it’s just easier to get past that when those “first time jitters” happen as a teenager or in your 20s, not when you’re old enough to have remembered Betamax tapes or when Johnny Carson retired. And it would be a cruel joke if I waited all these decades to have sex, and then when I can’t have it, I cannot really experience it.

Is it entitlement to want to be satisfied in a sexual encounter myself? To not just focus entirely on pleasing her…but to want to be pleased myself? At least once? Is that evil or wrong? Does it make me a sexist pig?

Now to be fair, erectile dysfunction can come at any age. I know some of my friends are envious of me because I am 41 and still have a full head of hair (as many of them started balding in their late 20s or early 30s). My usual retort when they brought that up was, “Well, you got laid. I’m still worse off.” So I am aware that it is all relative. And this kind of problem, technically, runs in the family. My mother spent some time visiting with my maternal grandfather (who I met a couple of times) before he died in his 80s at his house in another state. She claimed he had “Viagra and horney goat pills” in dozens of “hiding spots” throughout the house so that one was always in reach whenever “things were happening.” My grandfather was widowed by then, but had not given up dating. But is that my future? Having to plan everything in advance and making sure a pill was always in reach, like Pac-Man?

Besides, that brings on the one problem with taking a pill for anything physical. If I take one, and I actually have sex with a woman, how will I know if she was satisfied by me, or just a pill? At that point I may as well hold a vibrator for her and pack in the batteries myself. It’s like an athlete who takes steroids and then hits a home run or runs into the end-zone; is it him or “the stuff?” Many folks don’t care, but I do. What a choice; having to choose between not being able to keep it up beyond a few pumps, or relying on pumping myself full of chemicals like Bane from Batman. Usually by this stage in life, folk are coupled up so these things don’t matter. If you’ve been married a few years with a kid, and a slowdown in sex happens, it is usually just part of “the normal process.” At least until someone cheats (and in a country where half of marriages end in divorce, that’s not rare).

I know there are older women out there who may be rolling their eyes if they read this. Women have been haunted by “a biological clock” pushed on them by society since forever. An entertainment and cosmetic industry that almost brainwashes everyone into thinking a woman past 30 is nothing more than a grandmother. That Marisa Tomei playing a role where she’s called “aunt hottie” in her 50s is freaking rare and novel (see also: Helen Mirren). And most off all, that menopause (pre, post, and mid) is a very real thing and an “inability to keep wood” is nothing compared to the angst of not being able to physically bare kids and the sort of social pressure, guilt, angst, and so on that women wade in once they reach my age or a little older. There’s no doubt that many men my age or older, especially ones still siring kids in their 70s or 80s (like Robert Di Niro) likely take the pills and either keep quiet about it or don’t care. I’ll concede this could all be me just fretting too much over something small or easily fixable.

But the very concept of needing to worry about this one area of my life that I never had to before is a sign that time isn’t immobile. That all of the people who stress that “it is never too late” are wrong. I may need a pill to get through my first sexual encounter, at least if I want to last very long. That is not something that was true even six years ago. I can never again plan a date or anything like it without having a utility belt full of pills at the ready and some excuse to “stall for time” until it kicks in. Something has been lost, and I will never get it back. And no matter what a woman, any woman, ever says to me, if I needed a pill to sleep with her, then it wasn’t me. It was just a bottle.

I used to write a lot about “Zen,” about reaching a state where I didn’t care so much about sex, or the fact that I never got any (and likely never will, at least not without paying for it), anymore. I used to wish for it. Well, maybe I should have been careful for what I wish for. I may never experience pure, passionate, spontaneous, fulfilling sex even for one moment in my entire life. And all because I failed to work harder at dating or capitalize on my limited opportunities before 2020 (when Covid-19 sucked a lot of life out of the dating world).

There are worse problems in life. Maybe this is the final step towards truly doing what I wanted to do for a long time; just let it go. Realize on a spiritual level that I will never have sex or ever have a satisfying love life, and work on enjoying the rest of my life. I was on that path before, and I’ll admit, I didn’t want to walk it as a eunuch. But I guess there had to be some price for not being bald at almost 42. Compared to a lot of people across the world, who don’t have clean water or food, or live in warzones, my problems are trivial. But this is where my head was at this week, so here it is.

Hopefully I won’t have to talk about penises ever again.

Thanks for reading.

As always, I remain…the Dateless-Man.

DATELESS-MAN vs. Discussing The Fetish (At Long Last)

This certainly has been an…interesting time on the blog, as well as the message board that I regularly post at, the NerdLounge.

Last month, after 9 years of blogging and a lifetime of bottling it deep within myself and never discussing it beyond hushed whispers or allusions, I decided to finally speak (or type) frankly about a secret fetish I’ve had since as long as I can remember. I covered it in depth in that posting, but as a brief reminder, my fetish is in softcore (or for some, “moderate”) bondage, on the dominant side. That is, I prefer to see a woman tied up rather than be bound myself. It is a fetish which seemed to arise (pun unintended) as well as my own personal awareness of sexuality and gonads did, and has been a part of me that I have hid from the world for my entire life. I’ve “only” been hiding my virginity from others for, at worst, 20-23 years. I’ve never told a soul about the fetish since before I was ten.

It took me months of working up the nerve to type what I did in August. I felt, and still do, that if I’d waited until I was 100% “ready,” that it would be the twelfth of never (which is usually around when I say I’ll make a new OkCupid or Bumble account). It was the last major, glaring part of my theoretical love life and sexual being which I had yet to blog about in detail. It felt wrong to discuss a sense of “Zen” or not needing the blog anymore without crossing this last desert. I did not know what the reaction would be, and since I am a cynic, I assumed the worst.

I am pleased to say that the response has been positive. The commenters of the last post have been supportive (even if I disagreed with one on other, unrelated matters). Yet the biggest surprise was when one of the posters from NerdLounge actually opened a topic about it, referencing it without linking it and beginning a conversation. My first reaction was my heart sinking a little; I had intended to ease myself into discussing this more openly on a less private venue over a few months. Now, I had to deal with it and decide whether to engage and interact or not within a couple of days. I did not feel threatened or “called out” but it did feel awkward and I meditated on it a bit before finally replying.

Part of this was, admittedly, my own obtrusiveness. I have a link to this blog in my profile on that forum; anyone can click on it when they see my posts there. Conversely, I’ve linked the forum here in entries a few times. Yet because I never had anyone “cross over,” or at least not admit to ever doing so, it felt like more of a divide than really existed. I can easily hog forums with my endless postings and walls of text, so this blog exists in part so I do not that do that. The other reason is it is more of a “safe space,” like an interactive journal or diary. A message board is more public; like a small Internet town square or corner. It is not my own personal online space, and I am more likely to be challenged there. In theory, someone could have come onto this blog and commented, “You pervert!,” but that has thankfully not happened.

Ultimately, though, being “forced” to discuss this more in depth on the forum has been a good thing. I do not regret not blogging about this sooner; I was simply not ready. After two years plus on DeviantArt, discussing my fetish under another alias with fans of my kinky stories or in text roleplay brainstorm sessions, though, it felt disingenuous and, frankly, silly, to not discuss this here. Under my, well, MAIN alias. I am not ready to put my real name to this account, nor my DeviantArt one. Nor am I ready to make any public statements about being a kinky virgin on Facebook. I don’t know if I ever will, nor do I feel it is necessary. People are allowed secrets, so long as they don’t harm anyone. And I am pleased to say that whether here or the forum, everyone I have interacted with has been very positive and open about this.

It is still a little surprising to me, frankly. While fascination with “light” bondage has been around forever (far longer even than one of the infamous pin up queens of the 1950s, Betty Page), I am old enough to remember when these sorts of desires or feelings were limited to, at best, a section behind the curtain of a dive peep show or mom-and-pop video store (just a few yards from the latest LAND BEFORE TIME video). The very term “kinkshame,” which is used as an insult to those who belittle the fetishes of others, did not begin to emerge until 2008 when it bubbled forth from old LiveJournals (which is, admittedly, a little earlier than I’d thought). Still, in 2008 I was 26, out of college and working my first “real” professional job (with a suit and everything). I was just trying to come to grips with the fact that I’d gone through college and no end of bar crawls and parties with my chums without so much as a kiss on the lips from a woman. Just as those in my age group (late 30s and very early 40s) may be the last generation to remember what the world was like before home internet, I may also be the last which lived through a near universal shame of any fetishes beyond missionary sex (which is not a fetish unless you’re an evangelical).

