In 10 days, Noa Jones cuts psychic cords with a charismatic Texan, has a date at Grand Central Station’s Oyster Bar, and meets a man 14 years younger than her.
In August, I fell head over heels for a charismatic love-bombing polyamorous Texan living in Baja, Mexico. I was there working at a Buddhist meditation retreat and I’d sneak away to wrap my legs around him whenever I had free time. The chemistry was crazy intoxicating. He woke my body from a deep coma induced by years of stress, heartbreak, and the media blitz about what it means to be a middle-aged woman in America. Suddenly, I was up to my eyeballs in dopamine. Amidst tears of laughter and makeout sessions in the Mexican rain, he said he felt alive with me and that I had magical clavicles. He said he was in love with me. I hadn’t been that stupid high on a boy since my 20s.
I needed to return to New York, but we bought tickets for a reunion in Marfa in the fall and planned for me to return to Baja in the winter. He created a shared Google drive with itineraries and agreements, and counted the days until I could come and stay with him at length. We talked several times a day.
And then, three days after he was back in the arms of his nesting partner, whom he had insisted was not hierarchically above me, he became a self-contradicting bitch. With one snippy text I knew it was over. The trip would have to be cancelled, no Halloween in the West Texas desert, no winter in Baja. My stomach twisted into knots that took a team of my most powerful witchy friends to undo. Psychic cords were cut, memes were sent, accounts were muted, and I immediately got onto Feeld to both fill the void and ride the momentum he’d helped create. We broke up over FaceTime in the morning and by that evening I was out on the first of several dates.
Day One
M invited me to meet him at Grand Central. I wore a backless black dress and sneakers and too much makeup, thanks to a lady at the NARS counter at Nordstroms, which I accidentally fell prey to on my way over. I walked 20 blocks at high speed dodging office workers and feeling excited. Everything sparkled.
I thought I knew where the Oyster Bar was but ended up a little lost. He texted that he would come find me and instantly he was bounding up the stairs looking exactly like his photos: cute and stylish. He led me back through the station, pointing out architectural details, through the whispering gallery, and into the bar. He was embodied, comfortable, gentlemanly, and just a few years younger than me. Over martinis and french fries the conversation sailed. I felt seen and also interested.
Then, with no real provocation, I turned into the welling up emoji. Tears came rolling down my face. That morning’s breakup was still fresh. Without flinching he gave me a warm bear hug. We ended up talking about what bullshit most poly relationships are.
He theorized that there are four types of poly: 1) “Functioning Poly” the kind that works, where the communication is clear and everyone is getting their needs met. He gave this an estimated 15% piece of the overall pie. The other 85% deemed bullshit comprised of: 2) The “Monkey Branches,” people who open their relationships because they are bored or unhappy and tell themselves seeing other people will fix things, when really they are just hanging on to one branch until they have another one secure enough to let go; 3) “Sparkle Ponies,” people who are magnetic and engage in as much sex and attention from as many people as possible and use poly as an excuse to be noncommittal without admitting it; and finally 4) “Dopamine Fiends,” new relationship energy obsessives with deficient attention spans, who think they can handle all the fires they start but end up getting burned and/or burning people instead. That was my Baja guy, an over-extended NRE addict.
We left the Oyster Bar out a secret door and hit the streets. M is a successful artist and tech guy, and also an aspiring New York City tour guide, so he did an excellent job of choosing the route, weaving stories about J.P. Morgan, the history of electricity, the socialite Eliza Jumel, and more along the way. It was a balmy night but I got a chill, maybe from overstimulation, and I welcomed him holding me close as we looked at corporate art in glass lobbies. We ended up at the Waldorf Astoria’s Peacock Bar, and drank expensive cocktails in a flattering light while a trio performed standards. He generously took care of the bill and offered some excellent professional advice about one of my projects. Then he asked, “Do you want to go make out?” I did. We strolled to some benches near Rockefeller Center.
But something wasn’t right. When my intuition needs me to pay attention I get the message in olfactory notes. This time, the scent of truffle oil arose. It wasn’t a bad smell, and it didn’t emanate from him, but the way it came to my mind seemed like a message to pause the kisses and end the night. It was late anyway, we’d been together for 6 hours. Especially cute was him checking in on me the next day to see what socks I had picked out to wear to an important meeting. I liked his attention.
