What I Learned From My Passionate Tinder Date

I recently got back on Tinder. Let me tell you about tonight’s date. We matched two days ago. A beautiful Italian man. Pro surfer. After seeing so many dudes’ profile pictures holding up pictures of fish or giving the middle finger, this Italian dude’s beautiful surfing photos were very, very appealing. Seriously, he’s a beautiful man.

I messaged him first, “Hi Juan!” (not his real name)

He messaged back right away, “Hello! I just got back from vacation. Great waves there.”

So… this is somewhat of a red flag, someone who doesn’t ask you anything about yourself and proceeds to give you all sorts of information about themselves without being asked. But I continued on because maybe he was just really excited about his trip… and those surfing photos, though.

Me, “Where did you go?”

Juan, “Costa Rica. Best waves.”

Me, “Awesome, I’ve never been there. I’ve never been surfing either. How long have you lived here?”

He has only been in the US for six months. Moved here from Italy for work.

Our conversation continues with me asking him a bunch of typical get to know you questions, him replying but asking me nothing about myself. I think, maybe it’s a language barrier thing and… those surfing photos, though.

After about four minutes of Tinder conversation, he says he doesn’t like to text, he likes to talk on the phone. Normally, I wouldn’t give out my phone number after four minutes of non-intellectually stimulating Tinder talk, but you know those photos, and again maybe texting is hard for someone new to English.

He calls. He’s excited to talk to me. It’s a little difficult to understand him with the accent but its exciting to talk to someone new and “exotic”. We talk for 6 minutes. He really likes me. I’m very nice. I’m the kind of woman that he’s interested in. This is completely absurd to me but at the same time flattering.

This short phone conversation revolves around him telling me how passionate he is and also about wind. He likes to windsurf. If I was playing a drinking game where I drank every time I heard the word “passionate” or “wind”, I’d be wasted, maybe even passed out.

He asks me two questions, “what do you like to do?” and do I want to meet him at the lake tomorrow. It’s supposed to be good wind.

So, again I’m thinking the language is the barrier here. In person communication will be better. I agree to meet him.

I have about two hours of date time before I have to go to work. He calls when I’m parking by the lake. The wind is bad. Hopefully the wind will be strong again soon. I walk to the beach. He is even more beautiful than his photos and, I think, he doesn’t really need to speak English that well.

We sit in the sand. He likes my shoes. I’m very nice. Am I passionate? Because he is passionate. He really likes me. Three minutes later, the wind is back! He hops on his board and is off in the lake.

I know nothing about windsurfing. It looks fun but I don’t find it interesting or exciting to watch. He comes back to the beach, the wind is just not good. He can tell though that the wind will be back in a few minutes. And he’s right! Here comes that sweet, sweet wind. He’s back in the water and I’m watching on the beach. People are cheering and clapping at his tricks and I’m pretending to be impressed but have no idea what I should be impressed with. At this point I’m starting to wish I was playing that drinking game. There’s a lot of wind.

40 minutes later, yes 40 minutes!, he’s back. What did I think? Did he do a good job? The wind is not the best today. Normally, the wind is much stronger and he can do more tricks. He can teach me how to windsurf, if I like. I do like this. It keeps my interest, finally. And I picture one of those cheesy movies where the guy is teaching the girl how to play pool, standing behind her and leaning into her romantically.

Our time is up and I tell him I have to leave. He tells me how passionate he is. Am I passionate? This is weird. But I think culturally I don’t know what that means to him. I say I’m passionate about some things. He is very passionate. He also loves the wind. Drink, please.

A hug goodbye. He is topless from the not so good wind. He is very muscley. This is how Italians say goodbye, he says. He kisses me on each cheek, then goes to really kiss me. He is very muscely. I kiss him back. He is passionate. And this turns into a small make-out session on the beach. It makes me uncomfortable. It’s the middle of the day, there are lots of people around. I’m disappointed in the quality of this as well. One of those passionate kissers who dart their tongues in and out of your mouth. Like a little snake. It’s not at all the passion I was hoping for.