The forum has allowed me to discuss some of my thoughts and concerns about the fetish in closer to real time. One of my biggest ones beyond the bondage aspect (i.e. can someone who sees himself as a shy, overall good person still enjoy the sights of or writing about women in bondage without being a creep or a hypocrite) was whether or not I was beginning to fetishize lesbians. The bondage fetish, like many fetishes I suppose, has overlap. An easy example is feet, since foot fetishes are among the most well known (thanks in part to director Quentin Tarantino, who has admitted to having it many times). In porn related to bondage as well as the art of many fellow fetishists, foot focus is hardly rare. I am not overly into that, though, so that aspect of it doesn’t “hook” me as much. But another overlap I was concerned about was fetishizing lesbians.

Fetishizing a part of a person’s body or an activity, or even clothing, is one thing. But fetishizing an entire group of people can get creepy or borderline prejudiced very quickly. There are endless articles and videos about the historical fetishizing of Native women, or Asian women, or even black women as somehow more “exotic” or “tempting” or “impure” in not just porn, but mainstream media and fiction as well. The same can be said of lesbians; one of the most cliched taglines of any pornography (soft or hard) is “girl on girl.” And while my stories have a diverse number of heroines, I didn’t feel I was fetishizing anyone for their skin color or ethnic background.

In my fetish stories, though, most of the time the person binding the heroine character is another woman. Not all, mind you, but a clear majority. As I have written over three dozen stories over two years and tapped into Id desires in some regards, I sometimes take a step back and realize that I “liked” certain details more than I was aware of. I appear to have not only a preference for women being the ones who are both the “dominant” and the “submissive,” but my stories also routinely feature more than one heroine tied up. In the community it is called “multi-damsel” and my stories are rife with it. And while I do not go into things as “hardcore” as some writers or artists, the characters in the course of trying to escape may “rub up” against each other or even touch lips from behind gags (which in the community is called “gag-kissing”). It started as me placating my readership a little (since as one of them, I know what “they” want), until it became about placating my inner kink-editor. Sometimes this was functional, such as learning that I cannot write more than three heroines in the same bondage scene without the character individuality blurring too much and then I lose interest. But then as I stood back and saw the vast majority of my stories featuring multiple women being tied up mostly by other women and then alluding to other stuff (never any kind of full on sex, since I do not write intercourse, but sort of like a “LADY AND THE TRAMP” style “accidental” kiss) I worried I was fetishizing lesbians.

This bothered me because I have friends who are LGBTQ+ and have since high school, including some lesbians (or women who identified as bi). And a part of me is still concerned about it, even though writers of mainstream comic books, films, and TV shows are more cavalier with having woman characters flirt with each other or reveal being curious than in decades past due to rising levels of tolerance (in some places). But in speaking about it, other people can walk me off the ledge a bit and remind me that it isn’t wrong unless I literally only see lesbians through the prism of my fetish and not as people, which I don’t. I do not see women in general only through the prism of my fetish. I don’t envision the women I meet or know in such positions. I don’t try to steer every conversation to some kinky, self gratifying place. I will admit a chunk of that is cowardice; I am far too afraid of judgement to do so. But most of it is that I know it was wrong, and improper, and that I fundamentally do not see people only in the prism of what I think they can do for me. I do not have a problem about the fact that woman are people, and that people besides ME are people who have their own thoughts, feelings, and identities.

In other words, I am not a sociopath.

I also know what it is like to be fetishized by someone you are not into who brings it up in awkward, unwanted ways. I have blogged about it before, but my mother has/had (they haven’t spoken in years) an older friend from her old job who told me in no uncertain terms she has a fetish for “younger white men.” This woman, beyond her age, is not my type physically and most importantly, has an abrasive personality where she would make unwanted passes at me even when I was taking a phone message or trying to enjoy a holiday dinner (atop us having nothing in common and no shared interests). I didn’t need to experience being fetishized in an unwanted way to not want to do it to anyone else, but it adds fuel to that fire.

Some of those who have been encouraging to me have mentioned bringing up the fetish if I am ever in a long term relationship as something I would be willing to try, so long as “she” was. At this moment, though, I cannot ever envision myself having that kind of conversation with another person in real life (or “meatspace”), much less a lover or even someone I was crushing on. It is for that reason why I am not considering some apps or sites intended for kinky people, like FetLife, for dating pursuits. The kink is not the end all and be all of sex to me, and even if it were, it would only add pressure to what I envision will be a grueling, embarrassing, underwhelming, and awkward first sexual experience for me. I genuinely do not know how I will react to “heavy petting” in general. I have never undressed in front of another person and I literally have routine nightmares during the summer of being naked in public. I could easily imagine myself being so wound up and nervous about a first encounter that the odds of ME being the one who says, “Oh, I am just not feeling it tonight, it isn’t you it is me,” if things ever got hot and heavy for the first time are at least 25%. It would not be any easier, to say the least, if the woman I was with wanted to be tied to a headboard first. Especially since I have never tied a real knot beyond shoelaces in real life either.

At this stage in my life, I do not think it is wrong to keep certain facts about myself private with a relative stranger, which a woman I dating for, say, less than a few months or a year is. I am under no obligation to reveal that I am a 41-plus year old virgin (much as she is under no obligation to tell me how many lovers she has had, because I don’t care one bit and it is none of my business). Some folks advocate honesty, and if I have learned anything from fetish text roleplays, it is that discussing what is expected and desired is key in any kind of remotely sexual activity before it happens. The idea that two strangers just meet and mash bodies together with zero mention of what one or both want or like out of it, or the opposite, either is overstated or does not happen outside of (bad) fiction. Humans are not animals who run on instinct; spend a day with people and you’ll see few have any instincts at all. Sex, ideally, is a collaboration; two people trying to make an enjoyable experience for each other, with each other. At least that is my outside interpretation of it, as someone who has never had it (and at this rate, may never have it). But collaborators don’t have to share every detail or secret of themselves.

Fantasies are not wrong to have, at least on an intellectual level, so long as they do not harm others or get in the way of reality. Much as I do not feel obligated (anymore) to reveal my virginity to a potential lover before we have sex, I feel any fantasies are less important. They can be kept from someone without any real harm. And, especially, a fetish like wanting to bind another person is the sort of thing that requires a darn lot of trust, at best. A woman rarely needs a reminder that she can be at the mercy of a man in many situations, but especially in the bedroom. The most likely place a woman is to be hurt or killed is in her own home or someplace she is familiar with, and the perp is also likely to be a male friend/spouse/lover. That said, even if I knew a woman a long time and we were married, I don’t see revealing every fantasy as mandatory. Even married couples should have some privacy.

Would I admit my fetish if a woman revealed she had it independent of me bringing it up? No. I sincerely doubt most woman who are into being in a submissive position (i.e. wanting to be tied up) bring it up that often, either. If they did, they’d have every creep and serial rapist within a mile radius on them. Heck, there are even very rare stories (which are fodder for crime shows) of some husband using a kinky sex-game as an opportunity to kill his spouse after years of marriage. So I sincerely doubt I would ever encounter someone who was “into” it independent of me, nor would I ever expect a woman I was engaged to or married to to cater to my every fantasy and whim. Otherwise, I’d only date women who were comic book editors who could land me gigs out of nepotism, since that’s ultimately a bigger fantasy.

It does feel good and freeing to at least be more open with the existence of my fetish in some non-kink spaces. However, one fact about me remains. I remain too freaky for “normal” people, yet too normal for the “freaks.” The average woman is unlikely to be understanding about my secrets. Yet the average “kinky” woman is most likely to see me as too “vanilla” or passive.

