If you’ve been a single girl in Los Angeles for a couple years, you know the “rules” of the dating scene. It’s a jungle out there, filled with animals and indecency. So when my friend Mara said to me over lunch, “He hasn’t texted in two days. Should I say something?” I already knew what had happened.
“Did you sleep with him?” I asked.
“Yes, but that has nothing to do with it.”
This is a one-night stand, L.A. style. You meet a guy on an app, he tells you everything you want to hear, he takes you on a couple dates, you like each other, you think, “Wow, he could be different,” you sleep together, and then he falls off the planet. You’re left staring at your phone, wondering what you did wrong. The thing is, you didn’t do anything wrong — this is just the game in L.A., and you got played, girl!
It was against this backdrop that I decided to delete all the dating apps. I was too busy with work and my own company to deal with these immature L.A. dudes. Months had gone by and I had not dated anyone. I was home alone one Friday night when one of my social media apps buzzed.
Wow, 6 feet, 4 inches? I searched through his profile. He was really handsome and hot, and he offered dinner on the first date, which is really unlike L.A. guys.
Why not. You only live once, right?
He picked me up in a sleek black Mercedes. “Thanks for letting me take you out,” he said in this gorgeous Australian accent.
I swooned. I knew I was in trouble.
Our dinner conversation was great, we laughed a lot and had so much in common. He told me that he was 36, that he’d been married, that it hadn’t worked out and that he was looking for the “real” thing this time. He was also buying a house off Melrose and he’d love to show me later.
“A house?” I thought, “What does this guy do…how is he so well off at 36 years old?”
As J. and I dated more, the answer became apparent. He didn’t really do anything. His family in Australia was very well off. He always had free time, and he started taking up all of mine. I, like most people in the city, had to work for a living. I knew when I would hear from him, around 4 p.m. He would ask my dinner plans and then pick me up and we’d go eat at another wonderful restaurant.
I felt like I had beaten all the dating odds and had found a good one in the L.A. jungle.
The thing is, I had not slept with him. I had kept him at bay because everything was almost “too” perfect. I took to Instagram and did some investigating.
There she was.
A stunning girl in his pool with the caption “My babe.”
My heart sank. I felt like I was going to be sick. She was in picture after picture.
When I asked him about her, he insisted: Christina’s just a friend.
I tried to end it. (I think I was more ashamed that he’d turned me into one of those crazy, jealous girls who stalks someone on IG.)
The weird thing is, his texts didn’t stop. When I went out of town for a business trip and came home with the flu, he texted: “Baby, I know you’re sick, let me drop by anything you want, you don’t even have to see me I’ll drop it at the door.”
Wow, maybe I was being too hard on him. Maybe I was pushing away the one guy who really cared about me.
I texted back: “Fine, I want a large Chicken noodle soup from Greenblatt’s, a Reuben sandwich and a cookie.”
I didn’t think he would actually drop that off. It was a high maintenance and rude request, even for me.
It arrived in 20 minutes flat.
Swoon. The next week, when I was feeling better, I put on my sexiest dress and my reddest lipstick.
At dinner, he was more serious than I’d seen him before.
“I want to talk to you about something,” he said. “My parents are coming here for Christmas, and I want you to meet them. I want you to meet my mum and dad and spend the holidays with us.”
Tonight was going to be the night, enough waiting. This guy was obviously serious about me. It had been four months since we started dating, it was time to get the physical part out of the way.
It was amazing. Amazing until, right after, he said he had to go.
“But it’s 3 a.m.”
“I have to be up early tomorrow.”
I watched in awe as he left and heard my front door slam. I knew he didn’t have work, because… he didn’t work. That feeling in my gut came back again, but stronger this time.
I knew then what had happened, but it was too awful to face.
Days went by, days turned into weeks, and still nothing from him. When I thought back on everything, it just seemed like some bad nightmare.
The holidays did come around, and I once again looked to his IG.
“Christmas with the family and this babe.”
Captioned under a photo with Christina and his mom and dad.
I wanted to text him, to call him and rip him a new one, but these aren’t the rules of L.A. dating.
When this happens, you must never text the guy and pretend like you care.
And herein lies the problem.
There are zero consequences for “the conquerors” of L.A. because the unwritten rule is to pretend, as the girl, that you don’t care.
The author is a Los Angeles talent agent representing models.
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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