Tinder Date #137: A Review

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Today at noon, I received a message from her about an argument we had the night before. It said something about the Mexican refugee camps and how the kids born in this country aren’t citizens. It was one of the first conversations we had and I wanted to leave right then.

It wasn’t about what she was saying. Truth of the matter is, I could give a flying fuck in the night about her stance on political issues. But it was something about how she was saying these statements. Each one was connected to another idea with no supporting structure, like a tangled mess of cords in the bottom of your suitcase. I snacked on kung pow chicken as I listened further.

“Look people don’t believe me, but I know. I’ve lived in 14 countries and can speak several different languages. I use to live with a rich Jewish family that had connections. Like they told me Obama was going to be president back in the 90’s. Like I knew then!”

I took a sip of my Moscow Mule. This girl fully believed every syllable she was saying. It reminded me of a group of 70’s year olds sipping coffee at 6 am in a Greek Restaurant and talking about the Illuminati.

“I believe you. I’ve heard some of these conspiracy theories before.

“THESE ARE NOT CONSPIRACY THEORIES! I HATE WHEN PEOPLE SAY THESE THAT!”

I smiled and ordered another drink.

Things actually calmed down after that and we started talking about cities in Michigan. Then moving out of mitten.

She mentioned that she always had to keep moving to the next thing. It’s why she traveled so much. It’s why she had these crazy lifestyle stories. Like living on the streets in London, or stealing a passport from an Irish drug kingpin and leaving it in a taxi.

After she told me that, I knew exactly who she was. I think that is the reason why I wanted to leave. A lot of people I’ve met who travel have this calmness to them that’s hard to put into words. I like to think it’s the things they’ve experienced coming through their actions. But I think it only happens when you reflect and compare which is hard to do when you’re chasing the next thing.

Her stories were like a season of Weeds or Orange is the New Black (Yes I know, same writer). Lots of self induced shit, piled on with more self induced shit. I mean the reason she’s in Chicago in the first place is because she is traveling back home to Michigan and decided to not get on the last bus. All I kept thinking about is what is this girl running from? Do I really want to find out and get tangled in all that?

I sure as fuck didn’t but I’m always game for an adventure and a good story. So I stuck around.

#

Later today, at 5:00pm a few more messages came in from her. All this is really strange considering she still has my number. It’s never good when someone jumps back a level of communication.

They read:

“What’s it like being gay and dating women? Like I’m just curious?”

Hahaha

She was cute. Definitely one of the better looking girls I’ve met off Tinder. She was throwing the cat at me all night. But I wasn’t interested and ended up going home alone. My mind kept running with the last handful of shitty one night stands where I felt like an ass hat.

Hank Moody would say “A morning of awkwardness is better than a night of loneliness.” That fucker doesn’t know what he is talking about. There are worst things than being alone, but it often takes a while to figure that out. I’d rather be alone than with someone I can’t seem to find anything beautiful about. It feels too much like settling.

I had my first one night stand when I was 18. I was at my buddy house and I didn’t catch her name. It was like a badge of honor. Friends cheered me on. But 10 years later, things are different. I don’t care what anyone thinks of me and most of the one night stands go one of two ways.

Sometimes they’re like a cherry on top of a gorgeous night where two people meet randomly, click on different levels, and have an adventure around the city. Those ones stick with me forever.

But the ones I have off this app are closer to the other kind. Their all business, like the red light district in Amsterdam. Two humans borrowing each other to masturbate with because they have this emotional urge inside of them. I use to be okay with that, but lately it’s been feeling less like free will.

Dating use to be fun, why does it suck now?

#

In summary,

Don’t use the phrase “Conspiracy Theories” ever.

Cute girls aren’t use to getting rejected by their personalities.

Always follow the golden rule: “Never bump uglies with crazy” even if that means you get called gay.

Tinder sucks.

And I feel like an alien for preferring some type of deep connection with a few people as apposed to just skimming the surface with hundreds of people.

2 out of 10, would not date again.

Drunken Photo Shoots

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*Click *Click*Click

The shutter on the Nikon went off as the back patio of the bar. The flash poured on the two while the rest of the group was oblivious around them.

“Just one more, this time a little closer together,” the camera woman said. She was excited to use her camera on someone other than her husband and dog for a change– a statement she made many times throughout the night.

The redhead grabbed me closer while I pretended this was the Royal Wedding shoot. I stared at her and made jokes that I looked like blonde Prince Henry with less hair.

