I’ve met a handful (OK, maybe two handfuls) of guys on Tinder since January 2014. I dated one for an extended period of time -- might’ve loved him. Another had a baby on the way (I was not aware) and a third might very well have been a rapist. Dodged the last two bullets, barely.

One guy in particular – I’ll tell you about him now – seemed normal enough. Blond hair, blue eyes, from Cleveland. A music video director, of course, with an apartment in Hollywood. We’d texted on and off for a few months, but had never actually met. One night, finally, the stars, or just our busy schedules, aligned.

He asked me to meet at his place (shouldn’t have) and to come upstairs for a drink before the real drink (also shouldn’t have). But I did and it was luckily all fine. He had a little fluffy old white dog and we talked about the pit bull I had just started fostering a couple weeks before. We both loved dogs. Ah, something in common. Always a nice feeling, right?

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It’s nicer, though, when there’s alcohol involved. We had whiskey at his place and then went to a bar or two; I can’t remember much about that night. Piano Bar, maybe. I don’t really like Hollywood bars, but I do like that one. I remember that after a couple drinks I did start to get that warm and fuzzy feeling. We talked, laughed and he pulled my bar stool just a little closer. I’m a pretty good judge of character for the most part and he wasn’t intimidating or alarming in any way, so I let the night unfold.

One thing led to another and we ended up at his apartment again. After a few hours -- use your imagination -- I started to get tired and sober; it was time for me to go home.

“I have to go,” I told him. “My dog needs to go out.” He protested a little about me leaving.

“I’ll text you later,” I said. I went home, walked the dog, went to sleep and the next morning ... I freaked.


We’d used a condom, but ... let’s just say stuff happens.

I texted him: “You have to get me Plan B,” I said. It was the least he could do. He laughed it off. I swore I’d never speak to him again and I got it myself. I also got tested for STDs because I can be neurotic and crazy.

Days later, he invited me to dinner at his place and I debated it. Is he trying to make up for it? I wondered. Maybe he felt bad about not helping me out with the Plan B.

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I gave myself the pep talk: I am letting this guy cook dinner tomorrow because I’m bored, and because who cares. Life is short. Why not give someone a second chance? Maybe we misunderstood each other. Maybe we were just too drunk. Maybe tomorrow he will cook for me, and we will sit on his roof and stare at the stars, and it will be amazing.

He did cook (a.k.a. microwaved frozen mashed potatoes, green beans and steak) for me. And we did sit on the roof and look at the stars with his dog.

He apologized for being insensitive to my Plan B situation and the night was as lovely as I’d hoped. We shared stories, laughed about the condom mishap and I went home once again.

But just a few days later his dog was gone. The fluffy little white Pomeranian was old; he was having health issues and had to be put to sleep. My heart went out to my Tinder date, though I couldn’t really see us continuing to date in the future.


As fate would have it, I was planning to leave town and had no one to watch my foster dog, the pit bull. I reached out to him: “I know you just lost your dog, so maybe it’s too soon. But if you want company this weekend, Russell is a great cuddler.”

That was the end of the beginning. I came back from a weekend in Orange County and my Tinder date did not want to give my foster dog back.

“We went to the beach together a few times. What a great dog,” he said. “I think I want to keep him. What do I need to do?”

We became friends during the paperwork process, hiking Runyon Canyon together, walking Russell down Hollywood Boulevard and through tree-lined neighborhoods in Los Feliz.


It was all quite romantic except it wasn’t, really, for whatever reason.

When the rescue group came to my Tinder date’s apartment to finalize everything, I was there. We took a picture together, the two of us and Russell, and the rescue group posted it on Facebook as if we had all become one happy little family. They became a happy little family.

And although it all felt nice, alcohol or not, I am still searching for the right guy.

The author has written for Marie Claire, Seventeen and the Getty Iris. She lives with her happy Lab mix in Atwater Village.


L.A. Affairs chronicles the current dating scene in and around Los Angeles. We pay $300 a column. If you have comments or a true story to tell, email us at LAAffairs@latimes.com.

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