Day Two
Two days later, I had a quick date with a Russian data scientist whose wife was pushing ENM and who was drawn to the hints of Buddhism in my profile. I dressed kind of sporty since we’d planned a walk in Fort Tryon Park. He came wearing office casual and immediately insisted I get into his Passat, engine running, parked by the George Washington Bridge. I just had to have faith he wasn’t going to kill me. (He didn’t.) We parked at the Cloisters, walked in circles, and then he bought me a fresh squeezed orange juice at the Hilltop Diner where we talked about Buddhism. I promised to send him a few links to dharma teachers I thought might be a good fit for him. “No wasted dates,” he said as we hugged goodbye, our bodies clanking together briefly, likely never to see each other again.
Day Three
J had pinged me and immediately I recognized him as a silver fox I’d met at Buddhist events in different countries over the years. He hadn’t recognized me (I don’t use my real name as my Feeld handle) but when I revealed myself, he was delightfully surprised. Our first date was a Zoom call, which I took from a spot on the second floor of the Time Warner Center where the lighting was good. We had much to discuss. He was also testing out the poly waters. Interestingly he had the same sense as M of the ratio: 85% bullshit. We decided to meet in person that week.
We met at MoMA, his idea. I wore boyfriend jeans and a Kooples polka-dot shirt that appears conservative but is transparent upon close inspection. I was so awkward when we first hugged. Somehow my hair got caught in his watch and I had to spin around, and I ended up facing away from him, mumbling nonsense. But we quickly recovered.
He works in the arts, and with a flash of his ID, we waltzed into the museum. We weren’t there to see art but to look deeply into each other's eyes and see each other in a totally different light than we ever had as sangha siblings. There was something elevated about meeting at the museum. We sat on the stools by the cafe as close as two people could without actually touching, my knees between his, a few centimeters from his fly. He touched me occasionally as he spoke, on the shoulder or knee, to emphasize a point.
We shared stories of growing up in the city and talked about dating and sex and dharma. We “got deep fast,” in his words. I didn’t sense he wanted to kiss me, though he must have pictured it. Dating kind of demands the imagination go there. It could work, his face has excellent planes, but there is that sibling vibe to contend with. He’s looking for connection and exploring sexuality outside the traditional serial monogamy norms he spent the past 40+ years adhering to. I am not sure what I want. I’ll know it when I taste it.
I was as awkward saying goodbye as I had been when meeting, mumbling something about not ghosting each other. I am tall, taller in boots, and not as lean as he is, so I wasn’t sure how our sizes matched. But in the end we found a good fit for a nice long, warm, belly-to-belly goodbye in the bookstore. We left it that we would keep in touch, and can be each other’s plus ones from time to time. I stayed back to browse the museum shop for a candle for Wednesday’s date with D, who had offered to cook me dinner at his apartment in Brooklyn.
Day Four
A married ENM dad with not-great texting etiquette thankfully canceled our date at the last minute because his whole family had Covid. Instead, I spent the evening going through my DMs to see if I could spread some Buddhist teachings via dating app. Blunt messages like “sex on the first date yes or no?” got a thoughtful response about the Buddha’s four dignities. And one poor guy who was berating himself got some information about the tantric teachings on “no self.” I do what I can.
Day Five
Date two with M was a nighttime picnic in Central Park to watch the full moon rise. He suggested a dress code of “revealing” but added this could be interpreted different ways, to include revealing something about myself. I wore my favorite low-cut shirt with a frumpy blazer over it, paint splattered jeans, and my new burgundy suede boots. I feel very myself with him.
We met at Zabar’s and shopped for bread and olives and cheese, and while it could have been awkward, we shopped well together. I brought gin and tonics, and a candle. Aside from the occasional rat skittering by, the pond by Belvedere Castle was an ideal setting for this picnic. Conversation was deep, meaningful, steady—the moon, majestic, reflected in the water. He suggested I might be on the spectrum (he is) and that’s something I’ll have to look into. Had I been missing social cues with the Baja-poly love-bomber?
We spent six hours together and again I had this mental message saying “pause on the kisses.” But I showed him my boobs, and we had a lovely long hug at the subway entrance. We continue texting. I like him.
Day Six
D is 14 years younger than me. I’ve dated younger men when I was younger. It feels a little different now that I have to dye my hair. But he seemed keen to meet. We walked in Riverside Park because it was near his mother’s apartment and he had to drop in on her. I wore a denim bustier with jeans and my striped jean utility coat. I’m not sure what I was thinking.