Unlike being a virgin (which is, theoretically, temporary), though, keeping my fetish a secret from others forever is something I can do, so long as I can express it in a healthy way elsewhere. While I have no intention to ever reveal my virginity under any circumstances to any woman, I imagine that despite my best attempts, she will quickly realize I have little experience. Even beyond the physical aspect of it; I will be a nervous wreck and I don’t know how I may react afterward. My game plan about that now is to be a politician about it; never reveal the virginity outright and if asked about any fumbling or why I act like I have never touched a ____ before, to stick with my press release of, “I haven’t dated in a long time.” If she thinks I am a lousy lay and dumps me immediately, well, that just means I am one of many lame lovers out there (especially over 40). I don’t have to add the extra humiliation of revealing it was my first experience to boot. And if it ends in a way which is satisfying enough for her? That is a win for both of us. But, there is no way in the course of regular sex that a fetish can “slip out” or become obvious unless I go out of my way about it, which I would not. I would be too focused on not passing out from anxiety and trying to give off the impression that I was as close to “normal” as possible.

Conversely, even if I did seek out some link minded fetishist woman via an appropriate forum, I doubt any would want anything more to do with me than women who prefer “vanilla” stuff. Women who are on FetLife or whatever other kink-venues there are, especially in my age range (30s-40s) know what they want and have appropriate expectations. Someone who sees being a submissive as a lifestyle choice already has an idea of what kind of dominant they are compatible with. I doubt any have the time or desire to be “Baby’s First Tie-Up Game” with a dude who hasn’t even mastered tongue kissing. One the main draws of dating exclusively in kink circles is AVOIDING inexperienced people. And a woman who might actually be into “deflowering a virgin” as a a fetish in itself (which does exist for some women, rare though it is) will not like be a submissive. She’d be the one most likely to want to handcuff someone, and that isn’t my bag. A woman looking for lovers who will tie her up is not looking to have to guide them through jitters or inexperience.

And when I mention this stuff, some people believe my estimations of “women” are more hostile than reality, but I disagree. Firstly, because of the region; I live in New York and everyone, in general, is well known for being more assertive, aggressive, abrasive, and impatient. It is a dog eat dog state, where you swim or die. The only New Yorkers with a scintilla of compassion for someone they haven’t known forever are salespeople trying to cheat you. This does not change in dating, where no one has patience for anyone who can’t run with the pack, in relative terms. This isn’t someplace like Utah where most single women over 40 are part of the church choir or the knitting committee. This is New York where we step over flaming homeless people to get to work or lunch without batting an eye. And secondly, because I am not desirable enough that any reasonable woman, even one who was dating me, would make any allowances for. I am not tall, nor handsome, nor charming. I am not intelligent in a useful way (i.e. I do not build anything, design anything, or manage anyone). I can be funny, but that is a very common social ability in New York. I expect that if a woman is dating me, it is because I am filling a niche she cannot find anywhere else and that over time she may get used to me, like an old shoe. I am not the type of man others feel romantic passion for, nor would accept being less than my best. I am the living embodiment of “settling,” fetish or not. I at least know that, so I can plan accordingly.

This entry is getting long and meandering, so I will stop here. I will continue to openly discuss my fetish and work through not being as ashamed of it, at least toward myself. Thanks for reading.

As always, I remain…the Dateless-Man.

DATELESS-MAN VS. ADMITTING HIS SECRET FETISH: AT LONG LAST!?

It goes without saying that my bloggings and writing on this, my safe-space and source of much self-help, has slowed to a crawl since last year (and has been declining for the past several years). I would like to say that this is for a positive reason — that I am avidly dating and have become OkCupid‘s most eligible bachelor — but it isn’t. Nor, is it for a negative reason. Nothing extra negative has happened in my life, at least not since my already handicapped mother was diagnosed with cancer at the end of 2021. I still have the same job I’ve had since late 2018 and if anything, am thriving in it currently. I haven’t been evicted or even heard anything about that case since last November. Aside for dealing with an ingrown toenail and likely being 25-30-plus pounds heavier than I’d like or should be, I’m healthy otherwise. I am noticing I am less able to shrug off “five hours of sleep or less” days now that I am officially over 40, and appreciate naps more. They’re often wasted on young, active kids. I never wanted to nap in pre-kindergarten.

This also isn’t to say I have reached some mental plateau of self fulfilment or emotional asexuality. As I expressed in May, I am closer to a state of “Zen,” of not giving a damn about being a lonely, single, undersexed virgin in his early 40s than I have ever been. It’s been a mixture of perspective, experience, larger worries (both in my life and the grander world), and diminished expectations. There are times when I feel some mental distress or disappointment at being a virgin and having never had a relationship (or even a roll in the hay), and likely never will. As my savings have increased and my disabled mother’s morality has become more fragile, I have had some time to ponder my options once she is gone and the vast mental and physically space I have to allot into my schedule to tend to her — as I have had to do since junior year in high school — is freer. At times I seem committed to being accepting of finally “getting it over with” and heading to Las Vegas with a brothel number and a dream, but I imagine it is just as likely I choke at the last minute, like Holden Caulfield in The Catcher In The Rye. And trust me, traveling thousands of miles and spending thousands of dollars to just decide at the zero moment, “No, I can’t do this, can we just talk?” will be emasculating. I would be worse than a circus freak; a man unable to experience sex even AFTER paying for it.

I could, and have, gone in circles about my acceptance of being a virgin, my willingness to try dating again, my ability to do so while weary from working full time with a handicapped parent (and hobbies), and so on. But I feel I have done all this for years, and as this is the ninth anniversary of what I call “my lonely man blog,” it may be time to venture into unexplored territory. Something I am even more shy about, and ashamed of, than being a virgin. Yet it is also something I engage with in some way daily and, in ways which are safe and acceptable to me, I gain some pleasure with.

That is, my secret fetish. I have alluded to it and written around it for years. Usually my articles which tap dance around it bare the title of “The Kink Panther,” though that is not a username I have anywhere. In 2014, I was still in denial about it on the blog, claiming my fantasies were “boring.” Well, they weren’t but I was and to a degree still am conflicted about how they compare and contrast with me as a person. By the end of 2014 I was starting to acknowledge it more, though still only in whispered tones or allusions. I delved into it a bit more in summer 2016, which was more of an open admission that it existed. But that is where I left it for two years. Then, almost five years ago this month, came the first of my series of Kink Panther articles where I discussed the online forums I frequented about it and my initial attempts to do text roleplay sessions with others regarding it. That first attempt was unsuccessful; I wound up chatting with a young woman who lied about being underage and once she admitted it, that was where it (cordially) ended. After the pandemic in 2021, I decided to officially join Deviantart and not only write fan fiction stories regarding that fetish, but seek out other like minded text roleplayers. There have been two annual updates regarding this ever since.

I go into all this not just to share some links. I am demonstrating for new or lapsed readers that this has been a sub-topic of this blog almost since its inception. And while I have gone on at length, even compared to War & Peace, about being an older virgin or being lonely or lacking self esteem, I have never gone into detail about this. And this extended preamble is literally me trying to work up the nerve to actually go through with typing this. Of being open and honest with this on my own blog, of a subject I have literally never shared with anyone. My mother and a select handful of friends know I am a virgin in real life. Dozens, if not hundreds, of random forum posters know I am a virgin under this alias. Absolutely no one in my life knows about my fetish, at whether in “real life” or this alias. Were I going to a real life therapist, it would take me a long time to admit to being a virgin; admitting this fetish would never happen. And…I am not ready to merge these aliases. There will be no public admissions on social media under my real name (where I’ve never admitted to my virginity). There will be no links to my Deviantart account, least of all because I don’t want anyone to think I am trolling for more views or likes.

But I now feel, and am trying to psyche myself up to, applying this blog in a related but different direction. It began as a place to deposit all of the failures, frustrations, and aborted starts to my love life. Then it became a place to vent about my esteem and my chastity. And if I were to even considering retiring the blog, which I am not, without addressing this last skeleton in the closet, I feel I am doing myself and the potential of the blog a disservice. I am grateful that this is a small blog and the odds of me getting no comments, likes, or replies is about even. Were I to share this on another forum, I would be bombarded with replies I am not ready for. This is a good first step. A part of me fears I may come off as unsympathetic after revealing this, because a virgin with a fetish is no longer cute or adorable. It becomes the character sketch for the villain of an episode of Law & Order: SVU or a thriller starring Denzel Washington. And I know in theory I could type this and then erase the draft or delete the post, but I feel it is important that I do not. That I be honest, even with myself, this once. That I admit it with no shame, and at least less hiding than usual.

