The Awful Dating Trend: A Short Story
E: “Come on over. I’m safe. I promise.”
It was the third time in the last week he had invited me over to his house. I saw the text preview and put my phone face down on the table.
“I’m safe.”
Obviously, if he wasn’t safe, he wouldn’t tell me. He wouldn’t text, “Hey, come on over. Can’t promise you’ll go back alive. But come on over.”
Urgh. But, I really wanted to see him. From his pictures and the few conversations we had over the phone in the last couple of weeks, he seemed like someone I could totally fall in love with. I would say I already was maybe kind of falling for him, but hey, I wasn’t going to make that sort of a claim for someone I hadn’t even met. Even for me, that was stupid.
Later that evening, I asked Tanvi what she thought of his proposition. She was the one who got me to download a dating app, something I agreed to rather reluctantly. I had now been using it for a few months, and had even gone on a few dates, but it didn’t feel natural. It wasn’t me. Fuck it. Who was I kidding? This wasn’t a good enough excuse to not meet E.
‘Just go, ya. You’re thinking too much about it.’
‘But what if he’s a psycho killer or something?’
Tanvi guffawed like she was a psycho killer who had successfully convinced her prey that she was harmless. Her prey, of course, being me.
‘Shut the fuck up,’ I hissed, and stood up to grab the second bottle of wine.
‘I mean, it’s okay ya. Everybody does it. Don’t be silly.’
‘Have you?’
She raised her eyebrow at me.
‘Gone to a stranger’s house you met on some weird dating app?’
‘It’s not weird ya. What’s wrong with you? It’s okay. How else are you supposed to meet some hot firang?’ Tanvi gave me a disgruntled eye-roll as she refilled our glasses of wine.
‘Don’t worry. You just share the address with me, and keep your phone handy. I’ll call you every hour to check.’
So, with that assurance, on a particularly rainy evening, I hailed a cab to the address E Whatsapped me. ‘That’s a fancy pin-code, dude,’ Tanvi had told me when I showed it to her. Whatever. As long as he wasn’t a psycho killer.
At six feet four, he stood taller than any Indian guy I’d ever come across. His perfect posture only added to his frame, and when he stooped to give me a peck on my cheek, I felt like Thumbelina, even though, he was no Cornelius, clearly.
E’s father was a diplomat at the American Embassy. When he got posted in New Delhi, the entire family was thrilled because they finally had a chance to experience the “rich culture of India.” Such a clichéd white flesh fantasy. But, hey, that meant that I was now snuggling up with a rather good looking, tall and athletic white chocolate boy. Their fascination with the Indian culture was surely making some of my fantasies come true.
At some point, when the third or fourth song came on in the Bollywood movie we were watching to sate his curiosity, we kissed. And that first kiss, I still remember. It was soft and slow. Leisurely and indulgent. And it tasted like apple candy.
‘You’re a good kisser,’ he said when we finally stopped. Though I had goosebumps thinking about how I was a better kisser than all the other girls he kissed before me, over the years, I have come to realise that that’s just something 19-year-old boys say to 19-year-old girls they kiss. It’s the first thing they do to establish that your body exists for their pleasure; that your pleasure doesn’t matter. Men who don’t assume such superiority ask instead, ‘How was that for you?’
Anyway, of course, despite what happened the year before, I was still young and stupid, and that comment sparked all sorts of fantasies about being the hottest, coolest, funnest, funniest, most amazing woman he’d ever met, and ever would.
‘I’m a virgin,’ I blurted out without thinking, eager to please him some more, implying that I was his for the taking.
‘Oh!’ He, to my surprise, seemed taken aback, but quickly recovered from his shock and began kissing me again. This time with some caressing and fondling that I didn’t mind. But then, he stopped short of sliding my panty away.
‘What happened?’
‘I don’t want to rush you,’ E declared, and turned to the TV.
‘No, no, you’re not rushing me. I’m… I… this… I like you.’ I didn’t know what else to say. I wasn’t quite sure I liked him yet. This was the first time I had met him, and other than his heady cologne, and bright pink socks, I didn’t know anything about how he liked to live his life. But, I had heard that chemistry is better with someone you have an emotional connection with, and given how smoothly our lips had melted into each other’s, I figured there must be some feelings.
‘Well, umm… I’m not going anywhere,’ he said, patting my shoulder, before he turned back to the TV.
Later when I relayed the incident to Tanvi, removing the minor detail about me being a virgin, she guffawed again like a psycho killer. ‘You’re so stupid, ya,’ she said, snorting between words. ‘Obviously, now he won’t have sex with you.’
I panicked. What if I was making the same mistake I made last year? Was E another weirdo who would go bat shit crazy on me for just wanting to spend time with him? What was he on that made him so disinterested in sex? Or even just making out? We could’ve continued fooling around, but he just switched off!
I spent most of the night tossing and turning in my bed. At around 4 am, I gave up on getting any shuteye, and took out the nearly empty bottle of wine from the fridge. I sat on the wicker chair in the balcony, taking small sips straight from the bottle. My mind raced. I shouldn’t have gone over. I shouldn’t have listened to Tanvi — she always has the worst ideas when it comes to men! But, I’m in this now, and I can’t stop thinking of him. Maybe this time I won’t wait for him to lose interest before I go over again to see him. I should just call him, and if he has to break my heart, let’s just get it over with.
I switched on my phone, which I had switched off after getting sick of all the messages I was receiving on that stupid dating app that landed me in this situation. My Whatsapp beeped as soon as my data came on — one, two, four, six, seven messages, from none other than E.
“Hey. How’s it going?”
“Thanks for coming over yesterday.”
“It was fun.”
“We should do it again.”
“Also, what’s your opinion on this place called paharganj?”
“A friend recommends it. Thinking of going to check it out.”
“Ciao”
“I love paharganj!” I replied immediately, not caring about the time.
“Come with?” His reply came within seconds.
“Why are you awake at this hour?”
“Watching a movie. You?”
I sent him a picture of the bottle of wine pressed between my thighs.
“Lol. That’s suggestive.”
Yes! I still had him.
We sat on one of the rooftop bars in the main street of paharganj — I think it was called The Great Indian Bar or something equally cheesy. E, of course, loved it, like a typical first world citizen who romanticises everything subpar about the third world.
‘You might want to go easy on the chicken there,’ I warned him, certain that he would soon feel that stomach rumble.
‘Oh, I love these!’ He said, gobbling down one piece of kebab after another. ‘Food in America is so bland and boring — nothing to tease the palette. I love the food in India! Me and my Mum both. We would often go to Indian restaurants back home.’
‘So what’s your favourite Indian dish?’
‘Oh, these…’ he pointed to the seekh kebab in his hand. ‘These kebabs are hands down my favourite!’
‘What about tandoori chicken or chicken tikka?’
‘Oh, I’ve never had those.’
What? That was odd. I thought those were the two popular Indian dishes in America. I told him so.
‘Well, my Mum and I never go for the popular dishes!’
‘So, what else have you eaten?’
‘You know that big buttery bread… non? Nan?’
‘Naan.’
‘Yes, I love that too.’
‘What would you eat that with?’
‘Oh, these kebabs.’
Odd. He’d never had dal makhani, or paneer tikka, or butter chicken, or any of the other popular dishes. He’d had biryani a few times, and thought it tasted a lot like chorizo rice. Maybe I was overthinking this. How did it matter? He was excited to be here, and seemed to be really enjoying those average seekh kebabs. Good for him. I leaned across the table and gave him a peck on his lips, with a mouthful of food. He smiled, I smiled, and all was forgotten.
After lunch, we hailed separate autos and went our separate ways. But, before we parted, I got a glimpse of his broken Hindi as he haggled with the auto driver. ‘Nai, sir, aapka meter on karein.’ He was so adorable I could cut up his cheeks and eat them!
But, of course, Tanvi, my dearest Devil’s advocate had to ruin it all for me!
‘He didn’t ask you to come over?’ She inquired, completely dismissing the great time we had together.
‘No, dude. Not everything is about sex, you know,’ I knew where she was going with that line of inquiry, and decided to stub it before it fired up.
‘Hmm…’
‘I like him. Like with feelings.’
‘I don’t know… he seems a bit scatter-brained to me.’
‘What? Why?’
‘I mean, he tuned out in the middle of a make-out sesh, and then, today, didn’t carry his wallet to the date. It’s odd. Something’s up with this one.’
Odd. She used the same word for him that I did when I asked him about Indian food.
‘You’re overthinking this.’
Odd. The word was impaled on my mind. I couldn’t stop thinking about it. I recapped the last one month of talking to him over the phone, and the two times I met him. There were many things that were odd about this; about him — one that he was so insistent that I go over to his house the first time around; that he took so long to even ask to meet; that he was so chatty over the phone, but would go silent in person; that there were no pictures of him among the many pictures that were laid around the house; and that Tanvi called him odd. That was the hardest to swallow — she never called anyone odd. Not worthy, yes. Loser, yes. Liar, yes. Odd, no. Odd. Odd. Odd. Odd…… I wish this word would stop existing!
It was close to 3 am, and I couldn’t fall asleep. I reached for my phone, and texted E.
“Hey, how about hanging out at your place soon?”
No reply. Understandably so.
But, even when I woke up at 10 the next morning, there was nothing from him. I texted him again. No reply. I waited for a couple of hours. No reply.
He had done this before. Every time our conversation would get too intense, he would pull back for a few days. Go completely cold, if I have to be honest. No reply. Nothing. I saw it as a calculative, but forgivable pattern that ensured we didn’t get too close too quickly, because that never works out for anyone. Now, I wondered if this was another oddity about him. I was tempted to show up at his place unannounced — call him from outside his door, and tell him I was in the neighbourhood. But, he wouldn’t answer my call.
I had Googled him when we matched. I wanted to make sure he was actually a real person, and not some creep who had made a profile using stock images. Because, a couple of his pictures did look like they were taken off Pixabay or something — idyllic, pretty, and white. I’d found a Facebook profile by his name that put my worries to rest.
Ethan Davis.
From Utah.
Lives in New Delhi.
Friends: 317.
Mutual Friends: 0.
All other information was either private, or not there. Didn’t matter. He had a profile. His name and profile picture matched. And that was enough. Who even was active on Facebook anymore anyway?
Click. I sent him a friend request.
A week went by and I didn’t hear from him. This was the longest he had gone without reaching out, his longest vanishing act. I got busy with classes, friends, and chatting up other men on this dating app that Tanvi had got me hooked to. Then, just as I was beginning to forget him, I got a text from him.
“Come on over sometime?”
He still hadn’t accepted my friend request.
“Maybe this weekend?”
“Nah, weekend I’m out. How about tonight?”
“Tomorrow night?”
“Tomorrow lunch”
“Ok”
“Ok”
Was I justified to think that there was something off with him resurfacing like this, and acting like nothing happened? Tanvi would tell me this was normal, unless things were serious. But, no, it felt awful. I decided I would bring this up when I saw him the next day.
“Hey, we gotta wrap up lunch by 3 today. Hope you’ll be on time?”
What were these rules that he made up along the way? Can’t make out if I’m a virgin? Can’t be friends on Facebook? Wrap up lunch by 3? I thought he was spontaneous and fun, but he was turning out to be more regimented than our NCC routine!
“What’s with all these rules?”
“I have to be somewhere.”
Whatever. I didn’t want to ruin the mood. But, as I was leaving, Tanvi picked up on something and asked me what was up. She didn’t know I was going to see E. I showed her the texts.
‘Babe, he’s submarining you.’
‘What the hell is that?’
‘It’s when someone you’re sort of dating vanishes, and then resurfaces without a warning or apology. This hot-cold business. It’s called submarining.’
‘Shut up!’ I said, and scooted off.
Ethan wore the same bright pink socks he wore last time I visited him in his home. We made out on the same couch in the living room, watching the same Bollywood movie as we did last time.
‘Did you know there’s a word for what you’re doing to me?’ I asked him, in between kisses.
