7. Sebastian
SEVEN
SEBASTIAN
My condo gym is empty when I enter at noon on Monday. I don’t usually take a lunch break when I work from home—I often forget to eat entirely—but today’s round of negotiations with a pompous potential advertiser as well as a scathing review left me tense and needing to move my limbs a bit.
I hit the rowing machine first and plan on a short leg workout afterward.
I spent most of the weekend hunched over a computer, working on my social media profile, crunching numbers, and looking into a few options for a third influencer for our team.
That’s the life of an entrepreneur. Unless Seth and I end up among the lucky few whose tech idea sells for millions of dollars, I’ll be working long days.
I need these breaks at the gym to keep me from being permanently bent over a keyboard.
I get lost in a playlist from a folksy band I saw at a bar last year, and I’m focused on the physicality of moving when the door opens and a hot redhead enters.
I’ve seen her a few times in the elevator, always with other people.
We exchange nods. I continue my workout while she starts stretching on the mats.
She leaves her zip-up hoodie on a bench and grabs one of the kettlebells.
Damn, she’s stronger than she looks. I can see her toned back beneath her electric blue crop top, but I try not to stare.
No one likes a creeper at the gym, but there are limited places for your eye to go when you’re strapped to a rowing machine.
I have rules of engagement for approaching women.
My friends may joke that I’m a womanizer, but I don’t play games.
I believe in being up front about what’s on the table—one date, sex if we both want it, and that’s as far as it goes.
I won’t ask someone out who clearly wants a relationship, and I don’t approach women in situations where they might feel uncomfortable, like if they’re at work or at the gym.
But, if someone happens to approach me, well … That’s another story.
I notice her checking out my butt in the mirror when I’m wiping down the rower after my workout. Smirking, I turn more quickly than she expected, and she gives a small shrug.
“What can I say? You’ve got good form.”
“You too,” I reply. Her squats were on point and not bad to look at either.
She holds my eye contact. “I’ve seen you around.”
“Sebastian.” I hold out my hand, then retract it with a grin that I hope is disarming and not sleazy. “Probably a bit sweaty for a handshake.”
“I’m Kelsey. I moved in last fall.” She stretches to the left and right, then asks, “So I know this is cliché, but what do you do, Sebastian?”
“I’m a mobile app developer. Right now, I’m partnering with a friend on a dating app.
” This tends to be a good opener with women.
If they aren’t available, it’s a chance to say so, but if they’re single, they either vent about how much they hate dating apps or not so subtly ask whether I’m a user too.
That’s not why I got into this business, but it’s an excellent side benefit.
I’ve found that the line “Really? You look like you’d never need an app to meet men,” can work wonders.
Kelsey looks intrigued but doesn’t volunteer any information, so I continue. “What do you do?”
“I’m a physiotherapist, hence the focus on form, but tell me more about this app.”
“It’s called Single In The Six. Are you familiar?
” I pause. I’ve practiced my pitch a lot, because some people get offended at being asked about dating apps, which I don’t understand.
People have been finding love and lust online for decades now.
Why not use whatever’s available? “Not that I want to pry into your personal life, but if you’re a user, I always like hearing what worked and what didn’t. ”
“I’ve heard of it but haven’t jumped in yet. Bad breakup recently, hence the move.” She looks down at her shiny sneakers.
“I’m sorry.”
She shakes her head. “Thanks. Maybe this is a sign that it’s time to try it out. Have some fun again.”
“Well, if you’re interested, I’ll give you a free upgrade to the paid subscription, seeing as we’re neighbors. Let me get your number.”
“No problem. But we won’t be neighbors for long. I’ve been subletting from a friend and I’m moving out soon.”
Even better, since I prefer not to date women from my own building. It reduces potential awkward encounters in the elevator. We exchange information and by the look she gives me, I suspect neither of us will need the app to have some fun this week.
I decide to skip the leg workout and get back to work. Plus, I don’t want Kelsey to feel like I’m crowding her. As I ride up in the elevator and my mind wanders to her thighs as she did her squat routine, a voice in the back of my mind whispers, “She’s probably not as funny as Ashley.”