I’ll repeat a useful motto from, of all films, “WRECK-IT RALPH:”

“I’m bad, and that’s good. I’ll never be good, and that’s not bad. There’s no one I would rather be than me.”

(I still need to work on that last part.)

Let me start this properly, now that I am in TL:DR territory.

Hello. My name is Al. And my secret lifelong fetish is softcore bondage. Specifically, seeing or writing a scenario in which a woman roughly my age (as in, an adult woman) is tied up and/or gagged.

I don’t know exactly when this fetish emerged. There was no “Aha, freak!” moment. I do think I was helped in this by the media that existed at the time. I was a little kid in the 1980s and TV shows and films, especially animated ones, featured female characters who got captured and tied up very frequently. Two of the shows I connected to as a lad (as in age 5 and younger) were Inspector Gadget and He-Man & The Masters Of The Universe, and both of those featured heroines in constant peril. By the time kindergarten came around, so did the animated Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles with April O’Neil, one of the animated queens of “damsels in distress.” It wasn’t that I grew to hate women or feel these characters were weak or dumb. Far from it. I was raised by a single mom who was to be respected (or feared) at most times. And it wasn’t just these shows! There seemed to be less awareness of how this role was a “negative” one for kids to see in media or any acknowledge that such fetishes existed so it was all over (both in current shows and films, but reruns of older ones). It was so common that later I would learn that folks who shared this fetish would call it, “the treatment,” as in “in this episode of SPACE HAMSTER, [insert actress] gets the treatment,” which is usually shorthand for a full binding-and-gagging scene.

To avoid being graphic, part of how boys develop is when they realize that their genitals can have a life of their own and, um, “rise” at attention. When I was a kid it seemed random and spontaneous but very soon I realized it happened when these scenes came on. And before I was ten, I was trying to understand why touching “it” when that happened felt good. It’s said that men “discover” masturbation a few different ways and mine was rubbing up against a small couch that was in my room. It was the kind of thing I wouldn’t or couldn’t speak to my mother (or grandmother) about, and kept to myself. Maybe if I had a father it would have been different, but I didn’t so it wasn’t. My mother always had frank talks about me so I knew what genitals or “good touch versus bad touch” were as a kid, in part because she never got that from her mother and had later been raped and molested. But I never, ever, brought this stuff up. I probably didn’t even admit to masturbation as a topic until high school, and obviously no one likes to discuss that with a parent (and any conversation with a friend or male peer was in crude, half joking dialogue).

Younger folks take for granted things like the Internet or social media existing. Online usage was still basic and paid for by the hour in the mid 90s, and by then I was a teenager. And to top it off, I went to a private Catholic school from kindergarten thru fifth grade, and the nuns made my strict mother seem like the hippie she once was. So I was dealing with having this secret “interest” that I didn’t fully understand and had no one to talk to about it. How could I like such scenes? Only villains wanted to tie up women or seem them that way. Was I bad? No, I answered, I always felt excited to see the heroine rescued (even if not understanding why I didn’t want it to be too immediate). I envisioned myself as a hero saving women, but heroes don’t get excited by the sight of it, do they? So what was I?

For a time I briefly experimented with something called “self bondage,” where I would tie myself up (usually with socks or duct tape). And while it was exciting, I soon outgrew it and lost interest in that aspect of it.

The one and only time my secret fetish and a real life person crossed paths was sometime in fourth or fifth grade. At my Catholic school, our classes usually celebrated birthdays by having the child celebrating it give out “goodie bags” full of toys and/or candy to the other students in brief party moments. Since mom and I were poor, we usually opted to bake cookies or cupcakes since that was cheaper than buying candy, bags, toys, etc. For reasons I will never know, the grab bags included simple “cops and robbers” style toys which can be found at any 99 cent store or novelty area. These included plastic handcuffs. I knew of these; they were cheap trinkets with plastic keys, but with enough strength even a kid could snap them.

Several of the girls in the class that I knew (not the one I crushed on at the time, but her friends) were opening them up and handcuffing, then uncuffing themselves, back and forth. They where giggling and having a grand old time. I didn’t know what to make of it. Here it was happening in real life and while I wasn’t “excited,” I was paying attention too. I hoped none of them would notice and I would figure out if this was bad or good.

Then one of them noticed. “Hey, Al, you want to try it?”

I answered, “Huh?”

“Cuff me,” she said, extending her wrists. “Go on, just try it.”

“Um, no,” I said, feeling the color drain from my face. “I don’t want to.”

“Oh, c’mon!” now she and her friends were egging me on.

It was a very long time ago but I remember loosely (and barely) snapping those cuffs, and deliberately doing a poor job like I had no idea what they were, because I was so mixed up about it. I was absolutely petrified that they’d figure out I liked that kind of thing and “rat me out” or get me in trouble. And did I really like it when it wasn’t a scripted, staged cartoon or TV show? I vaguely recall them being dissatisfied but leaving me alone about it. I breathed a sigh of relief.

And since then? Nothing in real life for over 30 years. I still have no clue how I would react if it happened in a consenting, adult context. And I wonder if this fetish, and the shame associated with it, beginning so young in my life has hampered my ability to make romantic connections somewhere, even though I do not desire to “introduce” any “real” women to it.

I didn’t begin regularly using the internet until after 1996 when I was in high school and public libraries started allowing scheduled access for free. I soon found there were online communities (on forums and message boards back then) of people who liked “tie up games” or “damsel in distress” (or “DID”) stuff. I learned that I was not alone and that not all of the people into this stuff were evil or creepy, though some were. My attempts to interact with some of these communities were primitive as the concept of message boards alone was new. But there were websites devoted to documenting these images or even producing new art or photography of it. I got to know many by heart. I was still alone with it, but it was not as lonely.

I was mostly a “lurker” until my 20s and even then I would never say I was a regular anywhere. I kept the same alias and rarely someone recognized it. By now I knew a lot of the terminology (i.e. cleave gag, detective gag, tape gag, spread eagle, rope-work, cinch, etc.) and learned that one of my male friends was into it (to the point that he use to literally carry a ball-gag in his backpack). I still never revealed it to him or discussed it. He never figured out how I knew all the terminology, though. Even now it would be very awkward discussing it with him (or one of his exes, who I know for a fact he “tried it on” during their times having sex, who I still chat with on Facebook).

I consider it “softcore” because I am not into torture or torment, or even “need” a woman to be naked in such a scenario. Most of the pornography surrounding bondage goes into stuff like whips or torment or “fondling” or “forced touching” and I am not into that at all; that aspect disgusts me. It is just the softer bondage part I like, where even in a fictional “damsel in distress” story the heroine will escape or be rescued, without any real harm coming to her. I am not “into” tickling (despite being ticklish myself) but that is the only form of “touching” which doesn’t seem “wrong” to me, and never in a genital area. Once the scene gets near a “rapey” zone it is a turnoff for me.

I don’t desire to do this to any actual woman. I don’t wander around envisioning anything. Much of the focus of it for me is in regards to fictional characters, usually in animated or clearly scripted stories that are not real. I also like some consensual scenes which are mutually desired but you’d be amazed how rare that can be. I still struggle with having this fetish while also being a good man, and that is why I hide behind aliases. I am someone who doesn’t want a woman I am in any romantic relation with to be like a mother or a servant, but an equal partner. I don’t just want someone who fills my needs; I want to satisfy her needs too because that will satisfy me. How can I fully reconcile being someone who is willing to listen to a woman’s problems, deliver what she needs and wants, and is willing to be sensitive, cuddle, communicate, be reliable and faithful with also having a deep dark part of myself which is excited to sometimes see fictional woman modestly tie up!? I am more accepting of this part of myself now than when I was a kid, but only just. I do not have the answer. Can a good, kind, sensitive, gentle man also be into this softcore kinky stuff and not be a freak or a monster?

But text roleplaying has helped. I have found people into it and we can share the experience in a distant, private way without crossing any boundaries (because discussion beforehand is key). And my stories regarding licensed heroines have been modestly well received on Deviantart.

(A part of me envisions someone thinking, “That figures. The virgin finally reveals something interesting about his sexuality and he doesn’t want to share it with live women. Go figure.”)

