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They found me ‘exotic’ or ‘spicy.’ That was reason enough to leave them behind and give this a shot. Many white exes of mine made little to no effort to understand my background. At that moment, I did indeed ‘feel like it.’ Typically, this message would join the others in the trash folder but I replied to him.
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He called me handsome and asked to “hang out sometime if you feel like it.” Vivek wrote eloquently, making reference to details he liked on my profile. A relationship with another Indian man was never a consideration. I have slept with men of all colors, including my own, but that was only physical curiosity. Up until now, my dating history has been completely whitewashed. Their messages were usually ignored and deleted, their profiles blocked. Other brown men, Middle Eastern, Pakistani, Sri Lankan etc… have contacted me as well, all, I assume, hoping our similar skins would be an easy bridge to a lasting connection. Many Indian men have reached out before with messages ranging from brief to obscene. The Indian guy I am about to meet, Vivek, messaged me. I’d mope for a bit, then get back on the site and start all over, searching for my Disney Prince Charming. Some got as far as meeting friends, others disappeared the morning after. I messaged white guys all day long with a decent rate of return. My search results are filtered to guys within five miles of Manhattan, not religious or chain smokers, who enjoy travel and theatre. I was looking for ‘the one.’ I always am. I’ve recently gone through a dry spell, followed by an OkCupid binge. At nearly thirty years old, for the first time, I’m about to have a date with a man of my own race. Every time the door opens, I look up expectantly. The screen on my phone is greasy from my sweaty, fidgety fingers. Sitting in a Midtown Manhattan coffee shop, it’s clear that I’m waiting for a date.