I unlock my door and head to the shower, giving my head a shake. No need to walk down that road. We’ve gone there already and have a million reasons not to go there again. Kelsey seems like she’d be a happy distraction for the time being.
I’m getting home from the office on Wednesday when my phone pings with an email from Ashley.
She’s launched her profile, but it’s too soon to see what traction she’ll get.
She did mention she’s jumped headfirst into the dating pool, so I guess I’ll hear more soon.
It feels kind of weird to be this involved in my friend’s love life since we haven’t been in touch that regularly over the past few years.
It’s not like we’ve been privy to each other’s daily lives like when we were students.
Part of me hopes that after kissing enough frogs to generate some good content, she’ll find what she’s looking for—the whole white picket fence deal.
A real success story would generate good publicity, but more than that, she’s my friend and I want her to be happy.
It’s a little bittersweet that we’re the only single ones left of our university cohort.
Once Ashley meets the love her life, I’ll be the last one standing.
It’s a little lonely, but I remind myself that at least we might be able to profit off Ashley finding happiness.
The email’s subject line just says “Suggestions for the app”, leaving me curious as to the contents. She sent a handful of attachments; I make the mistake of opening one and my eyes are assaulted by a man’s, er, equipment, captured in horrifying detail.
“Jesus, Ash. What is this?”
I immediately close the window, wondering if it would be unwise to wash my eyes out with dish soap.
Before I can text What the fuck, Ashley?
I go back to see the actual message. It might ask for money to bail her out of jail in Indonesia so I’ll know she was hacked, which would make more sense than what I just saw.
Hey Sebastian,
I know we talked about troubleshooting the app, so I’ve been talking to some of my friends about what works on dating platforms and what doesn’t, and we all had the same complaint—unsolicited male attention.
I know what you’re going to say: Many of us are on the app because we want to meet men.
(By the way, even the women looking for women get harassed by men online.) That may be true, but we aren’t there to have our eyes assaulted by men’s genitalia on a regular basis, or to be crudely solicited by men that we haven’t even had a pleasant exchange with.
I’m sending a few screenshots from the past week of use.
One week. I’d love to talk to you and Seth about how we can make Single In The Six a safer place, and what measures can be put in place so there are real consequences for this type of behavior.
Best,
Ashley
I let out a long slow breath. This never occurred to me when I asked her to collaborate.
I figured she’d ask for, like, music in the profiles or emoji keyboards, but she’s not a teenager using MySpace.
I obviously underestimated her interest in tweaking the app.
It’s only fair to consider what she sees regularly, so I begrudgingly click through the images. Holy. Shit.
It’s not just the dicks; I’ve spent enough time in men’s locker rooms that my sensibilities aren’t offended by a few penises under bad lighting.
It is, however, gross that so many sent the photos without ever interacting with her at all.
Dude, has that approach ever worked for you?
I know Ashley is tough, but she shouldn’t have to see this junk.
Far more disturbing are the screenshots of text exchanges—the guys who wrote hello to her or exchanged a brief greeting, then immediately launched into crude sexual offers, seemingly expecting her to drop everything and come over right away and calling her names when she didn’t reply.
One guy sent ten messages with a variation of “frigid bitch” after she didn’t respond at two in the morning.
I feel dirty reading it, and even dirtier knowing this is on a platform I helped to build, my own app. My stomach hurts thinking about it.
I dial Ashley’s number, my hands shaking with rage at the sheer audacity.
“Did you like the slideshow?” she asks innocently when she answers. I curse and she chuckles dryly.
“Geez, Ash. I’d heard it was bad, but I didn’t know how bad. I didn’t realize it was constant.”
“You’ve never done it? You’ve never sent a dick pic?”
Well, sure, but not like this. Right? I think back, trying to be honest with myself.
But I don’t send this kind of thing to anyone who hasn’t asked.
Aside from knowing women hate it, I’m not sending nude photos of myself to just anyone.
I don’t want to be on a listicle of toxic men in the Greater Toronto Area.
“I swear on my life, Ashley, I’ve never sent intimate photos that weren’t solicited. And I’ve never requested them from someone unless we were already in that territory.”