L.A. Affairs: All those fish in the sea? They’re no catch

L.A. Affairs is our weekly column about the current dating scene in and around Los Angeles -- and finding romance in a wired world. If you’ve got a story to tell, we want to hear it. We pay $300 per published column. Past columns and submission guidelines are at latimes.com/laaffairs

On April 6, 2013, my boyfriend Dan broke up with me, his shiny bald head glistening with sweat. We both knew that the breakup was inevitable, though, a case of irreconcilable differences. He wanted to be polyamorous. I didn’t. He refused to play “Settlers of Catan” because he said he had an addictive personality. I simply had no answer to that.

To be honest, I was eager to get back into the dating pool. This time would be different. This time would be better. Because this time I would use … the Internet!

My first OkCupid date was with Taylor — we agreed to meet at a nearby coffee shop. But on our date, it soon became clear that Taylor was the type of guy who had few friends and spent too much time on video games. When I got up to buy a coffee, he rushed to the counter to intervene before I paid. He wanted to be sure I used the student discount. I wasn’t a student. Neither was he.

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The next two months were a blur of mediocrity. But by June, things started looking up. Within the span of a week, I’d gone on three promising first dates! There was Jeff, a Midwesterner who loved theater; Alex, a WASPy St. Andrews grad; and Billy, a hipster-bro who worked at an independent literary press.

Billy was the first to bow out, sending me a “let’s just be friends” text after our third date. Alex disqualified himself with several midnight booty-call attempts. With Jeff, the first few dates were fun, but each date ended with only a peck on the lips.

Finally, I was sure we’d have our first make-out session. Jeff invited me over to watch a movie on a Friday night. Sure, it was odd that he picked “An Officer and a Gentleman,” but I went with it. A half-hour went by, then an hour. I made a move. I leaned in, kissing first his cheek, then his lips. We kissed for 30 seconds before he turned back to the movie as if nothing had happened. I never got an explanation.

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Next came “The Drought,” a stretch of nine months with a more or less 0% yield. There was Ira, who lectured me on the true meaning of “The Life of Pi,” and then Marshall, whom I smooched because he reminded me of a playwriting professor I’d had a crush on, and Michael, who spent half of our date claiming he was no longer in love with his ex-girlfriend (he was).

By April of this year, I felt frustrated and exhausted and was about to give up. Then I met Jack. He looked like Jesus, with reddish-blond hair pouring over his shoulders. I plunked myself down on a bar stool, preparing for an hour of mundane conversation. After a round of drinks, however, I realized that Jack and I might have something in common. He was getting his MFA in film, loved to cook and owned an orange tabby named Professor Cat. The date ended four hours later with a long kiss in the rain.

Jack took me out on my birthday, met my friends and grilled steaks with fresh herbs from his garden. We watched “Twin Peaks” while making out, and a few weeks later, he met my dad and sister.

A month after we began dating, we were at a bar sipping beers. We hadn’t talked about “what we were” yet. I brought it up casually. I told Jack that I liked him, that I wasn’t really interested in seeing anybody else. His face fell. He pulled his hand away from my wrist. He told me that he had no desire for exclusivity, that he just wanted to have fun. (According to Jack, having fun meant having sex with as many different women as possible.)

So in the last 19 months, I’ve been on more than 50 first dates. Perhaps, at this point, you’re wondering if there’s a terrible flaw that I’m not disclosing. A uni-brow? An Ayn Rand obsession? No. I’m 24 years old, 5-foot-4 with curly brown hair and a bright smile. I like Louis C.K. and hosting dinner parties. I joke about opening a literary-pun-themed dive bar called “Tequila Mockingbird.” I enjoy hiking and bookstores.

There are plenty of young women I know in the same position, beautiful human beings who deserve love and respect. We are told to be patient, to wait, that it’s a matter of luck. But there’s often a subtle undercurrent in the advice-giving, a suggestion that there must be a reason for our perpetual singleness. With the proliferation of dating sites, there’s an accompanying pressure — with so many fish in the sea, how could you not get a bite?

I don’t know how many more dates I’ll go on. Maybe one? Maybe 50? I don’t have any answers. But I suppose that’s what this is all about — learning to be OK with that uncertainty.

Michelle Meyers is a writer and high school teacher.

L.A. Affairs chronicles dating in and around Los Angeles. If you have comments or a true story to tell, write us at home@latimes.com.