So, there it is, in this long and messy post. Maybe it is nothing and I made it out to be worse. Maybe I am a creep who deserves to be alone for even thinking of this stuff. I don’t know. I truly do not know. But at least I have typed it out. My hands are still shaking at the keyboard, but all first steps are like that. I await any feedback, yet remain anxious about it. I hope this was not a mistake. I hope I am not a mistake.

I simply remain…the Dateless-Man.

Dateless-Man vs. Shrek (Or, What “Zen” Looks Like)

The month is almost over so I wanted to see if I could eke in one blog post before the clock hits midnight on whatever timing scheme WordPress runs with. Eastern? Pacific? Mongolian? Martian? Much like with dating, I have no clue.

Much like any blog or writing space which has lasted for years, various themes and topics seem to arise or flourish over time. For example, from 2014-2016, the main theme was about translating all of my major experiences, yearnings, false-hopes, and underachieving attempts at love or dating from elementary school until the present (when I was then in my early 30s). Part of this was simply to transcribe those memories out of my mind into another medium — from psychic space to tangible space, as it were. Another part of that was to compile evidence, to both myself and “the universe” that my quest for love was doomed from the start, and I never had a chance (or many chances). And a final part of it was to do a bit of self-therapy with the perspective of hindsight — and the words of more than a few commenters.

But 2017 was the “year of Zen,” when I sought to use this newfound perspective to somehow remove the desire for love, or lust, from me so I no longer suffered any sporadic emotional pain from being lonely. Essentially, to become like a monk without the whole religion and weird clothing aspects. I can’t say I was altogether successful, especially since subsequent life events since 2017, such as a prolonged eviction battle, switching jobs at least three times, and my handicapped mother’s recent diagnosis of cancer, along with Covid-19 and me officially turning 40 (and beyond) have done more to temper my mood than any act of discipline. A part of me also thought, because too many gurus suggest this, that if I simply stopped focusing and obsessing over “landing a girlfriend” or my lack of getting laid, that an opportunity would arise as I lived my life. Clearly, that never happened. It will probably never happen.

But that is okay.

I realized that I need to reconceptualize my definition of “Zen,” or should I say, contentment. While I am not a living dictionary or spelling bee winner (or runner up, or also-ran), I am aware that “contentment” and “happiness” are not the same term. I’ve sometimes defined happiness as “the absence of direct misery,” which is a very low bar, but there it is. My ideal of contentment is not than I am in glee or even achieving full success at maximum potential, but that I am getting enough enjoyment out of life and/or a minimal amount of relative misery that I am not miserable. And it took stumbling upon the beginning of a movie on TV while channel surfing to get a refresher course on what that means for me.

With the dawn of the 21st century came an influx of CGI animated family films, and emerging near the top of the heap was DreamWorks’ “SHREK” in 2001. It would prove to be such a hit that four films (and a TV holiday special) would be produced within a decade, along with a spinoff, 2011’s “PUSS IN BOOTS” which also got a sequel last year. Now, in terms of the franchise, I gave up on Shrek after 2007’s “SHREK THE THIRD” and tired of the films. But I did like the original once upon a time, and the opening sequence (played to one of the most overused songs in all of cinema’s soundtracks — “All Star” by Smash Mouth) illustrates exactly what I mean by contentment. And I felt the same way upon watching that sequence recently as I did when I first saw it in a local movie theater when I was 19. I am so old I had that movie on VHS. Yes, that home video format lingered until 2007-2008.

As a reminder, at the start of the movie, Shrek the ogre is alone in his swamp. He is going about his daily routine of eating meals, bathing in mud, hollowing out logs, brushing with bug paste, painting “KEEP OUT” signs, and scaring off angry villagers who come after him so routinely, it may as well be a part time job. Then he goes home, retires to a quiet meal and does it all again the next day. Later in the film Shrek states that he lives like this because he’s never had any friends and was always attacked for being a monster, so he learned to live alone. Of course, soon in Act 1, Shrek gets the “call to adventure” thanks to a lord’s decree and, of course, meeting a loudmouth talking Donkey. But let’s stick to that opening sequence.

Shrek isn’t miserable. He isn’t howling at the moon or anything. If anything, he enjoys the simple pleasures of his life, like bathing or painting. When left to his own devices, Shrek is content with his lot in life. It’s only when outside events happen to him, and later, when he comes close to something greater, does he really feel lonely (at least until the end of the last act). And in theory, had Lord Farquaad not sought to round up all “fairy tale creatures” and dump them in Shrek’s swamp, that is how he would have remained. And do you know what I thought the first time I saw that sequence in 2001, and was reminded of when I caught it recently?

“That looks nice.”

I mean, this sequence doesn’t play to some slow paced, depressing Kenny G, it plays to that generic corporate upbeat track from Smash Mouth. It may be a rut but it is Shrek’s rut; his natural state. I got that then and I get it now. In fact, I am living it now, or closer to it than in 2001 or 2017. I get up, I go to work, I tend to my chores, and I end the evening pursuing my hobbies. This isn’t entirely alone; I interact with people online constantly. Some may call it a rut, but it is my rut, and so long as nothing disturbs it, I am content. And while contentment may not be full happiness, it is close enough for me that I can hardly tell the difference.

I sometimes joke that I can easily enter a mode of “auto-Hermit,” or “automatic Hermit.” Once I settle into a comfortable rut or succession of routine, I get comfortable and comfortable feels good. This is hardly unique, and if anything, is very primal. Animals set their entire lives to adapting to the schedule of their environment. To a degree it is easier for me than for others since I was an only child raised by a single parent (who worked until I was a teenager, when she became handicapped). I had to learn to make my own fun in between time on a schoolyard or a public park (where I preferred to be alone anyway). My mother used to call me “her little turtle,” and maybe the comparison is apt. Animals who live alone aren’t “lonely” or “depressed,” they’re “solitary.” There are social animals, of which human supposedly are, even if we spend much of our time working for others who seek to dominate or rule the rest. But to a degree people have more of a choice than animals. Gerbils, for example, are social rodents and if they are alone too long, they literally die of sadness. Some people can be like that, but others can survive. There have always been loners, or as the top of this paragraph said, “hermits.”

This is the part where an outside observer would state that in order to “grow” or even “thrive,” I have to “get out of my comfort zone.” I would counter that a great deal of our lives, or at least mine, has been spent being yanked out of that comfort zone when I didn’t want to be, and then recovering from the fallout. I never asked to be poor. I never asked to have a handicapped mother. I never asked to be bullied. I never asked to be an only child with a selfish aunt and even more distant extended relatives, to the extent that I can to assume major duties in tending to my grandmother as a college freshman. I never asked to be in a culture which drilled into my head (via media, peers, books, custom, etc.) that I was less than a man for being a virgin or not being very physically inclined. I never asked for my mother to have cancer. I never asked to struggle to find gainful (or decently paying) employment for extended periods. I never asked for a global pandemic. I “left” my comfort zone countless times, and often came back so traumatized that it wasn’t comforting anymore. And when there’s nowhere to be free of negative feelings, even sleep can feel like a prison.

Even when I did leave that comfort zone to try to reach for certain things I wanted — namely, romance — I never got it. I watched others get it, seemingly without trying. What few glimpses I had of it were so rare and fleeting that I failed to capitalize, because it was like trying to catch a firefly in a maelstrom. And that was when I was younger and more naive (or hopeful, if you prefer). Now? I’ve had at least 25 years of romantic futility. That’s more than half my life, and that only is because I started counting at age 17. Not only am I no closer to that goal, I am farther away. I don’t get the opportunity to interact with women in a social setting beyond work as often. All of the single women in my social group got married, engaged, and/or moved away. Even most of my male friends did. I’m not an alcoholic, nor do I thrive in bars or clubs where the social stimuli is too overwhelming (a fact I wasn’t aware of and punished myself for until my mid-30s, mostly out of ignorance and cultural expectations). My options are few, and the likelihood of success is slim. It is acting for more trouble than it is worth. And if there is anything I have never had to ask for, it was trouble. Covid-19 jitters, a bad economy, fallout from the end of Roe, and never knowing when my mother may drop dead or require hospitalization have sucked a lot of the “thrill” out of it in my eyes. And I never found it thrilling.

