His Bumble bio and photos were appealing to me. He also traveled frequently and loved to dance. On the phone, he seemed a little silly, but when he suggested we go salsa dancing on our first date, I decided he could be a little silly. I love dancing too. There was a lesson at 9pm followed by live music from a band.
Despite my difficulties with dating in Los Angeles, I enthusiastically replied, “Sounds good! I can’t wait.”
“Great,” he said. “I’ll see you at 8:30. We can grab a drink and then you can join the lesson.”
He emphasized the word “you.” In a jovial tone, I replied, “Well, we’ll both do the lesson.”
The nerd suddenly turned into a snob. “I’m an expert salsa dancer. I don’t need lessons.”
I was left wanting more. “But this is a date. We’ll do the lesson together because it’s fun. Besides, there are never enough men. You’ll have to join in.”
His attitude came back to the surface: “As I said, I am an expert salsa dancer. I don’t need lessons. That’s for you, who are a beginner.”
I told him firmly: “You are going to do the lesson with me. See you on Friday.”
I had been hesitant and scared when I jumped into the world of online dating a year and a half after my long-term partner's suicide. I wanted to take it slow. I wasn't quite ready to find the right man, and I was intimidated by the prospect of finding the right man at that time. I also had a lot of dating questions, like “How do I talk about my most recent relationship?” or “Is it better to meet for coffee or dinner?”
By putting myself out there since my boyfriend's death, I've found mind-blowing material that I've shared with my friends, who are eager to support my love adventures. Sometimes, they've even gleaned dating information based on my strange encounters, which have turned out to be plentiful.
After all, there was the guy who, on our first date, asked me if I had been “taken good care of down there,” moving his hands toward my private area. There was the guy who broke my bed. There was the guy who barked orders at the hotel staff (he insisted we eat in a conference room that was reserved for a corporate lunch).
My hope was that things might go better with Mr. Salsa.
At 8:30 p.m. on date night, I walked into the bar at the Warehouse restaurant in Marina del Rey. It was empty, except for my date.
When his beer arrived, he opened his mouth and used both hands to brutally remove his aligners. I watched as he slammed his fists into his face to remove the saliva-soaked aligners, which he then placed in a small blue box.
He wiped his hands on his jeans, smiled broadly and pointed at his teeth. “I use Invisalign on top and bottom.”
An entire conversation about aligners broke out as another dialogue played out in my head. I thought, Really, Mr. Salsa? Did he really take his braces off within five minutes of meeting me? Why is he taking them off at the bar? Why not in the car before he gets here? Why does he have to take them off? He’s just drinking a beer! Why are we engaged in a long conversation about how to cut cost by making three sets at once?
I wanted to go home, but I would feel bad about leaving. I'm always too nice.
The salsa class was about to start and, as expected, my date refused to participate. I happily participated and was relieved not to have to interact with him. In the end, the teacher dragged him onto the dance floor. As I had anticipated, the ratio of women to men was not even close to equal.
After class, I danced with Mr. Salsa. I'll admit: he was a good partner and a fantastic leader. But he was impossible to stand. He said, “You're not that terrible. I can probably work with this.”
He led me back to the bar. Just as I was about to thank him and wish him a good rest of the evening, he looked me up and down, pointed toward the dance floor, and said bluntly, “I’m going back there. But you’re pretty. I’m sure someone will ask you to dance.”
I watched in bewilderment as he walked onto the runway to introduce himself to a beautiful brunette in a red dress.
That was my cue to head for the door. As I turned to leave, a new dance partner grabbed my elbow. His shirt was unbuttoned to his navel. Gold chains adorned his chest. In my 5’3” heels, I was much taller than him.
After our quick dance, I met up with the original Mr. Salsa. Very politely, I tried to slow down the pace gently. “This was fun, but I better get home.”
He said, “It's an amazing night. I'll take you.”
This time I was more forceful: “Oh, no. Seriously, stay. Enjoy. But thank you.”
The next morning he texted me for a second date, but I was adamant. There would be no second date.
Mr. Salsa has been added to my bad dates list.
As for me, I had assumed that my baggage would be too heavy to carry on dates after all the turmoil with my boyfriend, his mental illness and eventual suicide and my subsequent grief, trauma and devastation. For a long time, there have been questions surrounding my boyfriend’s death. I will never have all the answers and I’m okay with that. But in terms of the dating scene, I’ve realized that despite everything I’ve been through, I’m in a much better place than most of the potential suitors I keep meeting in Los Angeles.
Because on the other side of my years-long back-and-forth healing process — which can best be described as overwhelming, challenging, and uncomfortable — there has been recovery and growth. I’ve also continued to trust that despite my often disastrous and discouraging dating stories, there is an excellent partner waiting for me.
In the words of Mr. Salsa, I'm going back there.
The author is a nonprofit executive and a native Los Angeles native. She is working on publishing her memoir about life and lessons after suicide, which includes accounts of the Los Angeles dating scene. She is on Instagram: @nicole_lise
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