He was good-looking and on time, friendly, full lipped. We walked and talked and sat on a bench. He asked if I had a problem with the age difference because I had (casually, I thought) brought it up twice. “I don’t if you don’t,” I said. “Of course I don’t,” he said. But I had to wonder because there were zero vibes emanating from him. Which made it even stranger when, before we parted, he invited me to a concert in Brooklyn the next night.
Everything felt a little off on our second date. I didn’t like what I had chosen to wear. We trauma dumped over dinner at Risbo, then took in an impressive performance at Kings Theatre. At one point in the evening he told me I dressed like a lesbian. I squirmed in my seat sipping my $40 tequila shot which gave me no respite. I needed some oxytocin or some clarity. I would have welcomed him taking me in his arms but I felt such a strange nothingness from his body next to mine. Overcome by the music, I leaned over and thanked him for bringing me and he put his hand on my knee. There was a strange zap of energy and he moved it away. Somatically I was twisted into a pretzel. I couldn’t tell what was happening between us at all, but it had a charge. Positive or negative was the question.
Afterward, as we approached the subway, he stopped, turned to me and said, “I’ve been wanting to kiss you since five minutes into meeting you in Riverside Park.” Stunning! We took a moment looking for a place to kiss. I mentally dedicated this delicious moment of sweet anticipation to anyone who felt lonely.
We found a dark spot on the street near someone frozen in a fentanyl stupor. He leaned me against a wall and kissed me. “I think I’ve never kissed a beard before,” I said, batting away his face, but he didn’t seem to take it as an insult. We said goodbye soon after.
We texted a bit the next day. Then four days passed in silence. I started going through all my dating DMs and pings to clean things up and decided to write to him too: x“Just doing a little housekeeping and checking if you feel like hanging out again or if it’s case closed.” He replied right away that he wanted to see me again, suggested Wednesday, and invited me to his house for a “semi fancy” home-cooked meal. So unexpected, but yes please. Despite everything, I had a strong curiosity about our dynamic. There was something there, an electricity that hadn’t found the right current.
As I got off the train near his place, carrying the candle gift-wrapped in tissue, I internally shivered, as if there were an ice pack against my solar plexus. It was a warm night. Maybe I was hungry. I wore the boyfriend jeans and the transparent shirt and a pair of fancy panties that turned out to be really hard for him to remove later in the evening.
He looked dreamy in the kitchen putting finishing touches on orzo chicken with a homemade chutney. He had candles already lit, and vinyl spinning, healthy plants, real art, loads of good literature. The delicious meal went rather quickly and we curled up on the sofa. I had an unexpected surge of emotion as he talked about wanting a life partner. It was so sweet. I don't often allow myself to entertain my conventional hopes.
Dessert was a fulsome five-hour, slow moving, super hot, cinematic makeout session. I quickly got used to the beard although I had flashes of an acrid taste in my mouth— the taste of a deeply held unhealed psychic wound. We didn’t cross every line. I need to know him better. But our circuits had finally found the right conductor and my body was lit.
Coming back to my senses from the bliss state he’d transported me to, I realized it was pretty late to take the train all the way home. He welcomed me to stay over. It was a restless night, and I left very early the next morning. He lent me an umbrella and gave me a nice long hug.
There should be a better term than “walk of shame.” Strut of satisfaction? Park Slope at 6 A.M. on an unseasonably warm, wet Wednesday morning felt like magic. This city in autumn is my ultimate love. I want to make out with the Big Apple, I thought.
D texted later that he was looking forward to the next time, and planned a date for the next week. He acknowledged he’s hard to read and invited me to push when I need clarity. So I asked what stayed with him from the night before. What had he replayed in his mind, if anything? My timing was bad, the 7th inning of the last Blue Jays vs. Yankees game, but he still replied with details that sent a tiny explosion of warmth over my whole body. I wondered if this could possibly work. And it did for a month or so until we met for drinks at the Bowery Bar and agreed to end it. His psychic wounds and my wish to go out dancing didn’t mesh. When he said my need to do anything other than hang out at his place reminded him of his mother, my innards shrivelled into a tiny corpse.
Meanwhile I checked if that Baja clown had cancelled his tickets to Texas (we’d shared our flight codes) and he hasn’t. A mistake? Or is he going to reappear in my life? Only time will tell.