Even short term success is not thrilling. The hoops a poor woman would have to go through to overcome a quarter century of futility in my mind that mutual desire was possible would be more than Sonic the Hedgehog could ever collect. And my hapless kissing, and my ignorant attempts to have sex will most likely be underwhelming for one or both of us. I’ve often heard or read that men who are single and never married in their 40s are so for a good reason, and I have enough reasons to fill a thesaurus. And then I would have to go through the loss of whatever fleeting thing I had, for the first time at middle age (since 82 is about where many men die). I don’t have time for that drama. I have no desire for it.

Instead, let me have my swamp. It may seem dank and smelly for someone else, but that doesn’t matter because taste is subjective. Call it a rut, but I call it contentment. And while it wouldn’t have made much of a CGI animated film 22 years ago, it is comfortable to live a life within, especially in an unpredictable and often harrowing world. That is where I am for a moment, and short of some premise to a sitcom, I am not in any rush to shatter it. I may have “failed” in America’s estimation of being a man by never losing my virginity, but who says I wanted to be a man, anyway. Maybe I want to be a mythological creature like a jackalope or an older male virgin who isn’t full of hatred (at myself or elsewhere).

In a way, that has been a goal of mine. It would have been nice to have had a love life, maybe even started a family. But barring that? Finding a way of carving out a rut which is as comfortable as can be isn’t so bad either. Life is shorter than anyone can predict; figuring out personal ways to make it less miserable is a laudable goal. Much like trying to avoid putting “All Star” in every movie.

Seriously, I don’t hate the song, but seeing it thrown into everything from “MYSTERY MEN” to “SUPER MARIO BROS. MOVIE” to some inevitable remake of “THE GODFATHER” has made me sick of it.

Thanks for reading.

As always, I remain…the Dateless-Man

Yet Another Reason Why I’d NEVER Be An “Incel”

Two posts in one month!? That hasn’t happened in years! But now is a good time for it; I missed two months and can use some “catching up.” Plus, while I am never “chasing views,” this month has actually been my third best month ever for eyeballs on the blog. So, THANK YOU, newcomers, and I hope I am not too bat-crap insane for you.

This will be a little like the last one; I will be commenting on a related topic which harks back to where I feel on certain things.

Ever since I turned 20 and began feeling awkward and depressed (often VERY depressed) over being a lonely virgin with no romantic success or prospects, I sought both advice and camaraderie online. However, the online landscape is way different now than when I was 20, in the year 2002. The notion of a “home computer” was no longer a luxury, but it was still “recent” in most people’s memories. Only a few years prior, people had to pay for online time by the hour. With Neil Strauss’ The Game book still three years away, the Internet was not as readily a haven for “pick-up artists” and proto-fascist, woman hating trolls. Or at the very least, there wasn’t a steady website-to-Reddit-to-4chan-to TikTok-to-YouTube-etc. pipeline for them. I like to think that even if there was one, I would have been too upstanding, moral, and empathetic to fall into such a cult when I was at my most emotionally vulnerable. But we’ll never really know, and I am glad it did not exist so readily then.

I’ve commented on “incels” or “GamerGaters” before them a couple of times before, in 2014 and 2018. I’m not sure if I need to redefine it, but “incel” is short for “involuntary celibate,” which was actually a term coined online in the late 90s by a young woman in Toronto struggling with her bisexuality. It started to “devolve” into it’s current status when the website love-shy.com formed in 2003. Now it is not only a term utilized mostly by straight and white men online to classify themselves as virgins, but it has become an entire cult-like group with their own slang, communities, and leadership boards. It begins as a support group for angst ridden men who are feeling insecure and emasculated and often serves as a pipeline into some very toxic ideology regarding women and ultimately, into proto-fascist or Neo-Nazi style propaganda. The link between that community and the “hard right” has only strengthened since I began this blog in 2014. Quite a few spree killers, whose names I will not dignify, have identified as being within those communities — who revere them as “saints” or “gentlemen.” If those who slaughter people are “gentlemen,” then I hope to die a slob.

One thing I have written about which is always disturbing to me are the similarities I have with some of these “incels” and even some of the monsters who have emerged from that group to menace innocent people. Like them, I am an older, straight, white male virgin. I have known the loneliness, frustration, emasculation, and even resentment which comes from living in a world where it “seems” (that’s the keyword) that everyone around me has succeeded in love or at least gotten laid. Part of the difference is that I feel I have a greater set of morals and values than those who become killers. The other is most if not all of the “incels” direct their hatred outward at others (especially the “Stacys” who they pine for and the “Chads” they can’t measure up to), whereas I, as an introvert, directed my hatred inward. I never hated women for rejecting me; I hated myself for not being appealing enough. I feel I am better now than I was in that regard at 20, or even since my 30s when I started this blog. But some part of that remains. And I am always chilled to the bone about having anything linking me to these “people,” who I want nothing to do with. Part of the reason I began this blog, and have bothered with the forums linked to Doctor Nerdlove is specifically because I want to choose who I commiserate with about my lack of a love life carefully. I do not want to be a part of such a toxic community, even if I understand the need to find people who understand, or at least don’t offer platitudes like, “be yourself” or “one day you’ll find someone,” even if that’s done in longer essays and with good intentions.

Well, this week a bit of news arose that only sought to remind me that I never could have been in such a “community.” To sum it up, one of the many “leaders” of the “incels” (who are sometimes called “wizards” based on a meme from an anime), a moderator named “Komesarji” has publicly announced that he has leaving the community because he has finally had sex (which some “incels” call “ascending”). As Jezebel and other websites are reporting (because that is what online journalism stoops to these days), this has led to an online “civil war” within the group. Some members have been supportive or congratulatory, whereas others have been envious, resentful or furious about this news, seeing it as a betrayal. One commentor compared it to LeBron James retiring from the NBA, while others seem to be echoing the sexist “bros before hoes” line and feel that Komesarji should have stayed a virgin forever for them. It is amusing, if only in a cringe worthy kind of way since this is a community which has produced more than one “spree shooter” and arguably most Republican voters under 50.

This event proves to me that despite all of their bleating, the “incels” have never been about helping their own or supporting men. It has always been a group defined by mutual hatred and loathing of women, who they resent while also being enticed by (and hate them for being enticing). It seems to be less “involuntary” if some are acting as if Komesarji should have taken a vow of celibacy like a monk for them. If being celibate isn’t involuntary, their whole collective group name falls apart. Kind of like HYDRA in the Marvel Universe, whose symbol is an octopus (the very opposite of a hydra). Come to think of it, SPECTRE from James Bond is also symbolized by an octopus (which is nothing like a spectre, or ghost). How did octopi get such a bad rap?

Even the ones who treat having sex as “ascending” are not looking at it in a totally healthy way. Having sex for the first time is not the end of a journey. It is the beginning of one. At best, it is the end of a beginning (which Komesarji at least acknowledged). I hope for his sake and the sake of his new lover that Komesarji cuts all ties with the community and especially she never reveals her identity in this drama online, or the viral hordes will come for her (or dox her). I’ll admit I sometimes have this negative mindset too — I’ve sometimes spoken of having sex as “finally becoming a man” or words to that effect. I also sometimes have less than enlightened views about the romantic life of a “late bloomer” and whether or not it would even be worth it. I am not trying to paint myself as some flawless feminist superhero. But examples like this show me in crystal clarity that I could never be one of them, because that level of hatred or delusion is not in me.

I will take this opportunity to address what may happen to this blog if I should ever become like Komesarji and get laid, despite myself. The first thing I will say is that it won’t matter, because me having sex would be a true sign of the apocalypse, and our entire world (or at least human civilization) will be over forthwith. It says it right there in the Book of Revelations: “And he rode a pale horse, and his symbol was Death. And behind said horse was Dateless-Man, enjoying intercourse with a woman of her own free will. ‘Tis an abomination,’ thy Lord said, ‘And I unmaketh the world’.”

Obviously, I am joking.

