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After a long-term relationship, going into summer as a single pringle gave me the perfect opportunity to explore the secret underworld of Tinder. Armed with wine, pent-up sexual frustration, and apparently low standards, I was “lucky” enough to meet a plethora of your Tinder Typicals.
The Campsite Booty Call
Family Christmas is often paired with disadvantages, such as having your social life limited to babysitting preteen cousins and shoddy reception on your phone. After barely three days of this, I needed to socialise. For a beach astutely nicknamed “butt-fuck-nowhere, Northland”, my expectations weren’t exactly high. But there were two people to message me with at least some effort to spell and punctuate (apparently those are my criteria), and I was lured by a hot 22-year-old builder to play beer pong with “his bros” at their campsite cabin.
“Bros” turned out to be all too literal—I found myself engaged in a raucous game of beer pong while his cousins, aunts, uncles, and parents drifted in and out of the room. The fact we had “met” on Tinder just three hours earlier was apparently no secret, and it turns out no amount of alcohol makes it any less weird when a near-stranger walks you to his tent in front of his entire extended family, all 100 per cent aware of what’s about to occur.
In light of the awkwardness I drank far too much, but apparently I enjoyed myself enough that the lack of soundproofing a tent offers was commented to him the next day.
2/5 Much like a real date, don’t invite a stranger to a pre-bang meet-the-family bonanza. Also, I lost a favourite pair of underwear.
The “I’m Going To Act Like It’s A Date When We Both Know It’s Just Sex”
The second of the Northland Bachelors and I coordinated a time to meet up, going into “town” for some pool and beer (“town” being one road with a motel, pub, liquor store, Pak’n’Save, and Farmers).
There was no pretending this was any more “time-filling” for either of us, yet he seemed insistent on trying to pretend he wasn’t just “using me for sex”. I wasn’t exactly playing hard to get—nobody puts a wink emoticon in every sentence unless they’re giving you the go ahead. Come on, what’s wink-worthy about “great, see you in ten ;)”? Pool was fun, the banter great, and his confidence (see: biceps) was definitely appealing. The awkward attempts at “lingering eye contact”, handholding, and referencing our blatant meet-up as a “date” was less so.
We later drove to a lake for a swim (see: chance to get halfway naked sooner), then for a walk through the nearby forest—for I am classy if nothing else. The kissing begins, and his helicopter tongue motions are unappreciated. It’s two minutes tops before we’re finished (well, he’s finished), and he launches into an “it’s not you, it’s me, I’m just not after a relationship” type spiel, while I raise my eyebrows and shatter his illusion that he was ever more than a space-filler. (Pun intended.)
1/5 When you both know it’s just sex, don’t try to garnish it. And don’t Tinder if you think helicopter motions are appropriate when kissing.
The “Tinder Date = Relationship”
A cute, chatty lad caught my eye, and it was a promising start. I eagerly anticipated our first meetup at a local bar. The conversation flowed, the drinks were many, and after a good three or so hours of drinking and chatting, we stumbled back to his nearby flat to watch a movie (yeah, sure. “Watch a movie”).
We do the obligatory “set up a movie” before giving in and making out with some sneaky feelskies on the couch before relocating to the bedroom. Unfortunately, the compatibility seemed to end there. He began “heading downstairs”, and frankly had me almost missing the Northland helicopter-mouth. I had to restrain myself from pointing out you didn’t actually eat it, but instead distracted him by acting as if he’d done so well, I just NEEDED him now. This led to a session of such out-of-sync nooky that I found myself pondering mid-coitus if there was such a thing as “sex dyslexia”. There was the awkward failure-to-get-it-in, the over-extended-pull-out with the subsequent painful genital-collision, and of course, the universally dreaded “oh-god-wrong-hole!”.
I was able to overlook the awful sex, though while I enjoyed his company, there was really no “spark”. Fortunately, there was never a conversation regarding the topic of relationships, so I assumed we were just friends. It was a shocking two weeks before I discovered that he was under the (completely wrong) impression that we were formally dating, and (even more wrong) exclusively so. Oops. The cherry on top was when my first attempt at dumping him was thwarted by a phone call from his mother mid-conversation, informing him his grandfather had died.
