Dating Diary #14

He Hated Wicked and Might Have Invented a Consent Fetish

December 2, 2024

Dear Diary,

One day, I’ll write to you about meeting a wonderful man—securely attached, emotionally mature, and sexy in that quiet, confident sort of way, with an outstanding sense of humor and a genuinely kind soul. One day that’ll happen, Dearest Diary—but not today. Today, I’m going to tell you about Mario.

Mario and I matched on Hinge about eight weeks ago. He’s 55, divorced for over a decade, has a solid relationship with his adult child, and is on friendly terms with his ex now that time has softened the edges. He has a big-brain, impressive job at a local university—albeit the one with the wrong shade of blue. Mario is very intelligent, full of fascinating stories, though his delivery is a bit on the dry side. I’m not especially attracted to him physically, but he seems honest and emotionally grounded, so I’m throwing caution to the midlife dating wind and giving him a chance.

Our first date was at a cozy coffee shop in town that backs up to a great walking trail—open, busy, and perfect for a first meet-up. We decided to stroll the trail first and save coffee for later if things went well. We ended up walking for hours, swapping stories about our younger selves, our kids, and yes, our exes. Mario is a perfectly pleasant man—cerebral, but not in that intimidating, unrelatable way. After our long walk, we found a table at the café but never actually ordered anything. No one can ever accuse me of dating just for free food!

At one point during our conversation, Mario told me he’d had trouble dating in the past because he's such a stickler for consent. That sounded like music to my ears, so I asked him to elaborate. He explained that he would never attempt to kiss a woman unless she explicitly gave him permission—and in fact, she would need to initiate any and all physical intimacy. At first, Dearest Diary, that sounded both great and refreshing, if I’m being honest. But later, I’d come to realize that being the only one expected to make the first move... isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. You’d think a certain level of closeness would eventually shift that dynamic, but you’d be wrong.

When we parted ways after our second date with a chaste hug, I was halfway home before it hit me: I was supposed to ask him for a kiss if I wanted one. This was some next-level consent protocol I wasn’t entirely comfortable navigating.

So I texted Mario when I got home and asked if I’d missed out on a kiss because I didn’t ask for it. He confirmed that yes, I had. He even added that he’d wanted to kiss me goodnight and gently brush my hair behind my ear—just to see if it felt as soft as it looked. I asked if I could give him a standing green light ahead of date three, and he replied that now that he knew I was interested, he’d remind me to speak up next time.

On the one hand, that’s kind of romantic. On the other—more frustrated—hand: Jesus fucking Christ, man. Make a move already.

When date number three finally rolled around, I opened with kissing consent and asked if we could get that first kiss out of the way early—you know, to make up for lost time. He agreed, and it was a very good kiss. Score one for Mario.

Now, you’d think the ice had been broken and I wouldn’t have to ask for a goodnight kiss at the end of the evening. But again, you’d be wrong. I appreciate his effort to honor consent, truly—but what the hell? You had your tongue in my mouth three hours ago. Do we really need to reset to square one each time?

Is this some new thing I don’t know about? A “consent fetish”? Is that a thing, Dearest Diary? What is even happening? I’m so confused.

Not long after that third date, Mario had to travel for work, and it would be a little over a week before we’d see each other again. He’s a very good texter, though—we spoke a couple times a day, and he sent fun photos from his trip.

As I mentioned earlier, Mario has a big-brain job. In fact, he was asked to testify before Congress on a very specific aspect of his work—something he’d never done before. He was excited and understandably a little nervous. I was genuinely impressed.

Our texts covered everything from the details of his upcoming speech to invasive security protocols to books and shows we were both into. Things with Mario were getting... intriguing. Yes, he was a little stiff and dry, but I was willing to work around that. He seemed like a kind man—quirky, yes—but kind. I’ve definitely dated worse.

Also? Mario was a good kisser. He liked running his hand under my hair and gently—though just assertively enough—pulling at the back of my scalp.

I’m not going to lie to you, Dearest Diary... I didn’t hate that.

The evening Mario returned from D.C., I couldn’t meet him for dinner because Girlie and I had long-standing plans to see Wicked. We’re huge fans—have seen it multiple times on Broadway—and we’d been eagerly awaiting the movie adaptation.

Verdict? 10/10, absolutely did not disappoint.

Later that night, I texted Mario with my effusive review and added that I’d happily go see it again—this time with him, if he was up for it. His response? A hard no. He explained that Wicked wasn’t his kind of cinema and that he’s not into Broadway shows, especially musicals.

Well. Okay then.

I don’t think I’ve ever had a date idea shot down quite so abruptly and so thoroughly. It stung a little. I mean, isn’t that part of dating—trying to build something with someone new? The give and take of it all?

I’m not saying we have to love all the same things—that’s boring—but shouldn’t we at least try something that clearly brings the other person joy? As long as it doesn’t cause actual harm, why not? I’m no Star Wars fan, but I watched the whole saga with Jay because it meant something to him. It didn’t make my eyes bleed. I even gained some appreciation for the cultural significance of it.