In all seriousness, if it ever happened I would surely state as such on the blog, and other forums. I’ve written so many missives and grievances online that to just disappear would feel like a cheat. I certainly would owe it to the dozens of truly generous and helpful people who have commented, read, and replied over the years to at least inform them of some resolution of a primary problem in my love life. I wouldn’t be short on material; if anything I would be over analyzing what, if anything, I did right. I would almost certainly attribute it to dumb luck and assume that the woman in question would leave me the second she realized what a loser she’d hooked — which means whenever she encountered another man (any other man). Some men are a ten, some are fives, and some are zeroes; I am about negative forty-seven. In terms of charisma and physical looks, I rank below ALF, after all. And rather than spew all of that insecurity at her, I’d have this blog as a “safe space.” Even if things were going well, I’d need somewhere to vent my insecurities and disbelief about it safely. So, no, even if I “got laid” I wouldn’t “ascend” from WordPress.

It is a “dilemma” I do not anticipate ever having. Though it is one I certainly wouldn’t mind having. I can only imagine how liberating it would be to not have to hide my virginity from others as a secret. To be able to contribute to a conversation about lovers or spouses with someone. For all of those love songs on the radio to finally have more meaning. And for me to no longer have to don the mask of the Dateless-Man, and to just be myself. Whatever that is.

Incidents like this make me realize that there IS a need for some kind of supportive group for virgins, especially older ones, that isn’t run by someone selling books (or coaching sessions), an egomaniacal hustler, or is a recruiter for a political party, but people who genuinely care and want to help. At times I have wondered if I should be that person; whether or not I could turn my own pain into purpose. I wouldn’t even mind being the last “older male virgin” if I could do something positive with it. My biggest obstacles are a lack of free time (as even doing a monthly article like this is challenging) along with a fear of being misunderstood because of my own insecurities, misconceptions, and uninformed opinions or moments. I can’t be Moses leading anyone out of a desert unless I live by some commandments, and I do not. At times if I ever did “cross the plane,” I considered writing a book; as a sort of “anti-Game” and try to provide some alternative to the toxic stew that awaits so many people who devolve into “incels.” But then I’d just be one of those folks who ends every appeal with, “–and for only $9.99, you can–” somewhere. And would I be taken seriously from the group I want to help if I am no longer one of them? Look how quickly they came for a moderator who “scored.”

A part of me has seen this blog as that. It began as a place for me to put down all of my memories and woe from the past into another medium outside of my mind. And now, it is in another place as I grapple with middle age (since 82 is well past life expectancy for most American men). It is a narrative, albeit a disjointed one without a clear ending. But I could say the same for life, in general. And hopefully it is a resource for some people going through someplace similar to feel like they are not alone.

In a way, it has always been a fact of my life that I rarely fit in anywhere. I was too freaky for the “norms,” and too normal for the freaks. I’ve been to some forums that probably saw me as a “proto-incel,” but if I waded into a swamp of actual “incels” they’d likely find me pathetic and self-loathing. But an incident like this shows me truths about that community, and that maybe I should give the younger version of myself more credit for avoiding places like it. Commonality is not causation, and just because some of my problems and feelings may overlap with that community, I am not one of them, and proudly so.

I am simply…the Dateless-Man.

Thanks for reading.

DATELESS-MAN VS. MARQUES HOUSTON!?

I am bringing the versus-style titles back, at least this month!

A two month gap between posts is a fairly long one here, even amid the Covid-19 pandemic’s bleak days in 2020. Don’t worry, I am not dead or hospitalized, nor is my cancer-stricken mother (as of this writing). I have not been evicted; that ended in a mistrial in mid-November and currently is in some kind of limbo (again, as of this writing). Nor have I been found on the side of a road by a bus full of Swedish bikini models and am acting as the ladies’ “oil boy” for the next couple of months (yes, a reference to the film “Dumb & Dumber”). I am 11 months into a better position at my job than the one I’d had for the prior 3 and a half years, and hoping it lasts. I have been saving a nest-egg and have more than I’ve ever been able to save before. Considering that less than a decade ago I once had less than $10 in a savings account, that’s an accomplishment in my eyes.

So, no fundamentally good or bad reason for the 2 and a half month “break” in postings. I’ve just been busy enjoying my rut, as I tend to do. I’ve been going to work, doing chores, tending to mom, writing both kink and non-kink stuff, roleplaying kink and non-kink stuff, and doing my usual DVD binges of films, Western cartoons and Japanese anime during supper. I just really had nothing to write about. I wasn’t feeling lonely or depressed, and no opportunities to shed my virginity emerged. Standing pat may seem boring, and in the long term counter-productive since I am not getting any younger (or thinner). But after going through many stresses since mid-2018, I’ll take it. The lack of a negative is a positive for me; no bad news is good news.

But now something came up on my feed which I feel is worth typing my feelings about. One of my alter ego’s Facebook friends (a woman who is more of a “professional contact” during the days I did advance reviews involving Random House published “YA graphic novels”) shared a link on her feed. It is a Page Six interview with Marques Houston, an R&B singer and actor best known for a supporting role on the ABC/WB sitcom “Sister, Sister” for 5 seasons as Roger Evans. He started getting involved in acting and singing at age 11, when he had a lead role in the animated movie “Bebe’s Kids,” followed up by a guest spot on the “Cosby Show” spinoff, “A Different World.” He co-founded a band named Immature (or IMx) alongside Jerome “Romeo” Jones and Kelton “LBD” Kessee. At 41, he’s exactly my age (give or take) and has dipped his toe in a controversy which harps on some dating norms and beliefs. In 2020, when he was 39, he married Miya Dickey, when she was just 19 years old. They’d been dating since at least 2018, which meant she was 17 (and below the legal age of consent in California) and Marque was 37. They didn’t become engaged until 2019, when Miya would have turned 18 and thus reached that age of consent. For some reason, Page Six decided to do a follow up interview with Houston nearly 3 years later, with him now 41 with a 22 year old wife and a one year old child, Zara.

The shocking thing to many is that for a wealthy singer and actor of color, many of Marques’ statements about his preferences for dating, as well as his opinion of “older women” (i.e. women his own age) could have been clipped and cropped from any “incel” message board or Reddit (which are often mostly full of “white” men):

“A red flag to me [was] always with a woman that had a kid. Nothing against single women, but single mothers with children are a red flag for me. I tip my hat and respect women that are raising children on their own, but when I grew up, I never really wanted to have kids. I would talk to my dad a lot, and he would always tell me to have your own kids because you never know what the baby daddy‘s are about. So if you’re gonna have kids, make sure it is with a woman that never had kids. So that was always my red flag… and a woman with an attitude. I don’t like women with funky attitudes. I’m 41, she is 22. I could’ve married a 44-year-old woman, and it could’ve been disastrous. Women that are my age… they kind of have a different outlook on life. Like a lot of women my age are very independent. They are very like, ‘I don’t need a man to do this for me ’cause I can do it for myself.’ I come from a generation that I love to provide for my wife. There’s a lot of women my age I’ve dated, they may have baggage. They may have kids, they may not. There’s so many different women I’ve been with throughout my life, and it just so happens to be that this one [Miya] caught my heart. Everything that I prayed for — and everything that I wanted in a woman — she came with. Although she was young, I’m young in spirit. In the Immature days, we [would] have light-skinned girls in our music videos. Then people would question… ‘Why can’t you get a black girl?’ And then it’s like, ‘Oh yeah, I only like light-skinned girls.’ Then the plus-size girls will come and get me. I was like, ‘Man, I can’t catch a break.”

So, in other words, Marques Houston did not want to date women his own age (or a little older) because they would have “baggage,” their own children, and/or not be as dependent on him. At least he doesn’t then judge women for being “gold diggers,” thankfully. It is sort of interesting how he talks about his “generation” to justify certain things. His “generation” is a Millennial. He almost makes himself sound older. What may be the most shocking is actually how candid Marques Houston is about these ideas; that women his age or older with kids have “baggage” or aren’t as dependent (and thus, trapped).

Now, men wanting to date women significantly younger than they are is practically as old as civilization itself, if not older. And by and large, most societies encourage this. The fact that his statements touched off any controversy at all is a sign of progress (or, “the times”). But I have gotten “advice” from some folks ages ago to date younger women for all sorts of reasons, and many “late-bloomers” or “never-bloomers” like me can fret about dating women our age for reasons besides simple misogyny. There is a fear about not being able to measure up to an experienced woman’s high standards or that she won’t give us a chance, so someone “younger” is more “open minded” (or naive) enough to do so.

