Category: TD Guest

TD Guest: You want to do WHAT to me?

Context: J here! Back from another thotty weekend or two, spent with my little protégé and Baby Thot, S. I’m excited to bring you Lil S’s first guest post on TD, especially since it covers a very confusing and frankly concerning topic that I myself (and many other girls) have dealt with – men incorporating baby-making into foreplay. Take it away, S! Continue reading

TD Guest: J from another angle

Context: Hey readers! While I’ve been off gallivanting around the Grand Canyon, my one-time Tinder match/long-term text message correspondent Calamity James (he chose the pseudonym, clearly…) has valiantly volunteered to write a blog post about yours truly. Although we both feel that we have known each other forever due to the frequency of our written correspondence, the truth is that we have only met once – at Ted’s Bulletin on a Monday evening. Read on to hear what Mr. James thought of a date with the notorious J!

J—I suppose to maintain the anonymity of the creator/demigoddess/supervillain of this website, I need to call her “J”—was late to our date. Not that being late actually bothers me very much, I’m usually running on the later side of things myself. So while I wasn’t upset or put off, I just found it funny that after roasting plenty of unsuspecting gentlemen on the internet for being even the slightest bit tardy, the J herself left me sitting at the corner of the bar for about 20 minutes. Given the degree any inconvenience caused by first dates has catapulted guys like Beans to D-list internet fame on this website, I was damn sure to be firmly butt-placed on a bar stool by 7pm sharp.


Seriously though, her being a little late was totally okay. Men getting their man-panties in a twist over punctuality (very early on in dating, anyway) is a BIG red flag—but more than that, the Orioles game was on the rickety cable television hanging over the liquor rack. Provided I have access to alcohol (we met at a bar, so ‘check’) and baseball (the bar had baseball on TV, ‘check’…), I can’t ever be all that existentially unhappy in any given moment.

Realistically, I’m not even sure she was telling me the truth about what caused her to be late in the first place. Earlier that day, J told me she was working from home, but if memory serves correctly, “something about the office” is what held her up that night. We had texted throughout the day, as we occasionally do, just to chat: J let me know she was really hungover that morning (it was a weekday…), had coffee with an ex-lover on a whim, AND—for reasons she never quite detailed—had inflated a massive blow-up duck the day prior.

Needless to say, I was aflutter at the thought of meeting my ever-so-stable date that evening.


No matter. Charismatic and energetic as ever, J burst through the revolving doors and lit up the room at approximately 7:20pm.  Now, I haven’t read all of the articles on Tinder District*, but from the TD articles I have read I’ve gathered that J hates the proverbial “me” not waiting outside the restaurant in the event I get there first. Makes enough sense though, right? It is always a little awkward when you have to downplay the anxiety that is hoping you don’t blatantly walk past the person you’re supposed to meet—or God forbid, go up to the wrong person. “Okay, okay…” I thought to myself, doing that overly-animated nodding-effusively-in-agreement thing that everyone does, “I can understand that one.”

*Which surprised her—though in retrospect, her genuine shock that I might have an existence outside of reading her work shouldn’t have surprised me as much as it did.

The English major in me feeling smugly that I could make a “direct reference” to the text (in this case, “the text” was quite literally text messages), I informed young J that while I realized her preference was for me to wait outside, it was humid; I’d decided instead to perch myself just inside the door. I think she found it in herself to forgive me.


She was wearing a fairly thin navy dress, the kind that billows a little bit if it is breezy (or if she’s trying to motor to 10,000 steps that day on her FitBit, as she did later after declining my offer to drive her home). The color of the dress accentuated the intense crystal blues in her eyes. It was a good play to get the attention of any man who appreciates quirky, intelligent women with dark hair and bright blue eyes—which really should be every man, I think. It’s also a good play to get your food paid for, so I had to give J some dual-credit here: as one of the only dates she’s had that has been even aware of the hot literary mess that is Tinder District, I knew going in what she was actually after. As any reader of this website knows, approximately 35% of my intrinsic value to J was affording her a free fancy meal. However, even if I hadn’t been so painstakingly aware of her frugal taco desires, J’s vibrant energy and dashing blues would have convinced me to pick up the check without a second thought.


I’ve found when I try and script out how the conversation for a date is going to go, it becomes overly robotic—which provides insight as to why my high school acting career was short-lived. While it goes against my over-prepared nature to not have at least some dialogue structure in mind, I decided to throw caution to the wind, trusting that two people as ridiculous as J and myself would find plenty to ham on about.

