Tinder History #1: Matthew, with the biting.

There are few things better than hearing someone else tell a terrible online dating story. It’s usually hilarious, a little embarrassing, and best of all, it didn’t happen to you! In the interest of context for anyone reading ThursDating (but more realistically in the interest of catharsis), I present: the first installment of Tinder History. Like drunk history, except, unfortunately, I’m not drunk and I‘m still on Tinder.

First and foremost: Matthew. It was October of my sophomore year of college and I’d been on Tinder intermittently for about a year, downloading and deleting the app as my ability to ignore the weird pit of shame in my stomach every time I saw the little flame icon (protip: hide it from yourself on the second page of the phone folder with the stock app and whatnot. Only open that folder while drinking. Problem solved). I had redownloaded Tinder and was swiping to pass the time before dinner when I came across Matthew.

Seeing that Matthew was a reasonably cute recent graduate of my college with mutual friends and a job, I was willing to ignore warning signs from my patented height interpretation strategy (I’m 5'10, so it’s necessary. Questions to ask include: is he standing with other men? Near objects of a standard size, like a doorframe? Does he have a ‘tall face’?) and swipe right. We matched! Hooray! And then he messaged me. Immediately. Whoa. Unusual, but not unappreciated.

We had a normal, albeit short, conversation (unfortunately lost to the sands of time/my aggressive Tinder delete & download cycle. No screenshots here) before he asked me if I wanted to get a drink that night. Sure! What the hell. I had a ‘We Bought a Zoo’-style 15 seconds of insane courage and accepted my first-ever date: drinks with Matthew. Except I was 19, and the only time my older sister’s ID worked for me was when the bouncer/bartender really wanted it to. But that, I thought, was a problem for Future Me. I went to dinner with friends, bailed on them early (not a great sign for the future of my friendships vs. my relationships, whoops) and went back to my apartment to change. Threw on a nice top, dark jeans, flats. #casual but #classy. It was raining. I walked over.

The restaurant was packed, and I waited outside. I texted him. Waited. Called. Nothing. Waited. Looked around at everyone just in case it was them, but not too hard, because it was New York City at night and I like not being murdered. Waited. And then — there he was. First thought: I was right to be worried about his height — he was maybe 5'9. Second thought, almost simultaneously: he is wearing Adidas tear-away pants. And a white t-shirt/undershirt. And a necklace. I did what I can only describe as probably the dictionary definition of ‘schooled my face’ into a normal expression and greeted him. He wanted to go to a bar across the street, he explained, which is where he’d been before meeting me. He was in the middle of something and could we go back? Sure! I was so overwhelmed at processing everything that I probably would have gotten into a white van if he’d asked. Hooray for dating!

We went into the empty bar, where in 30 seconds he finished a game of shuffleboard with a guy that I was arguably 10000% more attracted to and then asked if I wanted a drink. He got a beer, and, seeing as I was completely terrified of getting called out for using my fake ID, I ordered… a water — a move that, arguably, set the tone for the evening PRETTY clearly. I had to keep my legs pretzeled up under the bar as I tried to face him on the barstool, and conversation was sluggish at best. I remember talking about The White Stripes at one point and it going poorly (it was my first date ever, give me a break). I don’t remember too much else, but conversation was rough. He talked about being a chef at a Dutch(?) restaurant, before saying suddenly, “Can I kiss you? I just keep thinking about it.” I said yes? I think? (Recall my comment about the white van. I was overwhelmed.)

So he kissed me. It was fine, as far as I can remember, and we kissed for maybe 10 seconds before he kind of laughed and brought up how his ex-girlfriend (party foul, man) used to always bite him when they kissed. “Like,” he said, “this,” and BIT ME. ON THE LIP. It was not my favorite. Conversation failed to flow some more, which I realized I was attributing to my anxiety and he was attributing to his mad, toothy lust.

He asked if I wanted to take a walk, guessing correctly that my water order was a sign that drunkenness was not going to happen. A walk! Holy shit! A chance to get my legs unpretzeled and to talk without staring this total stranger in the face! Yes! So we walked. He stopped to kiss me again, this time standing. He was definitely and definitively shorter, but yo… I like kissing, and the biting had stopped, which felt like progress.

We kept walking. I love walking, I thought, as the conversation stumbled along. Walking is the best. And then he stopped walking, and said, “This is my apartment. Do you want to come up?” This, in fact, was my white van moment. Seeing as I had known Matthew for approximately… 30 minutes at this point, and I met him on basically ‘Weird Dudes R Us: The App,’ I should have said no, but instead I had the completely insane thought ‘Well, I could probably take him if he attacked me,’ and began the trek up to his walkup.

To be clear: I was never going to sleep with him. That was not on the table, though of course he didn’t know that and I was certainly not saying so as I went completely silent, as I’m prone to do when I’m nervous, and listened to him explain how he left finance for the less financially secure but more emotionally rewarding world of the kitchen. He opened the door.

The apartment was two rooms. His shower was in his kitchen. His room had a bed, dresser, table and spinny desk chair. His only notable posession was a turntable and a box of records, which I essentially sprinted to in a mad dash to have something, anything to talk about. He said I could play one, and while he got me another glass of water (this may have been the best hydrated day of my damn life), I picked the 2004 Kanye album ‘The College Dropout.’ Matthew was pleased, though it occurred to me that, given that it was his record collection, any choice would have been a good one in his eyes.

He sat in the spinny chair and indicated that I, the larger person, should sit on his lap. I did my best to cantilever my body weight, Frank Lloyd Wright-style, to not rest at all on his legs, and to somehow secretly remain standing while appearing to be seated. He definitely noticed, but was again distracted by my mouth. We made out until the record ended. It was alright, and my pants stayed on, and there was no more biting. There was a massive thunderstorm outside, and when I got up to leave he asked if we would hang out again. In my only smooth move of the night, I said, “You have my number,” kissed him, and walked out the door. He texted me two weeks later, and I never responded.

First date ever: he bit me. Preview of second date ever: no biting, yes dogs!!! Tinder History #2, coming next week.