“It’s hard to be a sex addict when no one wants to fuck you.”
I said that at a meeting the other day and got a good laugh. Also a couple of offers for sex. But when it comes to dating in the rooms, I’m like a dog who doesn’t… you know the expression. I’m not going to cuss twice in the same paragraph. Anyway, I don’t think they were serious.
Where I really get lots of offers is, of course, online. The few who are not overseas boiler room romance scammers have one thing in common: They are married. Married for decades. Sometimes they will admit it, adding that their wife approves (right - let’s call her and ask) and some keep it secret up until they run out of excuses why you can’t come over to their place. But most of them will never come over to your place, much less invite you to theirs. They don’t actually want you. They just want to know that you want them.
I get it, I really do. They want some assurance that they are still attractive. That they can still “pull,” as the British put it - well, that’s how they put it back in the 20th century when I lived in England. They just want to flirt a little and feel young and virile and, I assume, have a wank (yes, we’re back in England again). I understand and I empathize with them. They also piss me off.
I refer you back to my comment on The Savage Lovecast. Like I said in the column, “People use online dating apps as a way to get validation hits without giving a thought to the person on the other end of the flirtation… That is selfish and thoughtless and shitty.” They are, after all, lying. Of course, they don’t think they are lying. “Don’t Even Notice I Am Lying” … spells DENIAL. The acronym is a joke in recovery circles because it’s a common problem among addicts.
So the question is: Are these guys sex addicts? Love addicts? Neither? Both?
Recently, I got to put the question to one of them. After being textually love-bombed — itself a red flag — by an otherwise interesting and attractive fellow I matched with on Bumble, he revealed that he was married. For 40 years, no less, to his high school sweetheart. And then he discovered Bumble. Within a few months, he was texting with “over 100 ladies.” Rather than just blocking him, I asked him, first, how the hell he finds the time and then I asked “What are you looking for? What hole is it filling? Does it feel addictive?”
Bless his heart, he was very forthcoming. After decades of fidelity, he found himself on the wrong end of a random pig butchering text. You know the scam, where you get an apparently wrong number text from a charming stranger who then engages you in conversation and it turns into a cryptocurrency dodge. So the poor soul was as much victim as perpetrator here. People, stop being assholes online, will ya?
Anyway, “The attention was nice,” confessed my pen pal. “And yes, there was a dopamine addiction.” He thought maybe if he had someone else to chat with, he would get over the con artist. He asked ChatGPT how to find women for a casual relationship (yes, really), and it suggested Bumble (yes, really!)
Next thing you know, he’s texting with 100 women all around the country. Women who, mind you, think he’s local, single and looking. And he can’t stop. It is starting to tear pieces off his soul. Even his church isn’t helping. This goes on for months until he runs into the one person who’s going to get him to slow down and take a look at himself. Sorry about that.
I heard from him this morning. He’s taken down his profile. He did eat “salmon, hamburger, a large pizza, a box of chocolate chip cookies, mint ice cream, and a can of pineapple” yesterday. Filling the metaphorical hole in a fairly literal way. But I don’t think anyone ever blew up a 40-year marriage over chocolate chip cookies, so he should take the W here. The cookies, at least, knew what they were getting into.