Dear Straight Girl on Lesbian Tinder,
Dear Straight Girl on Lesbian Tinder,
Hey you — the cis, white, quirky girl who is clearly involved in a committed, monogamous, heterosexual relationship, but is “new to the city” and “looking for friends” — get off of my Tinder. I’m not kidding. Leave (Get Out) and find somewhere else to be that isn’t my feed. That’s right. Click the little fire icon on your Rose iPhone, find the settings page, and thumb your french-manicured finger down to “Delete Account”. When it asks why you’d like to leave, type in, “Because I am scum.”
Because guess what, Brittani or Megann or Taylor Swift or whatever name your likely-just-as-nauseating-parents christened you with? Literally no one else is on Tinder to find platonic pals. Why? Because it makes no logical sense. Going on a dating site for non-romantic relationships is like going to an erotic bakery for your grandmother’s birthday cake — you will not get what you’re looking for and you’re definitely going end up seeing more naked body parts than you wanted or needed. Women seeking women on Tinder are like the potentially-psychotic-but-very-entertaining contestants that the The Bachelorette producers obviously keep on the show solely because they bring up the ratings: We’re not here to make friends. We are women trying to smooch other women. End of story.
And you know what you might have never considered, Laurie or Tori or Tuesdays with Morrie? It is hard to be a lesbian. It really, truly is. When you met Chad or Brad or Thad or Dad or whatever your Ken-doll-incarnate is called in whatever glorified-cave-of-a-frat-house he lured you to with a trail of Rolling Rock cans and a vague promise to be faithful, you probably only really had to worry about whether to use medium or magnum condoms. For us? Not nearly as simple. For queer women, there is a long and arduous courting process. You must to decide you like said person, make sure they’re not straight, hope that they’re single, pray they were never involved with one of your exes, muster up the courage to ask them out, ensure they know it’s a date and not an ambiguous hangout, decide which flannel to wear to the occasion, show up to said date, actually endure the thing, and then maybe you break out the dental dams. Tinder made this process a little easier, until you came around.
The worst part is that you and I would probably make pretty good friends. Your profile says you’re 20. I, too, have endured the passage of time for two decades. One of your pictures features food. I like food. We clearly share a large amount of desperation, as we have both willfully and voluntarily created Tinder accounts for ourselves. That’s definitely a start. In fact, I’m positive that, under different circumstances, we would have a grand old time meeting at a hip-but-not-too-hip coffee shop. We’d have a great conversation about our hometowns, our favorite books, and the fact that you’re a Taurus. Afterwards, you would go home to your loving boyfriend and feel re-energized. On the other hand, I would return to my empty apartment and rewatch L-Word episodes until I eventually die. Because I live alone, my cat would start eating my decomposing carcass and I wouldn’t be discovered for several weeks — not even because anyone noticed or missed me, but because the landlord noted the smell when coming to ask about my late rent payment.
Just know, I probably don’t hate you personally; I mostly hate the idea of you — a stable, heteronormative presence in my chaotic, gay existence. You have everywhere in the world to openly exist and “make friends”, while I only have gay bars, feminist bookstores, Sleater-Kinney concerts, and the blinking screen of my iPhone to find love. If we should ever meet in person, come up and talk to me. We can still chat about astrology in a Think Coffee, but I won’t feel bitter about being lonely because you haven’t stolen a space in a place that is supposed to be for me and people like me.
While I have you here, I feel it’s also important to mention that I have no interest in being your third.
Best,
Claire