3/5 Nice guy, and the “Tinder meet” itself can’t be blamed for what followed.
The “Hey I Just Swiped You, BTW I’m Crazy”
In all fairness, this isn’t just one person, and I never actually took any of these as far as actually meeting. This Tinder character comes in various forms—the ones I found myself the most berated by were those that thought that one small exchange entitled them to flood my Tinder and Facebook (yes, they add you on Facebook after barely more than a swipe right)—with 24/7 noise.
Talking to anybody on Tinder is a constant risk: one minor conversation may be all it takes for them to spend over a week sending you hourly “hey, how are you”, “whatup”, “wanna meet in person?”, “you’re hot btw” messages, sometimes followed up by a “you there?”. Seriously people, wait for a reply. If there isn’t one, stop trying.
-10/5 It’s not that you’re saying the wrong secret code of unpunctuated crap to lure me in: I just don’t like you, and do not want your penis. Simple.
The False Advertising
I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t fairly confident about my appeal. I don’t sit around gazing upon the glory that is my body, but I know how to lure a man’s interest (have a vagina). Regardless, I felt almost out of my depth as I stumbled upon a fella so striking, I felt my physical prowess shying away as I gazed upon his gorgeous face and chiselled abs—I was even able to tolerate the obnoxiousness of shirtless Tinder pics, because frankly it would be an injustice NOT to share that with the world.
This one was a stunner, and heck, I doubt I would’ve cared if he’d been thicker than a plank (in conversation that is, you filthy buggers). My lady-loins were a-burning as I donned my tightest pants and most breastacular top for our appointed engagement. Lo and behold, my lady-boner was premature. The sculpted Abercrombie-and-Fitch-worthy torso was in fact a relic of his long-gone rugby days, from over three years earlier. The transition from sports-stud to desk-job had, he said, taken a toll of around 30kg—that’s right, he acknowledged the “bit of a difference” between the profile and the person.
0/5 I’m not saying that I’m superficial, or that I would never “date a fat person”—I’m saying I was on Tinder for a shallow screw, not a social experiment.
What began as promising Tinder banter soon transitioned to actual txting. Our little chats had depth, the flirting was clever, and it was a couple days before we hit up a pub. His London accent was a bit annoyingly cockney, but apart from that his charm was intact.
It was downhill from there. Being eight years younger than him, he deemed anything I had to say about university or work inferior—no matter what I said about my workload, job, degree, or goals, his responses mocked how “adorable” I was, taking myself so seriously. Being a few beers in, I was more tolerant than I should’ve been, and let his wankerisms slide. With false hope at redemption, we went back to his after he offered to cook dinner. We somehow got to the “what’s your number” chat, and though less than half of his, my quantity of conquests apparently entitled him to say that I was “a bit of a slag, wasn’t I?”
Cue his flatmate bounding in yielding vast amounts of pot—we put dinner on hold in lieu of a much-needed session. For some reason that eludes me now, my high-and-wasted self just wanted to get some, and we went back to mine for some unsurprisingly crap sex. It was, of, course, all about him—not that there really was “all that much of him” either. If I had to name our sex after a movie, I think 10 Things I Hate About You would about sum it up. As I lay back to finally get some much-wanted sleep, I discovered yet another oh-how-brilliant quirk of the stud: apparently pot gives him full body eczema. Cue being woken up all night by the melodious tune of nails on skin.
In the cold light of day (and sobriety), he proved himself an even bigger cock than I had realised. I’m unsure which part it was exactly, but between telling me that after seeing power tools in my room, in his paranoid high mind he genuinely wondered if I would murder him at 3am (can’t say the thought didn’t cross my mind), and giving me a ten-minute-long spiel about how advantageous it was to be a man and how crap being a woman is, I came to the all-too-obvious realisation that my stint with Tinder had come to a crashing (and hungover) end.
(And I still drove him to work afterwards, WHY!)