Dark Stuff Penetrating Grey Matter
Or
How does it go with intelligent men on Tinder?
Sisters On A Tender Bender, I do miss the days when Tinder was nothing more than a hookup app. Back when putting “No ONS please” in your mini bio defeated the purpose. Back when it looked a bit awkward to open with “So what exactly are you looking for?”. When if you replied “I’m here for sex and that is absolutely clear from the fact that I am using an app that was specifically developed for people who want to have sex without further ado and therefore find people who are willing to have sex with with them as soon as possible” was Captain Obvious speaking. Well, well, well, look how the turntables (copyright by Michael Scott). This thought has now become cheap or even offputtingly vulgar.
And yet I promise you the okay-ity and coolness of hooking up has not moved an inch in the meantime.
Here’s a TED talk on a really interesting idea, the zero date. I’ll save you the spoilers but it makes a lot of sense.
Whether or not connected to said change (no, not really), there is diversification on the horizon. A few years ago Tinder started discriminating pictures where the user poses with dead animals. (Although here I am, still holding on tight for the gigantic carp cadavers to disappear, hello!) Come Pride, they sport the rainbow on their logo on Facebook. (Comment section: “I’M SO FED UP WITH BEING SINGLE QUICK CHAT ANYONE?”) Upgrades such as Plus, Select and Gold have been launched, and for a summer campaign (also 2017) Tinder teamed up with Delta Airlines.
Impressive. How does it translate to the actual dating pool? Not in the least. Not that I have a problem with bumpkin chat up lines (“I want to give your father a blowjob to find out how you got this hot”), at least they are a no-brainer (“What’s the difference between me and your couch? I feel better to sit on”) to handle (“Damn, your heart is pumping inside of you and I’m not!”). But what is the recipe for guys whose grey matter is supposed to be a guarantee against disappointment? The super cool, super smart lot?
The following stories are all told from the female perspective, so I’ll just use the first person singular narrative. I can promise you they are not all mine, just as I’ve kept a certain amount of adventures with them oh-so-clevva babes to myself. (Saving the best for your next novel, Sharon?) You see, the female party is really not the issue here.
Jean-Michel from Jailly-les-Moulins
Jean-Michel is a rarity. In 80% of the cases a long runwalk usually ends in a cul-de-sac, you chat for weeks and probably never meet. But look at that. He and I, we chat for weeks and yet we meet. He comes out as a cross-dresser before we do. He tells me we share a common interest in male genitalia but he would never kiss a guy.
On the first date, after we have sex he texts a bloke to fix a threesome. That’s actually a red flag: he asks me thrice and he never once gets a yes from me, I just CBA to say no either. That night everything is fluid and superficial (some of us still believe in casual flings, hello), so I end up telling myself what the heck, but as time goes by this same despotic tempo does give me the hardies. For yes, further dates follow and the fling turns into a relationship with feelings — and severely toxic issues. Three years later I struggle to get out. The agony of mile-long texts full of false accusations, the laceration of double standards and ugly, immature lies ultimately balance out the magic of the body and the initial flame. Tinder-based true romance blows up in my face. In which it is no different from any analogue event: with Jean-Michel I would have been daunted to square up the exact same issues if we had met in a museum or a coffee shop. Did I mention he was a lecturer at the Dijon Community College of Education? Might I add everyone speaks volumes of his intellect?
Vainö from Valkeakoksi
With Vainö it was an instant click, not independent of the fact that we share an Alma Mater. In all the initial messages his tone felt like rain in July. No narrow-minded bragging, no macho jokes, no self-victimising lack of self-confidence. He seemed smooth. I was looking forward to the first date. Why, of course I was. We went to the same university in Helsinki.
He suggested I go round to his place where we would watch movies. I said why not do all this at a proper cinema. His instant yes flashed a reassuring sign of flexibility. The date happened to be arranged for a Friday, but I had had a long week by then so I cancelled it. He was cool about it.
A week later something happened. Suddenly his texts became ever more arrogant and demanding. I did not owe him anything. We had talked about meeting up, it did not come about, shit happens. His texts got more frequent and less and less respecting of my boundaries. He wanted to know whatever I was doing that I was unavailable. When I told him I would visit my parents in Tampere he said he would meet me there. Now that sounded downright creepy from a stranger. Offering to drive to my family’s place was not only never in my books but seemed very much like a crimson flag: what else can those benevolent non-dates be hiding from sight? I ought to stop making him wait, he explained. He also mentioned had I not cancelled the first time we would long be doing it. That is where I started ignoring his texts. He did not stop, his further messages informed me how cruel I was. A secret man-hater. A woman who did not have a heart. Finally he did me the huge favour of calling me a slut but also made sure he would be the first one to block the other. Shocker. And yet we went to the same university.
