My friend Sandy told me about an upcoming event in town where a panel was going to discuss modern single love and “debate” aspects of it – from both male and female perspectives. She had been co-opted by a guy from LA into helping promote the event, so I bought a ticket online for $35. Later she told me they were short on guys and didn't need to have purchased one. But she didn't offer me a refund.

No matter, I showed up at the event with an inkling that something awkward was going to happen, and morbidly curious to find out what it was. After signing a waiver to be filmed I was photographed holding said waiver with its 40-point bold ID number showing, not unlike a mug shot. Then they directed me to sit on the "Men's" side of the library auditorium. It seems they had segregated the women on the left and the men on the right. 

The MC was the doyenne of a local design shop, who on closer inspection really should not have worn such a tight-fitting mesh dress to the event, because it revealed both her under-size thong and slightly over-sized belly. But she took her job seriously and launched us into the debate with great fanfare. 

After introductions of the various dating semi-luminaries on the panel, the LA guy kicked off the night with some self-deprecating comments about how men are terrified of approaching women, for fear of rejection. It sort of turned the tables on the Ladies, whose group posture seemed to be, “So where are the Good Guys hiding?” 

When the first guy to stand up started talking about how men spurt out millions of sperm and as a result are incented to be with as many women as possible, the seeds of my earlier intuition began to sprout. But I had no idea of the jungle they would become. 

Towards the middle of the evening a tall, familiar-looking redhead stood up. When she introduced herself I remembered her as a Match date from about a month before, a one-and-done encounter. It had been close but no real spark, and I had never called her back. 

She started telling a story about a recent Match date of her own that she thought had gone well. But at the end the guy said, “I’ll give you a call,” and then never called her. She asked the panel, “What do you do if you go on a date, and you have a good time, and the guy says he’s gonna call, and he doesn’t call?”

 

And then, igniting a general uproar in the crowd, she asked “And what do you do if that guy is here tonight?” 

She was talking about me.

 

Of course, the MC came stalking over to the Men’s side of the room, saying, “Well guys, is anyone going to own up to this?” Meanwhile the female side of the room is going bat-shit crazy, cheering and taunting the Boys, most of whom are cowering or looking around frantically, hoping they wouldn’t get picked to explain this dastardly deed. 

I had been called out, femme-a-mano, for all to scorn, like an ex-husband in court for delinquent alimony payments. I sat there for what seemed like minutes but was probably twenty seconds, stewing in a truly unique boil of fear and excitement. It was like being too close to a Grizzly bear to run away, but with a powerful rifle in your hands. And the Grizzly is taunting you and your kind, daring you to take a shot. 

So finally, I raised my hand, and the other side of the room was beside itself with blood lust. The MC darted over and thrust the mike at me, and I stood, blushing and looking down, with as wry a smile as I could manage. It was like a one-man perp walk. 

I tried to compose myself before facing my accuser, as an uproar engulfed the room. And then what seemed like a strikingly relevant memory came to me, and I said to the MC: “I think it was Dr. Laura who said, ‘When a guy says he’s going to call you, it means nothing. Absolutely nothing.’” And in the deafening silence that ensued, every woman in the room commenced to hate me. 

What this meant was that from a guy’s perspective, a laconic “Hey, I’ll call you” is the easiest letdown in an awkward situation. No details and no embellishment. Just like in Hollywood, a nice insincere suggestion to get together at some undefined point in the future. “Hey baby – love ‘ya, let’s do lunch!” 

But my response to her taunt came out like a round from the aforementioned hunting rifle, an unexpected counter-barrage from a guy who by all female sensibilities should have been on his knees begging forgiveness.

Deepening the gunfight, I then turned to my accusante and said: “Honestly, are you telling me that you would prefer me to say, in person, to your face, that I’m not interested in seeing you again?” Which prompted a new uproar from the ladies, a drenching shower of disdain. 

Then the MC retrieved the mike and scurried over to the Ladies' side, reality-show-style, to give them voice. I sit down, bleeding profusely from the Ego. There is nothing that cuts a man deeper than the scorn of a woman. Or in this case, fifty of ‘em. 

What followed was a series of lessons in how a woman prefers to be let down, which I listened to stone-faced, taking the shots on behalf of all the men in the room (and world) for the myriad disappointments and insults they had endured over the years at the hands of indifferent suitors. 

Most of the advice was along the lines of “Just say – nice to meet you, good night. And walk away.” Which seemed impossibly polite and yet cowardly in its own right, a sudden pronouncement followed by a quick about-face and retreat that leaves the victim with the dawning realization that there will be no relationship forthcoming from this encounter. And no recourse, either. The dumpette doesn’t have to face the dumpee – she’s already walking away. To me, that’s a classic female fuck-you move. 