ALSO: I ensured my “throwing caution to the wind” would be a strong conversational play by downing at least 50-some dollars-worth of adult libations during the course of our date. She claimed to be so hungover that she couldn’t touch alcohol that night, though my inner alcoholic questioned why in God’s name she would ever respond to drinking by not drinking. Frankly, if so much of this blog wasn’t devoted simply to J telling the world about how much she loves to get drunk, I probably would have followed her lead and not drank alcohol. Scratch that—I definitely would not have drank alcohol; I never drink on early dates if the good lady isn’t similarly sipping away. J is such a shining beacon for all our first dates though—a very schlumpy, drunken, shit-faced beacon—and resultantly, I still feel absolutely no reservations about legitimately getting drunk and making increasingly-dark jokes throughout the course of our time together.


She said she liked questions. Scratch that…she said *with the crazed look in her eye of a 3rd grade schoolgirl at a Beyonce concert* that she liked questions. Specifically questions about herself. I would come to find that J has a great desire to share her existential being and subsequent crises with the world. Maybe the website could and should have tipped me off about that, but the entire concept of Tinder District has been so fascinatingly….different, really, that I really wanted to get to the bottom of the question I think every guy who has read this website has thought at one point or another: is this chick for real?

For one, lads, yes. She is very much real. I can officially confirm that J is the tall, chatty, shapely-in-the-hips (DISCLAIMER: this is a good thing) brunette that her Tinder profile claims her to be. There is no catfishing here, unless you count the fact that about 25% of her conversations with you on Tinder is one of her friends, and another 40% is her toying with you over text for the amusement of the masses.


I also found out the Tinder conquest is real. Very real. Like, there really doesn’t seem to be any aspect of this little game she plays that is fabricated in any which way. Most of me respects that, or at least respects that she’s committed to the process of her (quasi-manipulative) social experiment. It’s the part of me that thought we might be going on a date that would yield any form of significant emotional connection that found itself disappointed—albeit only a tad. In actuality and real-life application, how much one man can happily enjoy time with the emotional Rubik’s cube that is J likely boils down to how much he understands that there are very non-traditional aspects of this person’s romantic process, and subsequently plays into her game accordingly.

As B-Rock Obama likes to say: “Let me be clear.”


By “romantic process”, I mean the systematic—albeit somewhat ingenious—usage of Tinder to procure free alcohol, humorous tales of relational calamity, and above all: delicious and consistent tacos that inspire wonder and awe within the soul.

And by “plays into her game accordingly”, I mean that you should probably pay, bitch. And if you don’t pick up the check, check your Venmo sooner rather than later. There’s actually a chance she will Venmo you if you don’t pay for a large portion of the date, if not all of it. And if you don’t come around like a true gentleman and quickly send her some compensation through the app, there’s a hefty interest rate the longer you avoid payment.  As appalling as that actually sounds on paper, don’t judge her too hard. This kid Beans was a real motherfucker.


I said don’t judge her too hard, not don’t judge her a little. God.

Another way you, the progressively-dejected-as-you-read-this male, can score dating points with J by way of playing into her game is to mention what a clever game you find it to be in the first place. CityGirl J does think she’s quite the intellectual acrobat, and she’s quite right to characterize herself as such. It just isn’t because she does things like trick boyz (LOL!), or drop her SAT score on a first date, or tell you where she graduated in her college class.

Well, college maybe is a little different. She did a lot of impressive things there, though she seems fairly tepid about mentioning something that could be traced back to an significant aspect of her person. I heard much more about her friends, her follies, and her exes. She’s clearly a very sociable person, and her relationships—platonic and otherwise—mean a lot to her. So while that’s legitimate and not some sort of “shallow-with-intent” façade in of itself, I’ve always wondered why someone who seems so skilled at first getting to know people doesn’t have much recourse for connecting with them past a certain point. I was taken aback by a handful of things she referenced that her most recent romantic conquest didn’t know. And this being a guy that I’ve heard her talk about more positively than any other man she’s mentioned.


This isn’t to say that J is at all relationally inept. In fact, I think she’s quite the opposite. Generally, someone who is as intelligent and emotionally literate as J is—while simultaneously being so focused on romantic relationships—seems like a good candidate to actually know quite well what she ultimately wants. It’s just that I walked away from our time together wondering how close she is to figuring out what she wants. Or, perhaps, the degree to which she knows what she wants, yet is unwilling or unable to put in the emotional effort to attain it.

Maybe this is all entirely foolish, inaccurate postulation. After all, J is terrifically enterprising, not to mention gifted at charm and being a social chameleon. Maybe that was just the mood she was in that night. