Eiw. Tinder. I’m back on here. The last time I went on a Tinder date was January 2018 (right after my abortion), and before that was January 2015 (with a handsome young gigolo). And before that one time I invited a Tinder date to a Japanther show at Sugar Mountain and had sex (perhaps with my Tinder date, perhaps with someone else? Don’t remember.) in the bathroom. Now, here I am, back on Tinder, and I’m actually trying this time as opposed to just broadening my sluttery. Weird.
I was driving over to the bar after work when it suddenly occurred to me: am I nervous? Should I be nervous? No, I’m not nervous, I don’t get nervous. I’m not that type of person. But I’m feeling…something. Am I scared? Yes, I’m definitely scared. What if this person roofies me and I get in my car and crash it? What if this goes horribly awry? Am I on game? I’m always on game, but what if I was a horrible judge of character on Tinder and something awful and violent happens? No, I’m not that bad of a judge of character. Not the best, but not the worst. In all honesty, worst case scenario is that this guy says something maga-esque and I have a temper tantrum. No, worst case scenario: I like this guy, we date, and he tries to beat me and then I have to kill him. Oh, god. What if he’s ugly? What if I get cat fished? That’s going to bother me. But, okay, here I am, parking my car, walking to the bar, doing it regardless because I try to remind myself that who knows! Maybe this is the next love of my life! I’ll also settle for fun hook up. I’m open to a wide range of options here.
We settle into conversation. Okay, not a magat. Not homophobic. Not whorephobic. He checks those boxes. I can tell that I’m being too effusive, that I’m talking too much. I’m dominating the conversation. I talk about the history of Emeryville for some stupid reason, probably because I love talking about all the old school casinos and Ken Bukowski, the gay mayor who used to own a black night club and then brought Bay Street to Emeryville while also possibly being a meth addict. Ugh, I’m talking too much. I always talk too much. I do that when I’m nervous, or I’m excited. I make eye contact. No! Too much eye contact! That was weird! I sip on my drink, but I remind myself: slowly, girl. Slowly. Don’t come off as a lush. That’s weird.
I inhale and let him talk about a few things. I do a quick analysis. Could I fuck this guy? Sure. Tonight? No, because I drove here and I have a two drink maximum for getting behind the wheel, so this is just a meet and greet. I can already feel out what some of his character flaws might be, although it occurs to me that I’m using my ex as the measuring stick for character flaws, which might be a horrible measuring stick. This guy is definitely not a narcissist. I can tell because he’s not shoving his personality down my throat and actually listening to my rambling in an attentive manner. So why is there some part of me that is waving the red flag? Why is not being a narcissist a problem? Oh, jeez. My ex got me, didn’t he? I’m now categorically attracted to narcissists because there’s something about unbounded and unrealistic confidence that I have acclimated my attraction to. Fuck. But, wait, maybe I shouldn’t be seeking out a narcissist because didn’t I just break up with a narcissist because that wasn’t any good for me? Why am I comparing this person I just met to the last person I broke up with? Am I looking for someone to replace my ex? If I wanted to do that, I could just pick up the phone and call him and beg him to take me back. Sure, it’d be a bit of a gamble, but if I really, really believed that was what I wanted, I would do it. But I haven’t done that. I haven’t texted him or called him or tried to run into him. Because I don’t want that. I want something different. Which is why I’m here.
This is new. This is different. This could work. I could make it work. Oh, no, why am I jumping fifteen steps ahead. I think I’m still in relationship mode, which is chill if I decide I want to jump immediately into a new relationship, but, Jesus, chill the fuck out. This is two drinks and nothing else. One step at a time. Perhaps I should pat myself on the back for having found someone who isn’t an overt meninist because after what my friends told me I was a bit wary that that might be the case.
Okay, I’m cool. I’m back in the dating world. I drive home, feeling weird about the whole situation. Is this how people do relationships nowadays? Are we supposed to…I mean, what comes after this? Do we fall in love? Fuck around? Stay in each others’ lives for the next five to ten years? Ghost each other? Become friends? Or fuck buddies? Let it peter out into nothingness? God. Starting a new human relationship is so fucking complicated and difficult. I should probably be sending pitches to agents. But I’m not. I’m doing this instead.
Wish me luck.