I liked him. Really liked him. And I hated it. I hated that he made me so weak that even after he’d been weird with me, I would show up to suit his convenience. I hated that in this moment, as I melted into his burly, delicious smelling arms, I didn’t care about the fact that he had made me feel invisible. I hated that I didn’t have it in me to suss him out before I made myself vulnerable around him.
‘You mean other than smoooooching?’ He laughed as he said ‘smooching,’ extending his o. I laughed too. It was one of those words one couldn’t utter, or hear, with a straight face.
‘No,’ I said, giggling. ‘Submarining.’
‘What the hell is that?’
I explained it to him. He laughed loudly, dunking his head down behind a cushion. He must have been the class clown back in school. I smacked his head now “resurfacing”, with another cushion. He grabbed me and began to tickle me. I twisted around, cackling, trying to wriggle out of his firm grip, but not really wanting to. He tickled me until I was breathless. It was very cute.
Had things worked out with Ethan, I’d have said that was the moment I fell in love with him.
But, that moment of unadulterated joy was disrupted, irrevocably if I may say so, by a harried call from Tanvi.
‘Listen, you need to come home.’
‘Is everything okay?’ I asked into the phone, sitting up and straightening my clothes.
‘No… I mean, yes. Kind of. I don’t know. Just come back ok? Immediately.’
I stood up, still on my phone, booking a cab.
‘Can I at least keep this?’ E asked behind me, holding on to my blue silk scarf.
‘No!’ I snatched it from him. God only knows if and when I would see him again! But, maybe, if Tanvi hadn’t called, I’d have let him keep it.
‘It smells of you.’
‘And what do I smell like?’
‘Of… flowers. Of hope.’
I wrapped the scarf around my neck, and kissed E goodbye. He didn’t get off the couch. Before I was even out of the door, he had switched his attention to the TV.
Tanvi sat me down and handed me a cup of coffee. She then opened her laptop.
‘Ethan is worst than submarining you. He’s catfishing you.’
‘Now, what the hell is catfishing?’
‘What did his bio say on the app? That he’s living the diplomat life by proxy or something, right?’
‘Yeah. His Dad’s a diplomat.’
‘No, baby. His Dad’s still in America.’
‘Oh my God… what are you saying, Tanvi?’
‘Dude, he’s an escort.’ She turned her laptop to me.
There he was. On RentABoy dot com.
Name: Ares
Age: 24
From: USA
Bio: DDD free. Always discrete. Up for anything you need.
There were five pictures, and two were the same idyllic ones from his profile on the app. He must have done a portfolio shoot. Tanvi Googled his number, and ended up on this website. The number belongs to the point of contact on this website, assuming, his “boss”. That would explain his disappearances.
‘But how did you find out about his Dad?’
‘I made a fake profile and sent him a friend request on Facebook.’
‘And he accepted it?’
‘Immediately.’ She paused when she saw the confused look on my face. ‘I made a fake white girl profile.’
I rolled my eyes. So, he was a liar, and racist.
‘And then, I went through his friend list, and found this other Davis, who by the way, is HOT! I mean, DILF!’
‘Okay, shut up. Then?’
‘Yeah, so that was his Dad, and look…’ She opened Davis Sr, Thomas Davis’s profile. Like most people from his generation, he seemed to be unaware of privacy settings, and had his pictures and wall posts public. There was a picture of his, with Ethan, from a year ago, outside what looked like an airport. The caption read: “Seeing my dear son off for his next adventure. Always so proud of you, son. Be safe in India!’
‘So, wait…? No wonder he keeps disappearing on me. He gets busy with his clients, or his boss or pimp or whatever, takes his phone away.’
‘Yeah. And he doesn’t live in that house.’
‘How do you know?’
‘I have a friend who lives in the neighbourhood. After I found this website, I called him.’
Tanvi took a long, dramatic pause, and held my hand in hers.
‘It’s the pimp’s house. They keep bringing girls there, he told me.’
‘So, he was scoping me out for his business?’
Tanvi leaned in and gave me a tight hug. That was the first in a series of consolatory hugs she would offer me in the years to come.
‘But, you’re here now. Safe.’
