The New Yorker:

I spent months in an all-consuming affair with a man who refused to meet me in person. How did this happen?

By Anna Holmes

The Italian finds me on the second day. Most of the men who like my profile don’t stand out in any particular way. Most are not very attractive, either, but the Italian has thick brown hair and arched eyebrows that make him look mischievous and, at times, malevolent. He says that he’s thirty-four years old and tall—a staggering six feet five. He says that he has a Ph.D. in engineering and that he’s a gentle dom. I don’t know what “gentle dom” means, exactly, but it sounds appealing. “Consent is key,” he writes, quoting the app’s terms of service.

The app prompts users to list their desires. The Italian puts, among other things, “friendship,” “foreplay,” “submissive,” and “latex.” This last point, the latex, feels naughty and intriguing. The Italian adds that he’s looking for a “creative and open-minded girl, interested in exploring.” Shortly after we start chatting, I tell the Italian that using the word “girl” in his profile is infantilizing to women—sort of gross, even—especially for someone like me, a woman who is nearly fifty.

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