And for what it’s worth, Jay—who was a total baby about horror—still watched The Haunting of Hill House with me because he knew it made me happy. That’s what relationships are built on, right? The memory-making give and take.

Mario didn’t just pass on Wicked—he shut down the very idea of going to see it. Full stop. End of discussion.

Honestly? That felt weird. Borderline rude.

Our final date took place on a Sunday afternoon. We met for a hike in a nearby town, grabbed dinner afterward, and ended the evening watching the local Christmas parade. It was actually a lovely afternoon. We talked about all sorts of things, shared stories, laughed a good bit. I didn’t let on how irritated I still was about the Wicked rejection. I had quietly decided to go into the date with an open mind—and make my final decision about us at the end of it.

After Santa’s sleigh made its way down Main Street, Mario walked me to my car. I asked—again—if he wanted to kiss me goodnight (still weird that I had to ask), and he enthusiastically said yes.

We compared schedules, chatted about when we might see each other next, and he asked me to text him when I got home so he wouldn’t worry.

On the surface, it was—like most of our dates—normal. Even...fine.

On the drive home, I decided that whatever chemistry I thought I’d feel by this point just wasn’t there. I was going to end things with Mario. I even practiced what I’d say when we next spoke.

Turns out, I didn’t need the script.

I texted him when I got home, like he asked—and never heard from him again. Yep, your girl was ghosted, Dearest Diary. Not even a thumbs-up emoji. Just radio silence.

Now, I could’ve called him out, but I’d already made my decision. So, I took the easy way out and didn’t follow up either. I mean, I hope he didn’t die in a fiery crash on his way home, but...I guess we’ll never know.

Did I end things because of his stance on movies? Maybe. And honestly? That’s okay.

Your partner doesn’t need to be your mirror. You don’t need to share every interest. But completely shutting someone down without curiosity or compromise? That feels like a red flag. Mario’s tone suggested my love of musicals like Wicked was beneath him—a waste of time, even silly, perhaps. He never offered an alternative, just a flat rejection. Maybe his issue wasn’t with the film itself, but with the entire idea of entertainment.

And you know what? My attraction to him wasn’t strong enough to overlook his dismissiveness. For the record, no man is hot enough to make disdain sexy.

Here’s where I break the fourth wall of Dating Diaries:

I went out recently—April/May 2025—with another man who told me, with full confidence, that he hates movies. Doesn’t watch TV. Refuses to step foot in a theater. Only reads non-fiction. He was quick to assure me that “it’s okay if partners don’t share hobbies,” but here’s the thing: I call bullshit.

Sure, I can (and do) go to movies by myself. That’s not the point. I want someone to share those experiences with me—to laugh at the same moments, whisper commentary during previews, quote favorite lines later, create memories that become our private shorthand.

Also? I find it a little alarming when someone has zero creative input in their life. Arts and entertainment aren’t just fluff—they’re how we feel, how we process, how we connect. It’s vulnerable. It’s emotional. It’s beautiful.

Recent-Guy, for all his intellect and impressive credentials, had walls up. He collected art, sure—but nothing seemed to genuinely move him. I’ve spent my entire working life in the entertainment industry. I’m a writer, for fuck’s sake. Creativity matters to me.

Expressing it. Embracing it. Exploring it.

And these two men—Mario and Recent-Guy—taught me something I hadn’t fully realized until now: a shared love of the arts is a dealbreaker for me. I never used to have that on my “need to have” list, but here we are. These men keep me on my toes, I never know what new idiosyncrasy I’ll uncover and have to figure out how to navigate on the fly.

Old Donna would’ve tried to make it work. New Donna? The one who’s done the therapy, who knows her limits and respects them? She’s not settling. Not for a man who won’t meet her on the bridge of shared interests and mutual joy. Stitch that on a sampler.

Who would’ve thought I’d encounter not one but two men who openly hated going to the movies? Have you, gentle reader, ever met someone like that? No TV, no films, no fiction, no emotional resonance in the arts? Sure, both men were smart—Mario with his Capitol Hill briefings and Recent-Guy with his alphabet soup of degrees—but is that the same as being emotionally intelligent or well-rounded? I don’t think so, not anymore.

Also, Dearest Diary, what the actual fuck was up with the constant consent check-ins from Mario? I'm all for autonomy, agency, and asking before making a move—but there’s a difference between honoring boundaries and turning intimacy into a bureaucratic procedure. There’s consent...and then there’s disconnection disguised as caution. Honestly, I can't help but wonder what a long-term relationship with someone like that would even look like. Spoiler alert: probably not Wicked.

What’s your take, Gentle Reader?

What about you? Have you ever discovered a “dealbreaker” you didn’t even know you had until it was staring you in the face over dinner—or worse, not watching a movie with you? I’d love to hear your stories of surprising incompatibilities or strange dating behavior that made you stop and go, Wait…is this my life now?

Drop your thoughts in the comments or share with a friend who needs a laugh—or a warning.

Until next time, stay curious, stay creative, and stay true to your weird and wonderful self.
xo,
Donna

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