When Donnie Met Hillary: Dating Outside the Bubble

I had no qualms about going on a date with a Trump voter, but things soured fast when the subject of race came up.

Photo courtesy of Johnny Silvercloud

I try to be open minded when it comes to dating. I’ve dated men of all different body types, career paths and ages — including one guy a couple of decades my senior. Friends see pictures of my ex-boyfriends and accuse me of fucking with them. Maybe that’s because many of my friends aren’t as amenable. There’s my friend Lucia, who is 5 feet tall and won’t date anyone under 6 feet. Natalie won’t date anyone who lives over the Richmond Bridge or through the Caldecott Tunnel. Sure, I have my preferences — has to have integrity, can’t be a rock climber — but ultimately I’m looking for someone who pots my honey, be he Tiburonian or hairy backed.

So why not go out with a Trump voter with a shirtless selfie? This particular type of specimen wrote me a message on OkCupid that did not include typos or a plea for a submissive puma. Also, he claimed to have his own mechanic’s business, and my car’s check-engine light had been on for months. What could go wrong? It couldn’t be as bad as the time when a custom sheet cake emblazoned with my blog’s logo was delivered to my and my date’s table, followed in quick succession by him confessing that he had an STI.

Anyway, the Trump voter and I planned to meet at his garage in Concord (or at least I thought it was his garage until I checked Google Earth). He’d look into my check-engine light, and we’d drink Shock Top. But on the Saturday when we planned to meet, it was pouring rain — I might add that my windshield wipers need replacing — and I’d just found out I was being lured to a residence. I persevered, asked him if we could meet in a public place instead and was redirected to the Black Bear Diner in Walnut Creek.

Upon arrival, I was greeted by a Mr. Muscles type with shy eyes. I ordered blackberry pie à la mode and a Diet Coke. He had an omelet, pancakes and water with sugar in it. After I said, “Of course I voted for Hillary Clinton,” his lip curled up like Bob Dole’s hair. I asked that we not talk about politics

Instead, I asked him about his childhood. He grew up in the forests of Humboldt County with kerosene lamps and open fires. Hey, we had that in common: I grew up in a tiny fishing village on the Oregon coast with nothing but the Bible and the Farmers’ Almanac to read, at least according my sister’s college-admissions essay.

“Have you had any bad Internet dating experiences?” I asked. He told me he was catfished once, which made him irate to talk about. He repeatedly referred to the catfisher as a “big girl” — indeed, I’ve never heard “big girl” shouted so many times. As I choked down more pie, I wondered if it was being subtly directed at me. Our “big girl” heroine had been agreeable enough to come to his house, but fooled him with her clever tricks of photography. Miming holding the camera high above his head, he explained, “I work out. I want a hot girl, not a big girl!” I informed him that what he experienced was not actually catfishing.

After this the date devolved. He told me how he used to be in business with his friend until, and I quote, “The dumb ass went and trusted an Asian person with his money.” “Asians and Jews will take your money,” he added. I then showed him the picture of my Chinese ex-boyfriend and me at my adult bat mitzvah from a few years ago. In addition to Hillary, big girls, Asians and Jews, he didn’t like Obama, cops or homeless people who pretend to be veterans.

I thought we could get through an hour without opining, lecturing or shouting. Clearly, we had different views, but there’s so much more to talk about on a date. I didn’t expect much in the way of a love connection but naively thought I wouldn’t be demeaned or horrified. I hardly spoke. The term “mansplain” was coined well before PEOTUS Trump, but I can’t think of a more accurate verb to describe my date.

It turned out I was his sugar-water mama, because I paid for our lunch. Outside he produced an automotive diagnostic tool and told me what I already knew: that my car has some kind of emissions problem. He reminded me that it would have cost $150 if I had paid for this service. He said he could probably fix the emissions problem but only if I would hang out with him in the future. At this point, his curled lip had transformed into a dopey grin. He asked me to come with him to Safeway to pick up some Jack Daniels Tennessee Honey and Cherry Coke to bring back to his place. I said, “No thank you.” That first date with the sheet cake just moved up a notch in my dating rankings.