So, I joined this thing called Tinder

There’s apparently this new phenomenon that singles everywhere are raving about (which of course I only just realized existed).  It’s called Tinder and it’s an app that’s basically the straight version of Grinder (spark notes: Grinder is an app that allows you to find nearby gays who want to mutually get jiggy with it).  At first I was all like, “fuck to the nah I am NOT going down that online dating road again.”  But then my friend said the magic words: “this isn’t dating – it’s playing ‘hot or not’.”  Based on my feminist beliefs I should probably be highly offended.  Instead, I downloaded the app.

For a solid Saturday I swiped left and right, labeling dozens of guys within a 20 mile radius as “I’d tap dat” or “hell no.”  It’s simple really; the whole idea is that you’re basing your “likes” off of immediate attractions.  I mean, it’s exactly how the world works in a bar situation; you’d never just walk up to any rando and start a convo – it’s gotta be someone you’ve had your eye on and have been envisioning ripping your dress off your body in the public restroom.  Am I right?  Or am I right?  I’m right.

So how do you know the Craiglist Killer isn’t among your potential bed buddies?  Well, Tinderites can only create a profile if they have a legit Facebook account; the app syncs your basic information and uses Facebook’s security process to sort through the weirdos (i.e. if you try to create a Facebook account under some weird ass name like “Fruit Loop McGee,”  the site probably won’t believe you’re real).  Your profile on Tinder consists of a bare minimum of information: up to five photos, a brief description of yourself (a “one liner” if you will), and any shared “likes” or mutual friends you may have with a match.

If you “like” someone who has already “liked” you, you’re labeled as a match.  From there it’s up to you to decide if you want to message back and forth.  And obvi after a certain point, numbers can be exchanged and, well, I’ll let your imagination come up with the rest.

At the end of two days, I’d already been matched with over 50 people, started messaging about 10 different guys, and received about three numbers.  Ba-da-boom-ba-da-bang.  I thought I had it maaaaaaade.  Dayum, I am hot shit.  Look at how many fellas want my bod.  Me-ow.  Come and get me boys.

I had this idea in my head that since this wasn’t technically “online dating,” I wouldn’t have to deal with all the bullshit mandatory questionnaires everyone wants to do to make sure someone’s “in it for the long haul.”  And I guess on one hand I was right.  No one was actually doing the prerequisite “so what’s your favorite ice cream” crap. But then, I was also massively wrong because there’s still this thing called PEOPLE BEING FUCKING ANNOYING.  The only time anyone ever seems to have the balls to meet for a drink (A DRINK ASSHOLES – I’M NOT ASKING YOU TO MARRY ME) is when it’s 1:30am and they’re already plastered in Uptown.  Not that I’m looking to have an Earth-shattering philosophical discussion, but Jesus, I’m not down for whiskey dick either.

Then there’s the “yeah I swiped you to the ‘like’ side because I thought you looked nice and I wouldn’t necessarily say no” dilemma.  Food for thought: if you wouldn’t necessarily say no, you’re not into him and you should just drop the pity act.  It does no one any good.  I was talking to this guy who, within the first two sentences gave me his number and asked to hang out.  Very flattering, no?  Day two rolls around and he asks if I’m free that night.  I had plans with friends so I told him as much.  Day three rolls around…and once again he asks me (at 9pm mind you…on a Sunday night) if I want to grab a drink.  Seeing as I had to be up at 0-dark-hundred the next morning for work, I declined.

Day four…

“How’s work?”

“Long.” (One-word answers are generally code for “not that interested.”)

“Same.  I feel like I’m never going to get out of here!  Want to destress with me after?” (What?  What does that even mean?  Because it sounds like you want to give me a creepy foot massage.  No.)

Day five…

“You could have just said yes or no….lol.”

This resulted in immediate blocking.  I ain’t got time fo dat shit.  No confidence and over-trying equals me being annoyed and bored.

And then there’s the guys that actually have potential.  I’d been talking to “B” for a few weeks and we decided to grab drinks last night.  According to his profile, I pegged him for a Mario Lopez almost look-alike…like he could be his cousin.  Cute, great smile, olive skin, hipster glasses and the propensity to wear blazers and layers that made him look prettaaaay fine.  Get at meh.  Now normally on weeknights I’m dog tired and not at all in the mood to grab drinks.  But I had high hopes for this one.

We met at a bar about a 10 minute drive from my place.  As I was walking up to the door, I noticed this high school kid walking in my direction with headphones in his ears, a flat-brimmed red cap (think Jersey Shore look) with some “W” team logo, ginormous diamond studs in both ears, a faded red/pink tee, khaki shorts and pink/yellow/orange NEON Nike high tops.  I chuckled to myself at just how ridiculous young’uns are dressing today.  And then as he came closer and I got a good look at his face, I realized it was “B.”  Holy fuck.  You have got to be kidding me.

The rest of the “date” went a little something like this:

  • “B” orders a hard cider (I’m sorry, I didn’t realize you had a vagina)
  • “B” asks if I’m hungry.  I’m not because I ate because we made plans to get a DRINK.  “B” is hungry though.  So “B” orders $10 steak dinner special and proceeds to nom on the entire thing while I daintily sip my beer.
  • “B” launches into a discussion about how horrible his first two weeks living in my city were; he apparently likes to get so sauced (probably on hard ciders and appletinis) that he ends up in the middle of the hood and asks a pair of unsavory youths where he is.  At this point, the youths jump his ass (fair move…in this case he literally “asked” for it) and he apparently has to “fight for his life.”
  • “B” tells me about his awesome studio apartment two blocks away…which he shares with another male coworker.
  • “B” asks how old I am.  I reply, “23.”  He replies “that’s so young!”  To which I physically feel my face contort in confusion as he is clearly 18 years old.  “How old are you?”  I ask.  “26, turning 27 at the end of August.”  Oh my fuck.
  • “B” proposes we attend a baseball game together, to which I reply, “oh, hmmmm, you like baseball?”
  • “B” proposes we attend a music festival together, to which I reply, “oh, hmmmm, you like music?”
  • “B” proposes we attend a restaurant together, to which I reply, “oh, hmmmm, I like tacos.”
  • I start to nod off and say a little prayer that this will end NOW everytime my face goes back into the rim of my beer mug.
  • “B” pays for dinner then walks me to my car and gives me an awkward goodbye hug that feels sort of like hugging a limp fish.

For a hot second I thought about going back to his place just for the story.  And then I remembered that I own a vibrator.  And that regardless of his actual age, I felt like a pedophile.  Oh and that my next Tinderee “A” and I have plans to hang out this weekend.

And that was the end of that.

I don’t know how long this app phase will last for me.  Frankly I’m bored, and considering my constant spontaneous behavior, I may just move back into the lane known as “real live conversation offline.”

But then again, the perks of the app are that you really don’t have to get involved beyond a profile pic.  At least not unless you want to.  And in that case, I sincerely hope you get sufficiently laid.

Upward and onward.  Soldier on, Tinderites.  There may be hope for your genitalia yet.

2 thoughts on “So, I joined this thing called Tinder

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