By 2022, I was pretty tired of dating. I was 28, living in Greenpoint, Brooklyn, sharing a one-bedroom apartment with my sister, and I really did want to meet my forever person. Unfortunately, dating in New York was not producing a lot of forever-person material. The apps felt low-effort and way too casual, so after trying to find something serious for so long, I decided maybe I should stop putting so much pressure on myself and just have fun.
That was when Samuel found me on Instagram. I have no idea how, but he started liking my pictures, which at the time were mostly selfies. After enough likes, I noticed him and checked out his profile.
Like me, Samuel was Korean-American, a couple of years older than me, covered in tattoos, and a skater. His Instagram was basically video after video of him skateboarding. He had this lean skater-boy body and a lot of ink, and I thought he was hot. Did he seem like my future husband? Absolutely not. He lived almost two hours away in deep New Jersey, had what sounded like a dead-end job, and wasn’t especially interesting to talk to. Everything about him said, This is not your guy, which, at that moment, was exactly what I was looking for.
We started messaging and eventually met for Korean barbecue in K-Town. I could tell he really liked me, and after all the terrible app dates, there was something nice about that. At the end of the date, I walked him to his Mini Cooper expecting him to make a move, but he did nothing. No kiss, nothing. Annoyingly, this made me want to see him again.
After another date or two, we decided to have a sleepover. Because I lived with my sister and Samuel lived somewhere in the wilderness of New Jersey, I found us a hotel room on Airbnb in Brooklyn. I was excited because I had gone into this with very limited expectations. Samuel didn’t need to be my soulmate or even particularly interesting. This was supposed to be fun.
Then we had sex. It was like having sex with a teenage boy. There was no buildup, no rhythm, no sense that another person was involved. Just immediate jackhammering, pounding away like the objective was to complete the task as quickly as possible. Then, in what felt like less than a minute, it was over.
I remember thinking, Oh my God. That was horrible. I think he did too because he got super quiet and withdrawn right after.
Despite this, I gave it another chance. Maybe the first time had been nerves, I told myself. For our second sleepover, Samuel found the Airbnb and booked somewhere in a neighborhood I only knew as the very last stop on the L train. As we drove farther and farther into Brooklyn, I figured this place must be amazing given how out of the way we were going.
It was a room in someone’s house. Not an apartment. A room. And it was disgusting. Then we had sex again, and it was more of the same, which is to say, not much.
At that point I knew I needed to end it. The problem is I hate confrontation. I am much more comfortable letting something slowly fizzle until the other person ends it. Samuel, unfortunately, was not fizzling. While I was figuring out how to back away, he was becoming more invested.
Around this time, he was coming into Manhattan for multiple tattoo sessions. After one, we were talking on the phone, and he told me he’d mentioned me to his tattoo artist. Apparently he’d said, “I’m seeing this girl, and I really like her. What if I got a tattoo about her?”
The tattoo artist had definitively told him not to. Like, Bro, that’s crazy. You barely know this woman.
I laughed when Samuel told me. I was also extremely relieved. Thank God for the tattoo artist, I thought. At least there is one responsible adult involved here.
Samuel had another tattoo appointment coming up, so I suggested we get dinner afterward at Sugarfish – a sushi restaurant that, like me, started in LA and had transplanted itself to New York. Somehow, Samuel had reached the age of 30, as an Asian man, without ever eating sushi, and I thought Sugarfish would be a nice introduction. This is the problem when you hate confrontation: instead of breaking up with someone who is wholly inappropriate as a potential partner, you find yourself thoughtfully planning their first sushi experience.
He arrived after his appointment with fresh ink still under saran wrap. We sat down, ordered, and at some point I happened to look at his hand.
There was a new tattoo. Just numbers in a thin, minimal style: month, day, year. It took me a second to realize what I was looking at.
It was the date of our first date.
Samuel had told me his tattoo artist said not to do it, laughed about the whole idea with me, and then gone ahead and done it anyway.
I said nothing. I didn’t ask, “Is that our first date?” I didn’t acknowledge seeing it at all, because in my head, the second I acknowledged the tattoo, I was somehow entering into a contract. Like, well, he has permanently altered his body for you, so I guess you have to keep dating him now. Meanwhile, I was already trying to break up with him.
I just about made it through dinner and ended things shortly afterward, albeit over text. I know you’re supposed to do this sort of business in person, but as I said, he lived way out in Jersey. Samuel was a little angry and upset and kept reaching out for a while. Eventually, I did meet my forever person and posted pictures of him, and Samuel gave up.
Years later, I still wonder about the tattoo. Samuel had so much ink that maybe those little numbers disappeared among everything else. Maybe he covered them up. Or maybe they’re still there, and every once in a while someone asks him what happened on that date. If that’s the case, I wonder what he’d say.
I had gone into the whole situation thinking I needed to stop putting so much pressure on dating, lower the stakes, and just have a little fun.
Samuel apparently had the exact opposite idea.
I wanted something casual. He wanted a permanent record.
