The Photographer

“Growing old is mandatory, but growing up is optional.”

- Walt Disney

In my first year in New York, I spent a large portion of my November on the couch, nestled under blankets and large piles of papers I was either reading or writing. During my rare free moments, I mulled over my dating experiences - and as such, an apparent brilliant idea popped into my head. If it was so hard for me to find a mature, normal adult male my age, maybe I needed to try a different age range. Perhaps I needed to date an older man. Older, I determined, would probably mean more mature, more established in life and more prone to knowing what he wanted and unashamed to go after it.

The opportunity arrived when the Photographer appeared in my match queue - a man who just turned 50, who looked eerily like my biggest celebrity crush and who had a successful career in an area I considered a beloved hobby of mine - he was a wedding photographer and also did editorial work for one of the largest fashion magazines in the world.

We made plans to meet at my favorite bar in the city - the lobby of the New York Edition and I arrived a bit early, nervous and curious about how things would go. He appeared five minutes later, well dressed, clean cut and remarkably handsome - his smile could knock someone dead. He had the confidence of someone who had climbed his way to the top of a very competitive industry and that was immediately appealing.

“Has anyone ever told you you look like a certain celebrity famous for the creation of a certain famous animated show?” I asked with a grin.

He laughed, and I detected a faint accent as he spoke. German? Maybe Austrian? “No,” he confirmed, “that’s a new one. But I’ve met him before at a wedding I’ve shot and he’s a great guy, so I’ll take that as a compliment.” Austrian.

It would appear that he was a photographer who was in high demand, having shot some of the most prestigious and expensive weddings around the globe. Name dropping to him wasn’t something he did to impress - it was literally just part of his everyday life. He didn’t just know all my favorite celebrities, he also knew all my favorite designers.

Throughout my travels and in my career, I’ve met some really interesting people who consistently find themselves on a global stage for their accomplishments and talent and I have discovered they are (shockingly) human like the rest of us. In turn, I try to keep a level-headed approach to chatting with people of any walk of life - being normal and respectful tends to reap the same returns in how you are treated. So, with the Photographer, I tried hard to not react the way I wanted to his stories.

“Tom Hanks,” I smiled, begging myself to stay cool after I asked him who his most favorite celebrity job was with. “Is he as lovely in person as he seems?”

“Even lovelier,” the Photographer confirmed. “It was definitely one of my favorite days on the job.”

I’ve discovered I am very bad at discerning whether or not a date is interested in me, and as such, never know how to act. It was the same with the Photographer, even though if I think back now, I am pretty sure he touched my exposed knee twice while we talked.

Our date was short, as he had a dinner with his colleagues and a potential client, so after a drink we were standing outside in the warm evening air. It was what we would consider a winter month in Canada and yet still warm enough for a light kimono and a black dress, the novelty of which was something I still had not grown accustomed to. The sun was setting, sending a pretty pink color dancing up the sides of the buildings.

I smiled, unsure of how to end the date, but feeling intrigued enough to go on another if he was interested. “Thanks for a lovely--”

He interrupted me by grabbing my lower back and dipping me into a kiss the likes of which would have left Scarlett O’Hara shocked - it was a move full of confidence and I was momentarily speechless. I’d never kissed someone so much older than me and there was a certain intrigue in it.

“I’d like to see you again, Stefanie,” he said, the hint of the accent in my name as it rolled over his tongue. “Would that be ok with you?”

I nodded, trying again to smile after the shock of being kissed like that. He grinned back and hopped into a black car, literally riding off into the sunset.

As I walked home, I considered what had just happened. On the one hand, I’d never dated someone five years older than me, nevermind fifteen. That was a daunting fact - he was absolutely more established and successful in his life than I was, and there is always a strange disconnect between two people when that happens. He was also old enough to have fathered some of my student friends (and let’s be honest, when someone kisses like that, he very well MAY have fathered one of my student friends). On the other, he was someone who traversed the spaces of the rich and famous and found little old me someone worth pursuing and there was something very flattering in that. I’m only human, friends. So far, my hunch about older men was unfolding nicely in my favor.

The Photographer didn’t disappoint - he followed up and made plans to see me between his travels to the Maldives and Italy. I was a little less cautious than I had been lately, allowing myself to get excited for the first time in ages about a date. I liked the fact that he was chatting regularly and made plans without games - something I hounded my ex about needing to do more of. This, I told myself, was the reason why dating older was probably going to be better. I was charmed.

We met for a drink at Soho House, an exclusive member-only club in Chelsea (if you watch Sex & the City, this is the club where Samantha finds the member card in the bathroom and takes it, pretending to be someone else to use their famed pool). I’d never been but had been meaning to visit it at some point over the summer and was excited to finally get a chance to see it. I might as well pretend I am living the high life when in reality I am budgeting to afford ramen noodles and eggs, right?

The club itself was every bit as chic as you’d expect an exclusive New York club to be, with moody lighting and plush, oversized armchairs in the bar. Everywhere, well-dressed people of all ages sat talking quietly, an errant laugh or gasp of surprise rising up above the buzz of conversation. It was a scene straight out of a movie.

As someone who has worked behind the camera a bit before, I immediately steered the discussion towards the craft he’d mastered - in particular, his studio.

“Tell me about it,” I said. “How is it laid out?”

He looked at me, confusion apparent. “No, I’ll just show it to you when I’m back. That’s much easier.”

I nodded, impressed by his ability to speak about us and we in the future.

“I’m heading to Lake Como tomorrow,” he said, pulling up his phone. “I honestly think it’s the most stunning place in the world. Have you been?” He held out his phone for me to look.

