Trust (Wrong 3)

I’d met him online a few weeks earlier—having joined a dating website in my quest to fulfill my being-an-adult checklist:

Graduate with honors.

Secure a full-time teaching position.

Find an apartment.

Learn how to date.

I’d felt comfortable with him. I’d enjoyed talking to him both online and eventually over the phone, and he was one of the few who hadn’t sent an unsolicited dick pic. So when he’d asked me if he could take me to dinner I’d readily agreed.

Then he made the comment about having sex on a full stomach. I was about to make a sarcastic joke, thinking he was kidding, when he continued. “They have great steak here, but I can’t eat red meat before sex, so I thought we could do sex before dinner instead of after.”

Totally. Serious.

I about had a heart attack because in my limited experience I don’t know what one says to that. Besides no thank you, obviously. But I hate rejecting people. I hate it. I teach the second grade. I’m all about kindness and inclusion and not hurting feelings. Which is stupid, I know. Bad behavior does not deserve a reward. That’s what I tell my classroom. Be kind, class. Treat each of your classmates as a friend. Compliment each other. If you know something, share. If you can help someone, help. When they do, they earn classroom coins that they can exchange for special prizes in my classroom store. When they’re unkind to a classmate they lose a coin.

But those rules don’t apply to dating. So while I wanted to ask my date to hand over his coins, I’m not sure it would have been effective—or given the message intended. But I wasn’t putting out to spare someone’s feelings. So I made it clear I wasn’t having sex with him on the first date. I tried that once, in college. No lie, the guy didn’t remember having sex with me the next day—or pretended he didn’t. Neither of which was great for my self-esteem.

So I’d declined his offer to have sex before dinner and he’d declined taking me to dinner. He’d left, and I’d gone home and eaten ramen noodles. Which is fine, it’s not that tragic. Ramen noodles are delicious.

I was on a dating site once before. Everly, my college roommate, signed me up without my knowledge. Apparently I had a lot of interest based on a profile I didn’t fill out and conversations I wasn’t having. My bestie, posing as me, was very popular. Later, she would try to tell me that it was practically the same as me being popular, but I wasn’t buying it. She did get me to go on a date disguised as a tutoring session. How she got the guy to meet me in a college library I’ll never know. It took me twenty minutes to realize he didn’t need tutoring in sophomore English, that he had in fact graduated with a degree in engineering four years prior. It took another five minutes for me to explain to him that I wasn’t the girl he’d been chatting with online and apologize for my roommate’s well-meaning interference.

I wasn’t interested in Everly’s matchmaking. College was for studying, preparing for the future. Plus Everly thinks with her heart, not her head, and where did that ever get anyone? I mean, yes, she did marry a billionaire who’s crazy in love with her… okay, never mind, my point sucks. But I’m not Everly. Flying by the seat of your pants and thinking with your heart works for girls like Everly, but not for girls like me. Men gravitate towards Everly. I send off warning signals that say, Too much work.

Anyway, I don’t need a man or anything. I might want one, but I don’t need one. I’m capable of taking care of myself. I don’t need anyone to save me or fix my life. Totally ridiculous. I don’t need flowers and butterflies, I really don’t.

I graduated in May, moved into my own apartment in June and started my job as a second-grade teacher in August. I’m totally nailing life.

Except…

Except dating isn’t any easier than it was in high school. Or college. Meaning it’s not great. Dating is basically three hours of talking to a stranger, which is stupid, right? I don’t enjoy that. I mean who enjoys that? Who? Who are those people? It’s weird. Dating is weird.

And as much as I don’t need a man, it’d be nice to have one. I’ll get better at dating though, I will. Practice makes perfect, right? That’s what I tell my students. They learn something new every week and it’s not always easy. Some lessons are trickier than others. Some kids learn at a different pace than others, and that’s okay. So I’m not as good at dating as my friends are. I’ll figure it out. Eventually.

The waitress stops back and takes our orders and the second she leaves Everly turns her attention on me.

“So, how’s the dating going?” Everly asks. “Have you gotten any more POD’s?”

“What’s a POD?” I ask her, confused.

“Proof of dick,” Everly says with a nod when we all stare at her.

“Is that what it’s called now?” Sophie asks while rubbing the side of her bump with a grimace.

“Not yet,” Everly says while swirling the straw in her glass. “But I’m trying to make it catch on. It’s a little classier than ‘dick pic’, don’t you think?” She takes a sip of her iced tea and then sets the glass down, brows raised as we all stare at her. “What?”

“How exactly are you intending to make it catch on?”

“I’m so glad you asked, Chloe. The thing is, I’m married, so no one is sending me POD’s anymore,” she begins.

“Right,” I agree. “I would hope not.”

“But you, my friend, are still dating, so I thought you could—”

“No,” I interrupt. “No. Stop talking.”

“All you need to do,” she continues anyway, “is reply to the dick pics you get and say, ‘Nice POD.’ Or even, ‘Nice POD, LOL.’”

“Nope, not doing it. I am not going to encourage dick pics so you can coin a new phrase. No.”

“Okay, no problem,” she says with a shrug. She’s quiet for exactly three seconds before her mouth opens again. “How about, ‘Why are you sending me a POD?’ That way you’re still delivering the branding message, but without the encouragement.”

I stuff a forkful of pasta into my mouth, glare at Everly and shake my head no.