Friedrich from Frankfurt
Our man from Germany obtained a degree in law straight after graduating in philosophy, yet he preferred to delve into property investment and catering. He is now a wealthy businessman homesick for academia — or so he tells me. The evening starts off well, we live in different cities and yet on the first date he comes and picks me up in his silver Mercedes. I know people who grew up in smaller rooms. I get to choose the restaurant, he gets the tab, he takes me home. A kiss in the door, a confession about lust the moment he blah blah blah, a promise about conquering the distance and paying for a hotel room the moment I say so. I tell him I am only half attracted. I make no secret of the problem: all I hear is bragging, Friedrich is the walking molino of less is more. Overwhelming, overachieving, over-flashing. However, as my optimism is unbreakable we agree on a second date. On which I get a ticket to part two of I’m-so-bloody-interesting-so-bloody-smart-and-yes-I’ve-read-that-too. (To my surprise he’s never heard of this guy, though. How do you obtain a degree in philosophy without bumping into one of the most famous philosophers of the 20th century?) He also lets me in on family trauma, a controlling father, a martyr of a mother. Broski, I really shouldn’t be hearing this, it’s wildly early for confidential stories. So after dinner, on the way to his car I just say it out loud: “I think the spark is gone”. His off hand reply is “Oh, come on, was there ever a spark between us at all?” That’s it, I’m done, I prefer to walk home. A couple of days later he texts me saying we could still do what the app was originally invented for. I shrug. For a week he sends me messages that target the logistics, what day was I thinking so that he could book a hotel room, lol (that’s right, My Sisters On A Tender Bender, LOL). I cannot be arsed to take up the thread. I am in no mood for explaining myself but my silence makes the good legal doctor of philosophy lose it. “Childish” is the goodbye bone he throws me before blocking my profile. To think of how selfless he would have been in bed!
Bennet from Borehamwood
Crème de la crème, Bennet is a professor of Elizabethan tragedy at one of the most prestigious universities on the planet. Something tells me he considers his style erotic. In point of fact his pick-up lines lack imagination to such an extent I can but hope he is not feeding those poor millionaire kids with creative writing courses as well.
The truth of the matter is this is not our first encounter on Tinder. About a year and a half earlier luck (that whore) already threw him my way. A very brief chat that was. Back then he sounded extremely enthusiastic, kept complimenting hair colour and smile, promised unforgettable fireworks— and blocked me without a warning. In the middle of the conversation. Just like that. Not even wasting words wearing white tennis socks on a furtive goodbye.
The second time around it soon becomes clear he does not have a clue we have matched before. And me, I am terrible, I am intrigued to find out how far into the murky moor he would follow my lead. He tells me what turns him on right at the beginning but I do not reciprocate the sharing and he gets suspicious. (We are, after all, talking about a professor here.) In a not entirely unpleasant way he starts pressuring me, he insists that I give away a few details about the dark side of my Moon. The biggest put-off for me is the amazingly low standard vocabulary, all the boring clichés. Oh, lady, I like shower sex so much, oh, I would pull your hair in the shower, ah, ah, my favourite position is the missionary, I’m sure I will surprise you with my stamina — broski, I mean parody is a difficult genre, do take it seriously, please, also, where’s your imagination? Groomed by Thomas Kidd and breastfed by Christopher Marlowe? I feel so offended professionally that I decide to just stop it right there and tell him I remember him from eighteen months earlier. I basically slam the door on his pathetic tone. (This one’s for you, William.) A blunt post scriptum to the story: Tinder keeps offering me his profile. The secret laws of algorithm shall not bow to IRL experience.
Good day from Gatwick
This is just an afterthought and yet I find it fitting. Someone who shalt remain John Doe was travelling with his fourteen-year-old son, using the boarding passes on his phone. “This is mine”, he told the good officer at check-in, “and next to it is my son’s. Just swipe right. You know, like on Tinder.” The little joke received moderate appreciation from the guy, not so from the teenager. He shot forward leaving his father behind, and, making sure the entire queue heard it clear, he yelled “DAD, I DON’T KNOW YOU!”
Possibly the most intelligent boy on Tinder not.
#express #dating #tinder #intelligence
