A story of regret

We met on Tinder. I'm 50, divorced and bi- though after a twenty year marriage with a woman, I'm seeing a lot more guys than girls. In the years since my ex and I split up, I've become a face for the LGBTQQAAIPPP2+ Communities (I swear, one more effing letter in the acronym, and the damned banner will need to be run up and down the street, instead of across it). I look good for fifty, in a suburban, Camry-driving, Costco-shopping missed the gym five years in a row way). I still have my hair, it's 95% dark, and I am smart and funny. So I'm told.He's 21, from a semi-rural area a little out of town (a place where five acres is small, but you're only 30 minutes from Costco.). He plays baseball in college, has had the same best friend since he was five, and has a girl in his life. I've recently found his Facebook, and she looks quite capable of shanking me, while still saying “please”, “thank you”, “sir”, and “ma'am”). She's country. Not glossy Shania Twain country, but horses and lemon juice in her hair on sunny days country. He's a little taller than me, toned in a lanky baseball-player way. He's a ginger, which melts me a little. He swiped right! Oh, that heady moment when Tinder lets you know “It's a Match!”We start chatting. I cannot give you verbatim messages, for reasons I'll explain later, but almost everyone knows how this works.“Hi” “Hello” “How's your night going?” “Pretty good, yours?” “”what are you looking for on here?”Well, shit. That question. It's so difficult: be confidant, but not arrogant; open, but not needy; flirty, but not a perve (“Jesus Effing Christ, I'm 29 years older than he is! There is a very real chance that I am older than his parents!” Which has happened. More than a few times. It never really stops me, but it can slow me down at times).“Well, chat is nice, you can never have too many friends, I met a boyfriend on another app. HBU?”“Cool, well- I'm sort of new to this, so maybe hanging out a little, see what happens.”“That would be nice”We swap brief autobiographies. He mentions a girl he's known since kindergarten, his best friend who has been a part of his life as long as he can remember. It sounds so Mayberry. Except he's asking a fifty year old guy about what I'm into sexually. I tell him. He says “wow, you've done a lot.”We meet in a public place. We click. As in, I like this sexually confused, earnest baseball-playing ginger. He seems to like me.We message each other on Tinder several times a day. He frequently asks when we can meet up again, maybe watch a movie, or something.After several false starts, he comes over. My roommate opens the door, makes herself scarce, we start watching “Friends”, which reminds me he was young when it went off the air. Like, I was married when it was broadcast. He may have been wearing braces. I point out how different the show would be now. Ross walks off the scene at Central Perk to make a phone call. He's like, “Oh, wow! He'd use his phone and text now”. He's very nervous. I offer him a drink. When I bring it to him, I sit closer. He takes a breath, and puts his head on my shoulder. Sooner than I would have believed possible three minutes before, we are making out. Furiously. He stops, says “this is my first time doing guy stuff.” We resume making out. I run my hand up his shirt, play with his nipple. He jumps a little, and moans. I'll skip the tawdry details for now, but the next four hours saw a lot of first for him. I guess tough little country girl is not very adventurous in bed.At 3:00 in the morning, he leaves. What had been a novella of messages turns into one or two line messages. A couple of times a day. I think to myself “he's freaked out”, and two things come to mind: my father always telling me to keep my options open, whenever possible; and my friend who tells me that I can only be with someone as out as I am. I need someone who is not complicated. I do not need the drama of a coming out story. But I like him. His Tinder profile has a link to his Instagram, which uses his full name. I pull him up on Facebook. I like what I see. I sigh, and unmatch him on Tinder. I have no other way to contact him. It is done.