“So you’re prince William?”

I glared at her and moved her chin.

“Stop moving my face.” she said through her grin.

“Stop trying to pose! We need to make this authentic for the readers of Teen People.” I said.

She looked down and laughed into my chest. The camera girl worked ferociously.

“Oh my god you guys! this is too cute! I’m feeling something here between you two!”

I knew just what she meant. I felt it too. I felt it the first time I walked into their party that afternoon and greeted my friend’s redheaded sister. The last time I saw her she was drunk and asking about this girl I was seeing. That was five years ago. She had outgrown her parent’s divorce issues, or so I thought.

It’s always a weird feeling when someone likes you. Your gut takes a hold of you, knowing you have this power over someone. In the past, it gave me a rush and I’d want to reciprocate. Now it happens more often, and it makes me wonder. Is this a curse? What do I want? When am I going to feel this way about someone else?

*Click*Click*Click

The redhead looked back up in my eyes. I knew that look, but ignored it. We posed in more ridiculous ways, ending on a vogue. The Camera girl and the redhead consulted among the pictures. I excused myself and went to the bathroom.

“Hurry back!” the redhead yelled.

“Ya! Hurry! You have to see these pictures! They’re soooo cute!” The camera girl said.

I walked into the bar, past the rows of empty stools. Typical for a Sunday night. The bathroom was dimly lit, yet I still make out my face in between the rust spots in the mirror. I splashed cold water on my face and took a deep breath.

Fuck.

 

Everybody Wants to Rule the World

 

I was six beers deep on that Sunday, a common site after my break up. I’d get off my short morning shift at the restaurant, and drink until my head stopped pounding from the night before. The process was simple, just one bud light at a time. The amount it took never mattered since I road a twelve speed Schwinn everywhere.

The new server worked that morning too. She was recently divorced with two boys. I pegged her age at 46 -double mine at the time- but I never clarified with her. She got the job as a waitress after the separation. Before that she was a stay at home mom, so it’s only fitting that she fell into this industry. On that morning, she told me her husband got the seven year itch, which was term I never heard before. That’s why she got short when I asked what it meant.

The Cubs got their ass kicked by Cincinnati that day. I’ll never forget because she wore a Reds T-shirt instead of her uniform. She sat down after her shift and pretended to ask the score. Even though I was already four beers deep, I resisted the urge to punch her in the tits.

She was very handsy, and always had to touch you when she spoke. You know, a hand on the back for a secret, or an arm grab when she got excited about something. Everyone hated it, except me. I think, I just enjoyed anyone who enjoyed me. But that’s typical during a break up.

After her first drink, she told me she had to pick up her kids. She also said that she had plans with her new boyfriend, a tall, dark, and handsome type with a motorcycle. Yet she still ordered another Vodka Sprite. And another after that one. It’s funny how quick plans change when drinks and good conversation is involved.

On the 8th inning, we stopped watching the massacre and quizzed each other over the bar music. I was good. Within the first guitar riff, I knew the answer. She didn’t stand a chance until I finally got stumped. It was that one famous 80’s song, I know you’ve heard it before. It says something about mother nature and ruling the world. I couldn’t think of the name, but I knew the song because my Ex played it all the time.

Anyways, she was shocked that I couldn’t answer, and punched me in the arm. I smacked my bud light and it flew into the air. The bottle shattered against the mirror behind the bar. I don’t remember who the bartender was but she kicked us out right after. Some bullshit right? I mean, we made a mistake sure, but we worked there. I made a joke that I’d been kicked out of nicer shit holes than this. She grabbed my arm and walked out.

We stood by the side of the building and I lit up a cigarette. I’m not sure if she smoked but she accepted it when I passed it over. She took a drag and started talking about her new Boyfriend. She said he was great, and told me she liked him, but paused. I blew out smoke and she went on.

“I don’t know, I just don’t think I’m ready yet.” She said.

“Ready for what?” I said.

“You know. He just gives me this look, like he knows his future or something. And, I don’t know, I guess I’m somehow apart of it.” She said.

“Sounds kind of heavy” I said.

“It is. But at the same time, it’s not. I know none of that make sense but maybe you’ll understand when you get older.” She said.

“Nope, I’m staying 23 forever.” I said, smiling before I continued.

“But I get it. You just had your plan just get rocked by life. Sounds like you kind of want to hang out a bit. Maybe just take it slow, smell the roses, get lost in an adventure of the day. Have a drink with a cook and get your ass kicked in song trivia.” I said.

“You didn’t even know that last song.” She said.

I was going to take the joke further but she kissed me. I didn’t see it coming. I was so drunk I don’t think I close my eyes. I was going to ask if she wanted to get another drink but there was an interruption.

A guy pulled up in a Suburban and started yelling. He ran out and left his door open. He was a shorter guy, about my height and he just kept screaming at her. She tried to play it off like she had to stay late, but her words slurred at every vowel. I couldn’t tell you what was said, but I remembered him pointing to the two boys in the back of the SUV. Tears rolled down her face and she ran to her car. The guy flipped me off as he got into the Suburban and drove off.

I took a step back until I hit the building. My back slid down the wood until I hit my ass on the cement. I dug in my pocket until I found another Camel. I sat there quiet and kept my eyes down on the white parking lot.

The next day she put her notice in, but it wasn’t until a few weeks later that I saw her again. She popped in on a Sunday for her last check. I was at the end of the bar, nursing a Bud Light by myself. I said hello, but the conversation didn’t go far. She has a motorcycle helmet in her hand and said her fiance was waiting outside.

She left and I ordered another Bud Light. I looked in the cracked mirror behind the bar and gave myself a toast.

She was finally ready.

The First Time I got Laid as a Writer…

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The first time I got laid as a writer, she smiled when I asked to smoke outside. I don’t think she heard me over the bar chatter. She just saw me leave into the patio and came with. I lit a Newport in-between October wind gusts while she filled the silence.

“So what have you been writing about?” she asked.

“Well, I applied for a non-paid writers position at a satire magazine on campus a few weeks ago. My friend told me about it. She gave me her editor’s contact and told me to send a sample of my work. Right now, I’m managing/designing a protection scheme for the school’s solar car. It’s my senior project, one of the most difficult Senior Engineering projects in the school’s history. Between that, not missing a game of the Cubs historic 2015 playoff run, and getting yelled at by my restaurant manager who hasn’t been laid in 20 years, I found time to write the sample,” I said.

The cherry on my menthol lit up my face as I took a quick break from my speech. I exhaled and continued.

“I showed it to every one I knew. I mean EVERYONE. My roommate, my lab partners, my fellow engineering nerds, my friend that worked at the magazine, the girl I had a crush on at work, the girl I had a crush on in my History class, and etc. I got a lot of notes. Some I implemented, some I didn’t. I re-wrote the damn thing four times. Waited to the last minute to send it over,” I said.

“Wow” she said. A piece of grey ash smeared on her blue dress. “So what happened?” she asked.

“Well, days went by. I’d check my email but nothing. I’d hear a ding on my phone, only to read flights from Chicago for only 79.00! Orbits bastards. I got asked by everyone that helped me if I heard anything yet, but I had to give them the same lame answer.

Then a week and a half later, I saw an email from an address I didn’t recognize. I quickly pulled it up and read it.

Dear Darby,

Although your piece was entertaining, we don’t feel you’re a good fit here.

Take care

“Oh I’m sorry to hear that,” she said, ” I know writing can be tough thing to get into.”

The wind from the maple leaves rustled and almost blew out my half smoked cancer stick. We took a couple steps back behind a side of the bar.

“You’re not kidding, I ran into my friend who works there. I asked her what the editor thought about it. Now we’d been friends for a while, but she didn’t come clean with me until later in the conversation. Apparently, they spent the first 20 minutes of their meeting talking shit about it. The word choices, the grammatical errors, the sad attempt to be funny. I became a running joke, ” I said.

“Oh my god!” she said. “Did they really?”

I slammed my butt on the ground and looked at her brown eyes. My head slightly nodded.

“Yea they did. I guess one guy kept calling me a no talent ass clown. He even got up and drew a picture of his interpretation of said ass clown. He scribbled the face with red marker and the hair with green. She took a picture and showed me.” I said.

“Wow,” she said. She swayed back and worth trying to keep warm from the chill fall weather.

“Yea I was pretty hurt but what can I do? I just need to get better. You know, work a little harder. I decided to open up a shitty blog. I’m also reading articles about the craft and asking questions daily on a forum.

So as of right now, that’s what I’ve working on,” I said.

She looked back at my wide eyes. Her words hesitated to exit but I already knew what she was going to say.