I actually got into a “debate” with my mother earlier this year about something like this. One of the things that’s happened after her cancer diagnosis is she is suddenly becoming worried about my happiness or lack of a social life. It’s a silent admission between us that my introverted status has better allowed me to stay behind and tend to her since she became legally handicapped in 1999. Had I dated more and had a wife and kids now, that would have been harder. Unlike grandma, my mother didn’t have more than one child to be “pawned” off to. My aunt ditched any responsibility for tending to grandma once things got bad with her after she fell in 2001. Anyway, my mother made an off handed remark that so long as I was dating someone over-18, it was fine by her. I was disgusted and insisted that I shouldn’t be dating anyone who wasn’t at least pushing 30 and would prefer someone close to my own age. Mother thought that was “limiting,” especially when I didn’t budge on dating someone who was 25 (the age she was when she had me), but in the end she conceded that I was so “moral.”

A caveat is that, obviously, I can’t know a woman’s age unless she tells me or I ask. Due in part to socially enforced misogyny, many women consider it “rude” to inquire about her age. The best I can do is assume a general range. If I was at a bar and somehow all the planets were aligned and I chatted a woman up and things went well, and then she said she was 25, would I back out? Probably not, although I would be hesitant and conflicted about it. But would I back off if she said she was 22? Absolutely. If I thought a woman was that young I wouldn’t even consider any kind of romantic interaction with her.

A lot of guys want to date drastically younger women for a variety of reasons. One is to “feel younger” themselves. I am the exact opposite. The idea of dating someone half my age makes me feel like a creep, a “dirty old man,” or a vampire. It is the hallmark of a “midlife crisis” to boot. All I would need is a muscle car and a fresh tattoo on my bicep. That was the feeling when I did my last speed-dating event in 2015 and found it deluged with women barely a day over 21 (and at the time I was 33). It makes me feel even more out of place, especially with my geeky hobbies since I may reference things that existed before they were born. And when I sense that sort of “unbalance,” rather than see it as an opportunity for myself, I see it as something to defend against from others who seek to capitalize. It feels unnatural to me, especially since many times any compliments or fawning affections may simply be a consequence of inexperience.

And that is another reason why a lot of “incels” go for younger women. They feel if a woman has less experience, she cannot fairly compare them with other men — and possibly see how lame they are. It’s to soothe their own insecurity.

Well, I am aware of my insecurities and I don’t need them soothed. If anything, it makes me notice them even more. Last year before I changed positions at work and was still in the call center, my supervisors began shifting me into an unofficial “mini-supervisor” capacity. I was given no extra title or pay, but I began helping out the newer callers with questions and problems to try to diminish the attrition of seasonal workers. I distinctly remember a couple of young women, who I suspected weren’t even 25, starting to laugh the moment I came on their lines to answer her questions about something. I have a tendency when I speak in a capacity which isn’t strictly “worker-client” in a way where I say a lot of jokes or pithy comments. It’s just how I speak and without even intending to I can make people laugh, even over a phone. When I asked why, they told me it was because I was “so funny,” and it was meant as a compliment. Other times they told me how they liked my authoritative voice. I was flattered but it was also coming from a place of inexperience. I am no funnier nor have any better a voice than any other guy in New York. It’s just harder to realize then when a woman is in her early 20s in her first non-retail job versus her 30s or 40s. I was starting to feel awkward about it, and thankfully in my new position that is no longer a concern.

But even with some of my online role playing, if I am interacting with a woman drastically younger than I, many times they comment on how “imaginative” I am or how good a “writer” I am, and I know that is only because the age gap makes me seem more exotic and “in control.” It’s a mirage, and I don’t see myself as an illusionist, nor do I want to be.

Some other men go after vastly younger women as a means of “revenge.” They couldn’t date the “cheerleaders” or popular girls in high school or college, so now they’ll “make up for it” as older adults and take advantage of their inexperience deliberately. If a power dynamic is capitalized on deliberately, then it delves into being predatory to me. Even if no actual crime is committed, it comes off as sleazy and cheesy at best. The very notion of wanting to “avenge” past slights to their egos on different people of similar ages as the women in their memories is a level of pettiness and insecurity that I can understand but not condone. So many men, even some I have called friends, have some kind of axe to grind against women for past “sins” or so on, blaming an entire gender for the slights of one or two individuals. I am not saying I don’t make the error of generalizing about women or thinking that they act as a hive mind or monolith, but at least I don’t twist that into a hatred or “attitude” about women. I have no one to blame for being a 41 year old virgin but myself and circumstance, in that order. Have I been teased in my life by women in school? Yes, many times. But I am not out to torment other women because of that, or use them as pawns in some ego boosting scheme.

On the other end of the coin, the notion of women who are in their 40s at least as having “baggage,” especially if they have kids, is toxic as heck. Many men are so hypocritical about this kind of thing; they have zero patience for any of the foibles, problems, challenges, or details of a woman’s life, but expect the women they date to be forever forgiving and patient with theirs. I am past the stage where I am a social work major and want to act as a free shrink, but I don’t see someone’s experiences or challenges as “baggage.” And even if I did, I have tons of baggage. How fair is it if I can’t be as patient for someone else as I’d like them to be with me? If anything, mutual understanding is how bonds of attraction can form. If anything, such feelings can be counter productive to many men because contrary to belief, not every single mother is eager to “marry any man.” I was a kid when my mother was still dating and I watched tons of guys just about flee from being “friends with benefits” with her because she had me.

Would interacting with a woman’s kids be awkward at first? Sure, but awkwardness is not fatal and can be overcome. Besides, most single mothers are hesitant to have their kids meet their “man of the season” unless things at least are getting a little serious. I am not saying there are no women eager to marry or reckless about introducing beaus to their kids; I am simply stating that I feel their proportion is overstated.

If anything, a drastically younger woman would feed into my negative self esteem. If I was trying to date a 25 year old and things were going well, my negative self-image would just say, “She’s only doing it because she doesn’t know any better, you cradle robber. You think you can keep up with her? She’ll dump you the minute she finds someone her own age who is at least slightly above average in any quality.” At least with a woman my own age, my negative self image has to come up with better than that. Usually along the lines of, “She must be very desperate or traumatized by her ex to bother with you, or just eager to talk to someone who doesn’t eat out of a sippy cup. You’re the rebound, so you may as well get the most out of it.” It isn’t that I hate myself, it’s that I have always failed with women so I have no positive reference point.

Most importantly, to me dating someone close to my own age, or even older, means a better likelihood of having more in common. We’ll be of the same generation, exposed to the same media, hopefully have similar sentiments. I won’t have to feel like an old man because I reference something which is over 20 years old. Just this month, a Super Mario Bros. movie hit theaters. Dating someone who wasn’t old enough to remember the Super Mario Bros. Super Show makes me feel like Dorian Grey. And if I am in a relationship, I don’t want to feel as if I am a teacher giving and TED Talk about the times B.I., or Before Internet. “Back in the day, we watched movies from something called a VCR…”

I know that maturity has nothing to do with age. There can be 23 year olds more mature than I am, and 47 year olds who act like teenage drama queens. But many times such a fact is used as an excuse for dudes to take advantage of their experience of either younger women or the dudes around them to razzle dazzle them with surface level baloney for purely exploitative reasons. I don’t feel anything good comes out of exploitation.

Is there pressure to measure up to the expectations of a woman my age or older? Absolutely. And deep down I know I am unlikely to meet it, at least initially. Dealing with a 41 year old virgin with arrested development who doesn’t look like Steve Rogers or Clark Kent is far more drama than most women want or need, regardless of age. But that doesn’t justify me or anyone else with taking advantage of younger people like soul-vampires. I do not consider control an aphrodisiac nor feeding my own ego as a means to an end. If you can’t impress peers on a basketball court, you don’t go to a toddler’s schoolyard and slam dunk on their five foot tall hoop. Marques Houston can do what he wants, and as a wealthy celebrity he certainly does. But as just your average everyday blue collar neighborhood virgin, I say his opinions do not speak for all of us in his “generation.” I am not afraid of an experienced woman with kids, nor her baggage, and I do not get off on dominating others.

It would be nice if I got laid before a “drastically younger woman” is a 41 year old, but there is only so much I can do about that.

Thanks for reading.

As always, I remain…the Dateless-Man.