Is Twitter the New Online Dating? Meet Mr. Ripley

A couple of weeks ago I went on my Twitter date with the Mr. Alex Ripley (@AlexRipleyDates), the Twitter persona that initially flirted with me online that I then asked out, all in the name of a good story and, of course, potential love.

(Side note: Being called pretty still works, boys. Women need reinforcement.)

Epic, because a twitter scavenger hunt that I sent him on to find me, led up to it.

Epic, because it had “how we met in 140 characters” or less love story written all over it.

Epic because I was taking online dating to a whole new level. It was like 9 1/2 Weeks meets the movie Her with hashtags, only I was Mickey Rourke and he was, well, the other Mickey Rourke.

And while that story is what everything spicy and exciting is made of when it comes to contemporary, tech-driven dating. The real story is even better.

But let’s not start off our relationship with a lie, that wasn’t the first time Mr. Ripley and I met…

Let Me See Your Dance Moves

After the date was confirmed, Mr. Ripley sent me a DM (direct messaging for you non-Twitter folks) revealing his alias, giving me full authority to stalk out the real guy, which a smart girl does…always.

He seemed legit so I continued, and a week into things, our private Twitter conversations were gaining speed as we were getting to know one another better. Being the negotiator that I am, I exchanged a recent picture of me in a cocktail dress, knowing full and well the reaction it would inspire (#hotness). Suddenly, Mr. Ripley was like “Damn, girl, you fine!” and invited me to have our first date that night, nearly a week before the “real” date.

I was equally eager to meet the man behind the persona, and after several convincing messages from him (he actually laid down some pretty good Jerry McGuire shit), I met him for dinner — surprisingly nervous, ready to dazzle. (I wore fishnets. If your grandmother gives you fishnets, you’re allowed to wear them on a first date, okay.)

We hit it off great, and when he suggested dancing as a next stop, who was I to stop him from getting his groove on?* Thankfully, my hips don’t lie and neither did his. In true Mr. Ripley fashion, there was heavy lip-on-lip action at the end of it.

As the scavenger hunt proceeded, we continued our daily chatting and I continued reading through his Ripley persona, getting the juicy 140 character update of all his weekday dates, the make out sessions, the multiple girls he was pursuing…and it didn’t bother me. It was fun to know these things as they would make for interesting conversation later and were all fodder for a good story. (#keeptellingyourselfthat)

The big day came and my Twitter clues sent Mr. Ripley on a train, a bus and a cab where he finally found me at our destination. #catchmeifyoucan

The date was going great and dinner led us to a nearby local jazz spot for music and martinis. After about an hour, another gentleman sat down on the opposite side of me and chatted the two of us up. Mr. Ripley then excused himself to the bathroom.

You’ll want to put that coffee down right about now and really pay attention.

The string of events leading up to what happened next are hazy and bizarre and make zero sense to me, but let’s just say that what transpired after is part of the reason why Mr. Ripley and I are not going on date number three. . .

Lesson #1: Don’t drink and date.

Lesson #2: If you do drink and date, don’t ingest a cocktail of herbal supplements beforehand that may or may not inhibit your body’s ability to metabolize alcohol. (#theory)

Lesson #3: Don’t kiss the wrong guy right as your date comes back from the bathroom.**

Lesson #4: If you don’t want a third date, by all means, kiss the wrong guy. Believe me, it works like a charm.

Yeah, didn’t I say epic???!!! (#epicallywrong #sadface #wtf)

And while the above scenario has all the set-ups of a good soap opera scene (fighting men, slamming door, crying girl stranded at the bar), it didn’t end there.

You’ll really, really want to pay attention.

Lesson #5: If you want something, just ask for it.

“Wrong dude” seemed pretty fascinated in seeing how many people he could kiss that night, woman, man… so he asked Mr. Ripley if he would be so kind as to oblige him. And…well …let’s just say that Mr. Ripley is quite the gentleman. #insidejoke #softlips #missingjackets

Twitter, #where #art #thou?

Pursuing Mr. Ripley was a wild ride and fuel for my alpha-female. Looking back, however, if we were to continue, having knowledge about his other dates had recipe for disaster as a first name, so in hindsight, it’s probably best that all I got out of this was a really good story, a headache and a missing jacket.

The silver lining?

Mr. Ripley and I had a blast on the dance floor on our first date. I did the robot, he did the moonwalk. We laughed, we kissed. It was shear adult fun. Yes, respect and sexual compatibility and the ability to know how to load the dishwasher correctly and properly cook salmon (#foodie) are necessary when picking a partner, but our hip grinding, body twirling, secret rendezvous reinforced that I’m the type of gal that needs to have fun with my future partner. Like scavenger hunt, robot dancing, two-stepping, throw-your-head-back-in-laughter fun. (And we all know I have a great laugh that needs to spread its wings and fly. #amIright)

The first ever online twitter date was epic, and while it didn’t end up in wedding bells (#epicfailure or #epicallyfunny), it has served its purpose and made for a great story. I was looking forward to future dates, but maybe some things are best left on the dance floor to Janet Jackson’s “Nasty,” your inhibition the only thing holding you back from a good time.

Wherever you are Mr. Ripley, thank you for playing along and enjoying my entertainment. Thanks for giving me a great story that will be told in hot tubs and over bottles of wine on girl’s weekend getaways for years to come, but thanks mostly for showing me on that dance floor, a night fueled by dark lighting, fishnet stockings and wine that smells of jasmine and grass clippings what I really need to look for as I bulldoze my way forward in this crazy dating city — unadulterated fun and hips that move like Mick Jagger’s.

Until then…

*Apparently, this is his go-to move.

**Leave your Hester Prynne judgements at the door. I have enough self-deprecation in my southern, Catholic background to make morning after Wrigleyville look like Sunday school. Thankfully, I didn’t run over his dog.