I shook my head and leaned in, shocked by the splendor of his photos of the Italian lake. “It’s gorgeous.”

He scrolled through his phone a few times and handed it to me – a trusting move I was also impressed by. He didn’t have anything to hide.

“I took these in a villa nearby,” he pointed to the screen. A photo of a woman of otherworldly beauty stood with glowing skin near a window, her limbs bent at perfect angles. Draped over her shoulders was—I gasped.

“Is that a Zuhair Murad?!”

He laughed, revealing perfect teeth. “The dress? Maybe? I don’t know a lot about the designers, I just take the pictures for them.”

“It is,” I confirmed. “I know that detail.”

“You have an eye for fashion, then?” he asked.

I tried not to look down at the telltale fraying edges of my overused purse and make a face. “I love it. I just can’t afford it lately on a student budget.”

“We’ve all been there,” he said reassuringly. “You’ll have to come along one time and meet some of the designers. Maybe we can get you a dress.”

I almost fainted. I try to always keep a level head, but the Photographer was knocking it out of the park.

We walked to a nearby restaurant and got dinner and unlike so many of my other dates, he made an effort to show he was interested – touching my hand, telling me how beautiful I was, and casually mentioning how we should travel somewhere during my break next month.

Yes, I know what all of you are thinking at this stage. Bear with me. I figure it out eventually.

After dinner, he walked me to a cab and kissed me with the same Rhett Butler fervor as before, closing the door and bidding me good night. I settled into my seat with a grin and messaged my best friend. Dating older was now, according to the revised official dating book of Stef, the only way to go.

He came home a week and a half later from Italy, just as eager to see me as he ever was. He made plans with me to go for dinner again, and we met in a quiet spot near the Flatiron building and his studio. I took a bit of extra time getting ready, as I was genuinely excited to see him, too.

Over dinner, I mentioned a paper I was writing about the opioid addiction problems in Afghanistan since the occupation post 9-11.

He looked at me. “Is this your passion?”

“International affairs?” I asked, confused.

He nodded.

“Well yeah, one of them,” I answered honestly. “I like the potential to help others who need it.”

“And your dream job in a perfect world would be?” he continued.

“A writer,” I said without hesitation. “I want to tell stories that inspire people to follow their own dreams, try new things, and learn new things. The stories we tell stick long after we are gone.”

“Then why are you studying what you are?” he pressed. “Why waste the time and money?”

“Because writing is never a sure thing,” I replied. “This helps expand my knowledge and understanding of the world around us. This will give me a platform to help others if that career path is what I’m destined for.”

“If you have a dream, you should go for it,” he said coolly. “Don’t waste your time.”

“Living in New York is a dream,” I argued, feeling like I’d been slapped. “Finishing school is a dream. Writing is a dream. I am allowed to have and pursue more than one.”

I was bothered by his matter of fact tone. Sure, he’d achieved success at a level most people would only dream of in a field he’s crazy for. It didn’t mean I couldn’t try a different path and find the same satisfaction.

Dinner continued, but the atmosphere had changed and no matter what I tried to talk about, the Photographer seemed to grow more and more distant. I was annoyed and perplexed – was he really writing me off because I wasn’t writing only?

He ordered a glass of Malbec and moved on to the topic of his new apartment and how one of his female friends helped him with the interior design.

“Does that bug you?” he asked, watching me.

“That you didn’t design it yourself, or you have friends?”

“That I have close female friends,” he said. Again, I could detect him fishing for some flaw in the way I was built.

I shook my head, letting my voice fall flat. “Should it?”

The date ended with less Gone with the Wind passion as before, but I tried to stay positive. Surely no man would walk away from a woman just because she gambled in a way different than he thought she should, right?

A full week later after uncharacteristic silence, I received a message from him: Hey Stefanie. I really enjoyed getting to know you and although I saw real potential for us, I just don’t see you in my future and don’t want to lead anyone on. Sorry to do this via text, but wanted to let you know as soon as I had the chance – this week has been very busy. I wish you the best!

I immediately felt sick to my stomach. Had my multiple dreams really put him off that badly? What had happened to all of the future plans that involved “we” and “us” that he spoke of? Somehow I managed to find myself caught in a dating game of a different level than any I’d been caught in before. Annoyed and sad at the loss of potential I'd imagined, I deleted his number.

"You were future faked," a friend told me when I told her the story.

This was a term I'd never heard before. "I'm sorry?"

"Future faked," she repeated. "It's when a guy talks about the future solely to get what he wants in the present. I read about it on a blog called Baggage Reclaim."

"That's psychotic," I reflected. "Why would anyone be that cruel?"

"It's just part of the dating game some guys play," she continued. "They pretend to commit so they can have all of the trappings of commitment without actually being tied down. They think talking about it is as good as doing it."

I thought back to the men I'd been involved with - and the majority of them, even the last man I considered my boyfriend, had future faked in some way. While I knew that the Photographer's behavior was his own BS and not mine, I found myself curious about why that type of man was attracted me. Was it the illusion of a perfect future that got me or was it my own human urge to tell people what they want to hear versus the truth that made me like them more? Something to think on for sure.

This city is full of lessons and I’d just learned another valuable one. The Photographer showed me that people don’t always get better with age - some people just get better at playing the game. By inviting a mature man into my life, I was inviting someone who was much better at fooling me in regards to his intentions. It’s important to discern charm from sincerity when seeking a potential date, and I promised myself never to fall for a future faker again - after all, actions should match the words being delivered.