Stella Grey - The Heartfix - An Online Dating Diary

Next, a nice-looking man called Henry wrote to ask if I was ever in Cumbria, because he’d love to invite me to lunch. Henry was 60, and I had to ask myself how I felt about 60, and specifically about being naked with 60. (You may already be saying that this is ageist. I’m just telling you honestly what I thought.) In any case, it wasn’t a qualm that lasted long. Most of us are going to get there, after all, to 60, and we’ll hope to be loved then, whether we have a wrinkly bum or not. I reminded myself that Harrison Ford was now in his seventies; would I say no to Harrison? Reader, I would not. An ex-policeman, Henry was tall and upright, broad-shouldered, and had a knowing look around the eyes, as if he’d been dented by life and had survived and wasn’t going to be a pushover. He was also near-bald, but a middle-aged woman who has issues with hair-loss had better go and buy a stack of jigsaws in readiness for the long nights alone.

He sent a head and shoulders shot that he’d just taken in his kitchen, showing a smiling attractive man in a frayed blue shirt. He was standing in a tiny cottage in the wilds, where he was attempting to live self-sufficiently. His dating site profile was skimpy; when I asked him why it didn’t give much away, he told me that words are meaningless and meetings are everything. After the Peter fiasco it was a view I’d come to have some sympathy for. On the other hand, a woman needs some clues and pointers if she’s going to travel right across England for lunch. He’d volunteered his surname and village, but I couldn’t find him anywhere via Google. I realise this is new-fashioned, but not being able to find someone on the web, not a trace, is a cause of anxiety to me. I’m simultaneously repelled and reassured by people who are bedded in to social media, who can be observed being droll on Twitter, who have many friends on Facebook and are demonstrably non-psychotic there. Henry seemed like a loner. He confessed that he didn’t like the internet; in fact, he loathed the internet and all its workings, he said. He thought it was responsible for a decline in our human culture. It’s an interesting debate but Henry didn’t seem interested in arguing the point. Some things are black and white, he said, and the internet has been bad news for the world, and that’s that. Well, not politically, I don’t think, I ventured; it’s brought people together, in terms of political cohesion, don’t you think? I mean, I think it’s hard to argue that it hasn’t become a voice of the voiceless; at its best it can sidestep news blackouts and bring worthwhile stories forward; it’s been known to threaten tyrannies, and help right wrongs. Henry wasn’t having it. He was, he said, a happy Luddite, and was convinced that humankind would be happier if it followed his lead.

‘I have paper books, and vinyl records,’ Henry wrote. He was confident that this was a superior culture to all others. ‘Come and see me. Come and visit. I’ll sacrifice a chicken.’

‘We could meet at a restaurant,’ I replied. ‘I wouldn’t feel comfortable coming to your house.’

‘It’ll be fun to meet someone younger,’ he said. ‘You seem young to me. The last woman I dated was 66.’

‘Can I ask you something? Are women of 66 looking only for companionship?’

‘God no; they’re all gagging for it,’ he wrote. Then another message arrived. ‘Why are you on this dating site? The truth now. No fibbing.’ It was hard to know what he meant. ‘You’re not coming to see me, are you?’ he wrote before I could reply. ‘You wouldn’t like me anyway. I have dirt under my fingernails. I don’t have any money. I watch a lot of sport on TV.’ His Luddite sensibility, I noted, didn’t extend to banning television.

While I was pondering, I received a surprise invitation to dinner. I emailed Henry and said that I thought it best to tell him that on Saturday I was going out to dinner with a man I vaguely knew. He didn’t reply, and when I went back on the site I discovered that he’d blocked me, so that I couldn’t message him again. The man who was going to take me out to dinner realised on Thursday afternoon that he was still in love with his ex-wife, and cancelled.

The turn of summer into autumn brought Finn, a man with thick, layered short hair, reddish brown, and smiley eyes and a beard and an interesting job in the arts.

Finn had a lot of charm, and a diverse life and plenty to say for himself. He had a creative job and a wide social network, and I was chuffed when all this light was shone in my direction. We emailed a little bit and then he wanted to go over to Skype. There are online daters who like Skype, and I can see why: quite apart from the potential for nakedness between strangers, it can be used for pre-screening. It’s almost like meeting. There are people who regard an hour spent on Skype with someone as a date. I’ve heard it described as a clean date : you get to ‘meet’ without having to risk a coffee shop or wine bar failure, without having to climb out of a bistro bathroom window. But I didn’t like Skype. I found Skype nerve-racking. I’d chatted to a man on Skype once before. I passed the first-round interview – which is how I thought of it – and was asked out, but then the date’s face fell when we met in person and he saw the body that was attached to the head. I was made to feel that I’d been guilty of some sort of confidence trick (what had I been expected to do – parade round my sitting room in a swimsuit?). So I wasn’t that keen on Skype. However, Finn was insistent that we should break the ice before meeting. He was more of a visual person than a verbal one, he said; he was dyslexic and typing took him a while. I felt bad, hearing this, about my knee-jerk reaction to men who can’t spell or punctuate properly. It had been a blanket kind of rejection thus far. I’d had a policy that associated those who couldn’t spell with those who didn’t read. (There’s a correlation, for sure, but no, it isn’t reliable.) I’d written, earlier in the dating diary: ‘I’m sorry, but if he can’t punctuate I don’t want to go near his pants.’ And now I felt bad about that.

Anyway, the upshot was that I said yes to Skype and answered nervously when the laptop screen began to ring.

So there he was – the cherubic and yet grave face of Finn the bearded. ‘Hey,’ he said, his eyes amused. ‘How are you?’

I’ve never found that an easy question to answer; I mean, what is it really asking? I told him I was all right. I didn’t have any comedy lines prepared. I was too nervous to be anything but robotic. ‘And how are you?’ I asked. ‘What have you been doing today?’

He didn’t answer the question. Instead he wanted to know what sort of sex I liked. I was vague and embarrassed. What’s wrong? he asked me. I said I was just nervous.

‘There’s no need for that, my little peach,’ he said. ‘Look, let’s ring off now, but let’s do it again tomorrow.’

I agreed, even though I didn’t want to. I had a general sense of having been cornered. Sometimes, though, we conspire against and corner ourselves.

‘Would you show me your tits?’ he asked, half an hour into our second Skype call. Strangely, for someone who detests this kind of behaviour, my reaction was helpless laughter. I got the giggles, and didn’t go into immediate emergency laptop shutdown mode. I’d drunk a whole bottle of wine – cabbed up – so as to feel less ill at ease, but it also dealt with the inhibitions.

I was lying on my side, and did as I was told and unbuttoned my shirt. I’ve always been a people-pleaser, keen to impress, keen to be liked, and sometimes this overrides my own inner voice, and caution, and basic good sense. ‘Oh my God,’ he said. ‘Look at your tits in that bra, oh my God you’re incredible.’ I slid the straps off my shoulders and he groaned. He was standing at the webcam wanking by then. ‘Christ, we have to meet, we have to meet soon and do this in person,’ he said.