But I really don’t know if there’s a good alternative here. I wonder how often women actually blow men off that way and feel that it was the kind thing to do. I think it’s cruel to tell someone to their face that you’re not interested in them, because it becomes more than that in their mind. Instead of a gentle let-down, they might well hear, “You’re not attractive, you’re not interesting, and I didn’t enjoy the conversation. Hell, I don’t even want to bother trying to sleep with you.” 

Sadly, with too many of my Match dates, this is actually the case. I’m not just being cynical or egotistical here. Far too many of these meetings could only be characterized as complete train-wrecks, where from the second minute it was clear to me that we had no future together. (Otherwise, this website would not be in existence).

 

Ask any woman and I'm sure that you’ll hear the same story. So, the ultimate irony here is that in a fair percentage of the dates I haven’t followed up on, the woman may have been thinking the same thing about me! 

In fact, I have actually had a few women say, “Nice to meet you” and turn and walk off into the darkness at the end of a date. If I liked them, I was devastated, like a dagger to the heart. Or sometimes, after I suggest that we get together again, it becomes apparent by their hesitation that they don’t really want to. But they also don't want to reject me outright. Instead, they say, “Let me think about it.”

 

To me, that’s the same message. So, I know the feeling of face-to-face rejection, not just from Match, but from my entire dating life, from Junior High School through last week. It’s part of the dating game, and it well and truly sucks. 

But in such a situation, if I’m equally uninterested as the lady, I'm actually relieved, because as the man (and presumed initiator) in social situations, I'm expected to make a definitive statement about romantic next steps. And like Meatloaf wailed on behalf of all womanhood – the lady is thinking, “What’s it gonna be, boy - will you love me forever?” 

Personally, I’d much rather leave in wonder and be slowly disappointed. “Yeah, let’s talk next week...” Or maybe not. That’s why I said, “I’ll call you.” But oh, the ladies that night felt otherwise. I spent an eternity (probably twenty minutes) listening to myriad instructions in all the nice, polite ways that a man should blow off a woman. Not a single man dared rise in my defense, nor even try to change the subject. It was like an out-of-body experience, attending my own burning at the stake. 

Finally, the MC moved off my little topic to other aspects of the Great Gender Divide, and I was left to smolder in my seat, reflected still in the malevolent glare of the ladies scant yards away. It was impossible to glance over at them without catching a look of astonished resentment. 

To my mind, the more interesting question for the evening would have been, “Why didn’t you call her?” The true answer was not overt disdain, but an aspect of internet dating that got no air-time at all that night which I call “the shinier profile.” I had actually been considering calling her again, but had gotten distracted by three other tempting ladies, whose balance sheet of implied charms and as-yet undiscovered deficits seemed more compelling than this woman’s known quantities.

Truth be told, I simply got lured away by other possibilities, which happens all the time online - and not just to men! But to her, it was purposely rude, so tonight was an exquisite opportunity to force an explanation, and make me burn in a very public way. But what resulted was closer to mutually assured destruction.

As they say, the rest of the evening was a blur. There were further lessons on meeting and mating from the panel, each of whom was touting their own book or internet talk show. More psycho-babble and cross-gender complaints from the audience. The dialogue was like out-takes from a video on inter-personal relations, with vast topics like “why do men find it hard to approach women” answered in sound-bites. I found myself yearning for more depth on each topic, while at the same time wishing for an early end to the spectacle. 

As the nine pm end-point approached, the MC finally called a wrap to the evening, and invited everyone to share drinks at a nearby bar. I imagined further flaying of my flesh and opted to head home instead. But I lingered for a while in conversation with a friend who had wisely sat well behind me and kept his mouth shut. I didn’t want to be seen fleeing urgently into the night, a coward licking his wounds. But I just couldn’t imagine absorbing further instruction from ladies in whom I had no interest on how I should tell them I’m not interested in them. I wondered, would Kafka himself be there, sipping absinthe and taking notes? 

When I finally got home, I texted Sandy, “So I guess I made the show” and she replied “yeah!” and then called me. It turns out that my little scene was the dramatic highlight of the evening, sure to make  the show that the Bravo network was culling from the dozen or so debates being held around the country. She didn’t seem to think that I had portrayed as much of a misogynist as I had feared, and agreed that an insincere “I’ll call you” is usually the tidiest end to an unfulfilling date.  I was relieved at her assessment, but still unsettled.

Naturally, I’m hoping for a still-born TV production. I really don’t want that whole nuclear exchange enshrined in a video and rerun for all of posterity in judgment of my unthinkable behavior.