“Do you still have the piece? Like, do you mind if I read it?” she asked

“Not at all,” I said.

I grabbed her hand and we walked two blocks to my apartment.

If Tinder Profiles Were More Than 500 Characters: Pt. 2

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Part 1

-I don’t want you to come straight over to my apartment to watch Netflix

-I don’t want to send you $5 on Venmo for naked Snapchat pictures

-I want to meet at a coffee shop or bar

-I want you to get upset at me for being late because I thought we were meeting at a different spot down the street

-I want to hear about your day over glasses clinking and the faint murmur of 90’s alternative music

-I want to interrupt with various jokes that show off your perfect snorty laugh

-I want to hear about your superstition with ghosts and how you once saw a figure in black when you worked at the Old Adolphus Hotel

-I want to whisk you out of the bar and wonder around the city looking for other haunted buildings

-As we walk, I want to tell you how much I love to write, despite the amount of times I’ve been told my writing sucks

-I want to hear the passion that gets your blood pumping

-I want to finally find a dark building and make up a story why one light is still on

-I want to get so lost in our conversation I miss the last train home

-I don’t want to get super “handsy” when we stand behind your car, just bask in the tension of our eyes lingering during a pregnant pause

-I want you to say awkward things because your happily uncomfortable in the moment

-I want to interrupt by pulling you in for a kiss and breaking it off before you reach to bite my lower lip

-I want to say good night and walk an hour back home, past our haunted building, thinking about how excited I am to see you again

If you can’t handle any of that please swipe left

 

The Difference Between Men and Women

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Men’s Fantasy: I want you to wear a tight dress and heels, so everyone will be jealous of me at the club.

Women’s Fantasy: I want you to eye me from across the room on your first day at work and flash your pretty white teeth. I want you to go back to talking with your new co-workers and continue to get acclimated with the new computer system. Hours later, during the boring 2:30 period, I’ll be making copies in the tiny supply room. I want you to walk in and slam the always open wooden door behind you. I want your blue eyes to be locked on mine and your mouth to never move. I want to awkwardly introduce myself, to which you ignore, and come at me without hesitation like a tidal wave. I want you to start kissing my neck, lift me up, hike up my skirt, and slam my ass against the cold metallic folding table. I want you to undo your belt and slam your hard member into me. Half way through, I want you to bend me over the copy machine, so I can feel the bright light burn my eyes as copies of my face as shoot out during the climax. Then I want you to put your pants back on and walk out back to your desk, like nothing ever happened.

Men’s: I want to hit it doggy, and smack your ass while you yell “Ay Papi!”

Women’s: I want you to dress up in a ski mask and attack me from behind as I enter my apartment late from my workout one Tuesday. I want to drop my gym bag midway at the door and you to cover my mouth as I use my remaining breath to scream for help. I want my left hand to club you across the head with my Louis Vuitton and rush frantically into my bedroom searching for something to defend myself with. I want you to stick your foot between the door as I try to slam it and overpower me with your tight muscular arms that bulge out of the black UnderArmor shirt. I want you to slam me down over the dresser, tear the middle of my yoga pants, and ravage me as I scream for bloody murder. I want to continue to fight back at first but give in toward the end when I’m close. I want my body to shake with delight and have wet fluid monsoon down on your hard cock. After you cum, I want you to help me pick up the rest of ransacked apartment and ask me about my day at work.

Men’s: I want to fuck you hard and finish with a load in your face.

Women’s: I want to walk into your corner office that says CEO on the door. I want to live in the sexual tension between the two of us, while your sitting in the giant red chair with brass buttons. I want you to drool at the sight of my tight grey pencil skirt as I run my hands across the stained oak desk on my way over to you. I want to take a deep breath and ask for your signature, emphasizing the word “Boss”. I want to knock down the papers on the desk and gulp as I slowly bend down to get them. I want to see your Italian suit pants try its best to contain your hard dick. I want to slowly unzip your pants and force take the entire thing in my wet mouth. I want to you say softly “Not here” but not do anything to stop it. I want to not stop the forceful suction when I feel my hair brush up against the oak due to the incoming footsteps. I want to hear you struggle to contain your load when the most powerful man in the building tries to take care of an invoice issue with Jim from the Accounting department. I want to feel the warm spunk hit the back of my throat, just as I hear Jim’s shoes walk in the opposite direction. I want to wipe my mouth, pick up the rest of my papers, and walk back to my desk.