He does not walk me to my car. Definite red flag. He texts later that evening. Do I want to hang out with him tomorrow? He could make dinner. Okay, so at this point I’m like 80% sure that this is not going to work out, but… maybe if I see him away from wind and if he’s cooking some awesome Italian meal that would be cool. And I’m an optimist. In my mind there’s that small 20% hope that we could go backpacking through Europe together, and he could teach me how to surf and we would be a cool couple that does fun athletic adventurous activities and we’d start a business together and make a really good looking baby with beautiful olive skin and we’d have an awesome life and get to travel back to Italy to visit the family a few times a year. I’m not sure if other women do this, but I feel like I project a version of this onto every possible mate I come across.

So, for the sake of our future unborn olive skinned child, I agree to meet him at his place for dinner. This is very out of character for me. I think maybe I should be worried going to some stranger’s house. But I think, I need to be more adventurous and put myself out there more if I want to find an adventurous mate, and I’m really hungry.

He lives in not a great area. There’s no parking and I park two blocks away from his building. I call him when I’m walking there to tell him I had to park far away and to stay on the phone with me until I get there. He’s on the third floor. He doesn’t come out to meet me.

I’m excited because the hallway smells really good like baked chicken or something delicious. I knock on his door. He lets me in. The smell is not coming from his place. There is no food. I’ve been duped!

He says he wasn’t hungry. It’s a studio apartment. So, there’s a table and a bed. I’m irritated. I want to knock on the neighbor’s door for that baked chicken. He pulls me into him to kiss me. I am not into it. Again, he tells me he’s passionate. He does not offer me anything to drink. I ask if he wants to walk somewhere to get a drink or something to eat. He has to get up early, so no.

I suddenly realize I know nothing about this person, besides the wind and passion, and I’m alone with him in his bedroom. He is super, super attractive though. He playfully pulls me down on the bed next to him and there’s that snake tongue again. I’m pretty amazed at the balls on this guy, not literally — I did not see those! Does this happen to him? He just invites random women to his apartment and they sleep with him?

He’s getting extra handsy with the bed make-out session. I tell him to slow down. I don’t know anything about you, I say. He asks me what I want to know. I ask his birthday and middle name. Like that matters somehow. Interesting fact, Italians don’t have middle names. I realize I don’t know his last name either.

I suggest we watch a movie. He asks what I want to watch. I’m excited because Narcos has a new season out. He says ok but puts on American Pie instead. What?! That is not even remotely close.

We lay on the bed. His hand every so often creeping up my leg and into my shorts. Me, gently removing his hand while asking what’s your favorite movie, what’s your favorite food, still trying to determine if our European backpacking trip and Italian home visits are viable.

The hands are getting handsier. I look at his beautiful teeth, hair, skin, that face and we make out some more. But that tongue has got to stop. I back away. He comes at me with more passion. I push him away. This, btw, thankfully, does not end up in a sexual assault if that’s what you were thinking, just a very passionate douchey dude.

He gets irritated and says that I am not passionate. I say that I am. It’s our first argument.

I make out with him a bit more, I think to try to prove to him that, yes, I am passionate. But that is, of course, not enough. It’s hands city at this point. I remove his hands from my shorts and tell him that its not going to go any further than us just kissing. He is shocked. Pissed. Why are Americans so cold? I’m not especially patriotic, but at that moment I was Rosie the Riveter, representing all American women, fighting for our rights to make out with people if we want to and to stop when we want to.

This situation could have been a lot worse. I told him I wanted to go. I made him walk me to my car. We made out for a bit in the elevator. That face.

There will be no Italian Christmas trips to visit the in-laws. No couples surf lessons. No business partner. No European backpacking. And definitely no half-Italian babies. I’m passionate about that!

I think what I learned from this Tinder tale is that red flags are red flags. If something is irritating you, it doesn’t work to pretend that it doesn’t exist because maybe the guy will be someone you’ve conjured up. Projecting who you want onto someone who isn’t that, is a waste of time for both people. Wind or no wind, the dating waters are fresh with fish. I will keep trying until I’m backpacking through Europe with my business and life partner. I am also passionate about that :)

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