Can I just say something? In a city where everyone is someone — or at least pretends to be — dating can feel like a series of elaborate performances. Sometimes, it’s the guy with the right playlist and the wrong intentions, and sometimes, it’s the girl who just wants out.
Sometimes I feel like the hardest part about dating is meeting a person’s representative before actually meeting the real them. Because afterward, you can’t help but wonder, did I just waste so much time with this person because I was falling for a version of them that didn’t exist? I fell for a person that I, essentially, created.
What do I mean by this? Well, recently, I met this guy while walking the streets of Santa Monica — we’ll call him DJ because he DJs at bars on the weekends. I was out and about, doing what I do best, interviewing people for Love, Sex, LA, asking if they were Team Big or Team Aiden. I ended up interviewing this guy’s friend — let’s call him Boston, because, you guessed it, that’s where he’s from. They were so intrigued by the whole thing that they invited me and my sister to The Bungalow in Santa Monica, offering to help us find more people to interview.
So, we met them there (side note: best espresso martini I’ve ever had). Boston was the one originally hitting on me, but then DJ slid in, making his move. And honestly, when I first met him, I thought he was really fun and had a great personality. He was charismatic, charming, and seemed genuine. Okay, and maybe, a part of me was attracted to a part of him that reminded me of someone else I dated. Have you ever done that? Liked someone because something about them — whether it be their appearance, energy, the way they speak, or even their life story — reminds you of a person you’re still hung up on? I think this is one of the stages of grieving a relationship or situationship (an article for another day).
“What are you?” he asked.
“Armenian.”
“My ex-girlfriend is Armenian,” he said and smiled.
I had other plans that night, so we went our separate ways, but it wasn’t long before I got an Instagram message from DJ. Again, at first, this guy seemed really cool, fun, the life-of-the-party energy that for some reason I’m so attracted to.
The next day, DJ invited me to a set he was doing at Lanea in Santa Monica. I stopped by but didn’t stay long.
A week or so passed, the DJ and I had been texting. One Saturday, he invited me to a festival in Santa Monica. He bought me a ticket and I met him and his friends there. There were tons of local vendors and honestly, it started out super fun. This was the first time we were really intentionally hanging out.
We walked around, he bought some local art, we stopped at Jameson’s Pub to get a drink. And I noticed that’s when his personality started to shift. The more he drank, the weirder he became. But I kind of just brushed it off. I swear I take red flags, rip them up, and turn them into confetti.
We found our way over to this VIP area of the festival where we got to check out more vendors, most of which were alcohol brands, and I saw the way he lost control when it came to drinking. Again, I brushed it off, we were at a festival, and I figured this couldn’t have been his usual behavior.
Fast forward, and DJ had managed to turn our chance meeting into an all-day affair. And as the night went on, something started to feel off. DJ wasn’t just dropping beats; he was dropping names — big ones. He casually mentioned his connections to Elon Musk, Gavin Newsom, and practically every Hollywood A-lister you could think of. It felt like I was on a date with a walking, talking résumé, rather than a real person. It’s one thing to embellish a little when trying to impress someone new, but DJ was making stories up from scratch.
We went for a walk, grabbed dinner, and at some point, I realized he was already planning our future together. It was like he had written a script for our relationship, and I was just an extra in his grand production.
As I sat there, listening to him talk about “our” plans, I realized I wasn’t the only one being played, I think he even believed this version of him he had created. I had fallen for DJ’s representative, the polished, perfect version of him that only existed in his head. And now, I was stuck, trying to figure out how to gracefully exit a date that had gone on far too long.
That’s when I did it. I faked it. I texted my friend, asking her to call with an “emergency.” Moments later, I was rushing out the door, apologizing profusely, and promising we’d catch up soon. DJ wasn’t having it. He told me off in the middle of Canon in front of the Maybourne Hotel. I felt bad, but not bad enough. I felt like I’d just survived a tornado. Maybe I need to stop dating guys who are comparable to a natural disaster.
I wasn’t just running from DJ; I was running from the fact that I, too, had put on an act. I pretended to be into the date, pretended to care about his stories, and in the end, pretended I had somewhere more important to be.
Maybe that’s just how it goes in the dating game. We all put on our best face, our best stories, and hope the other person doesn’t notice the cracks in the facade. But when the masks come off, we’re left wondering if we were really connecting with someone, or just their representative.
As I walked away from DJ that day, it hit me — maybe it’s time to stop pretending to feel something when I don’t. There’s a freedom in being real, in not faking a connection just to fill a moment. Isn’t that honesty what we’re all truly craving?
Xoxo,
Alexandria