Men’s: I want to stick it in your butt.

Women’s: I want to wake up completely strapped down to a retractable chair with my feet in stirrups in an unfamiliar room. I want a single blinding light on my face. The only thing I want to wear is a medical gown and I want to barely make out the glimmer from the various shiny instruments on the table to my left. I want my tits to feel sore from struggling to free myself from the rope around them. I want you to enter with a white coat and your eyes studying my figure up and down. I want to yell out questions that go unanswered like “Who are you?” and “Why are you doing this?”. I want to hear the clink of grabbing an instrument of the tiny steel table. I want you to start the buzzing of the vibrating instrument and duck under my gown. I want to feel the rubber end of the instrument creep up around my thighs and eventually up to my clit. I want to squirm back and forth and try to fight the tingling feeling within my toes. I want to have sweat pour down my face as I quiver uncontrollably. I want to scream out as I lose the battle and release a steady stream of hot liquid. After, I want you to stand up and set the instrument back on the small tray. Then I want to see you write something on a clipboard and leave the room, while I pant fearlessly, trying to catch my breath.

 

-This post is dedicated to my home girl at but she was fierce. She’s a amazing writer, especially when it comes to erotica, and after reading some of her work I wanted to try it out myself. Turns out, women’s sexual fantasies are way more fun to write about than guys. Who knew?

Ps – For the record these would all be consensual acts #Don’tsueI’mpoor

 

The Application

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I’m currently accepting applications for someone who loses track of time when joking around with me. Someone who shows up at the bar when I’m two Moscow Mules deep and instantly tells me about her day. Someone who mentions that she had good intentions of heading to the gym to work out today but instead just showered. Someone who laughs when I joke and mimic that she just washed her thick Italian hair over and over for two hours, almost making her late for work. Someone who takes the joke further by saying it’s all baby steps towards getting healthy and next week she’ll actually get a drink at the gym water fountain before heading to the showers. Someone who laughs so hard she snorts unexpectedly making me laugh harder.

I’m currently accepting applications for someone who storms off after an argument about me flirting with another girl. Someone who gets so frustrated, she moves in with her friend, Sasha. Someone who sips wine and makes jokes all night about how small my dick is. About how they never really liked me anyways. And about how she ‘settled’ for me because her ex moved away and she regrets not going with him. Someone who finally takes Sasha’s advice and heads out to the club wearing her favorite Orange dress that somehow fits. Someone who meets a charming guy that’s tall, witty, and successful. They connect on a deep level and he takes her to his place. Someone who texts me out of spite saying “I’ve already replaced your loser ass!” at 2:23am. Someone who fucks this guy and is still satisfied in the morning. Someone who gets a ride back to Sasha’s and hears Amy Winehouse sing over the E-class Bose speakers, reminding her of how I learned “Valerie” on my guitar when her mother passed away.  Someone who tells the guy they had a nice time. Someone who half way to the door breaks down crying on the street, and texts me, “I’m sorry”.

I’m currently accepting applications for someone who doesn’t want kids. Someone that understands that even though both of us would be awesome parents, it’s just not in the cards for me because I have too many dreams to chase. Someone who gets pissed at me for throwing every dollar towards a goal. Someone who throws a vase at my head when the financial shit hits the fan. Someone who screams every night at me when we sleep out of our two door Honda Civic dx parked behind Walmart and takes turns sleeping and watching out for employees trying to kick us out. Someone who dances with me in the heat in our new apartment when my hard work starts paying off. And a year later sips champagne with me at a fancy party, wearing a stunning red dress, and joins me in telling everyone “remember when” stories.

I’m currently accepting applications for someone who enjoys the spontaneousness of attraction. Someone who doesn’t mind shopping for paint at home depot and catching a gleam in my eye when I joke about the color ‘passion fruit red’. Someone who takes my hand and sneaks in the back by the patio furniture. Someone who tries her damnedest to hold back her moans as I jam my throbbing member in her at a repetitive rate. Someone who breaths extremely heavy at sound of incoming footsteps and kicks out during the climax, knocking over several boxes. Someone who laughs as she puts herself back together because I’m tell the worker about how it’s impossible to find the right outdoor plastic table due to the disorganization of this store.

But I’ll be honest, I’ve been accepting applications for a while now, and not many make it past the grueling the interview process.