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L.A. Affairs: He insisted on paying for our date. Then I got his Venmo request

I returned to L.A. hoping to maintain this first-date fortune I discovered overseas.
(Maria Corte / For The Times)
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If summer 2019 has proved anything to me, it’s that L.A.’s single men are plagued with a terminal defect. To co-opt a turn-of-the-millennium term: tool-ness. This phenomenon is well-documented, a smug confirmation of a broader East Coast bias: that West Coast dudes are culturally devoid, tracksuit-wearing influencers with nothing to say beyond how much money they have and whatever their slogan-ed tees happen to espouse.

I myself stand juxtaposed between these two extremes: I’m from Texas, where being from the East Coast makes you a Yankee intellectual and being from California makes you a drop-out surfer. Nasty tropes certainly, but I think secretly we’re jealous.

I’ve gained a great affection for the Golden State in my four-ish years of residing here, and I wish my experiences could dispel some of these stereotypes — that I’ve been charmed by the likes of literate museum-going types who don sweaters (despite the Southern California inferno).

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But I can’t lie, my experiences have left me fuming that L.A. men are showboaty good-for-nothings. This summer is not the first I’ve felt dejected dating in what a recent Tinder match called “a city of beautiful people,” but when I returned to the city after a brief leave of absence, the tool-ery was even starker and quite startling.

My accidental survey of datable men began during a trip to Germany earlier this year. In Berlin, out of boredom and genuine intrigue, I resorted to my phone and perused guys in the area. There were the same kind of bros that I regularly come across in Los Angeles. But among these were a lot of seemingly down-to-earth cuties who wanted to meet a nice girl, have a lager or two, and maybe get naked if so lucky.

My first foray into German nice-boys was with a PhD student studying philosophy, emphasis on Kant, crashing with his friends, away from university for the weekend. He had a gentle yet sincere earnestness and corrected me whenever I made a joke or comment at my own expense. When we kissed, he kept calling me sweet, sweet — a literal translation of the German word for cute. Travel jitters and person-other-than-my-ex anxiety slowed the action. And he was only in town briefly. It seemed best to put a pin in it.

Another date was with a boy with British ties. Not a true German nice-boy but of a European sensibility, ostensibly an artist leaving the nest of his small hometown. We went to a bar in the former Soviet sector that was dark, red and moody. Though a casual encounter, we discussed at length our families and respective childhood traumas. A conversation that would be like pulling teeth with an Angeleno boy instead came naturally and with an air of ease. Later we visited his loft in the former Stasi headquarters, a space well-received by the artist community. We sipped on his homemade birch wine and listened to the absurd Serge Gainsbourg song “Lemon Incest” as we laughed into the night.

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Ultimately these experiences could be summed up as instances of relational tourism, but I left Berlin certain there was a solid quantity of decent men, genuine with their feelings and capable of upholding their end of the conversation.

I returned to L.A. hoping to maintain this first-date fortune.

My first date back was with a French American dude from the Valley. He’d been having drinks with a friend earlier in the evening, but we made plans to convene after. When I arrived at Cafe Stella, I was surprised to see him with company, a friend from college whom he said he happened to run into (Strike 1). I made the most of it and ordered a drink at the bar. When I turned around, I saw him talking up a gaggle of girls. Then an awkward three-way conversation ensued between me, him and “college friend.” We took a Lyft to another spot.

At the second joint I went outside for a smoke. While his friend stayed inside, date followed and took the thing from my hand, puffing without permission. He then proceeded with a self-help spiel, essentially telling me to overcome my self-doubt, despite my never expressing this, and “just go for it” (Strike 2). He spent a disconcerting time bragging about his work, mainly discussing a female art director who was only 17. Sure, a good work ethic at a young age is admirable, but given his seeming obsession with this young woman, I got the heebie-jeebies (And he’s outttt). I ordered a ride in secret once he went inside. Not a single text or call from him. The next day I was blocked.

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Date No. 2 upon returning to L.A. was much more mild in his tool-ery. I chose a spot that turned out to be near his old apartment. This meant proximity to his old stomping grounds. All was going well until he spotted a woman with whom there was obvious history. Cut to their awkward reunion with sexual tension as I sat speechless, like a bird overhead had just taken a dump on my face. For the sake of propriety we had another round. He made a point of saying goodbye to this woman before he drove me home.

Date No. 3 took the cake. We agreed to grab dinner and see “Midsommar” in Los Feliz. We also agreed upon a time. I hustled from Pasadena and made it just in time. But I was left waiting in the sticky booth of an OG Italian restaurant for half an hour. When he finally arrived, there was no effort to greet with a hug or even a handshake. (As someone with a secondary love language in physical touch, I was not impressed.)

In an enormous booth of just two, he sat on the opposite end. I kept up the niceties and talked as I eagerly waited to pay my share of the bill. (We were too late to catch the movie.) He rejected my offer to split and insisted on paying, which I took to be a nice gesture. Hey, give him the benefit of the doubt.

He tried to get me to join him on a post-dinner stroll, which seemed to imply a precursor to “going home” with him, but I didn’t want to lead him on given the lack of spark on my end. Our parting was brief yet cordial; maybe he really meant well.

Later, enjoying the peace of the ride home, I received a text: “Venmo is @_____”. I was FLOORED. He was charging me for half the meal. Apparently, in some male handbooks it is still acceptable to view dating in terms of cavemen sex transactions. I buy food, you give me sex.

In the Tool Olympics, this was the winning gold.

What knowledge has all this tool-ery left me with? That I should move to Europe? Or that I ought to beat L.A. tools at their own game? I’m willing to play the I’m going to the bathroom and getting-the-hell-out-of-there game if needed. Or perhaps that is too considerate; I should take to getting friendly with bartenders and calling up my ex to swing by mid-date. Maybe I should be Venmo-requesting — for tool-ery emotional damages.

The author is a student at the University of Southern California. She is on instagram @pushing_violets.jpg

Straight, gay, bisexual, transgender or nonbinary: L.A. Affairs chronicles the search for love in and around Los Angeles — and we want to hear your story. You must allow your name to be published, and the story you tell has to be true. We pay $300 for each essay we publish. Email us at LAAffairs@latimes.com.

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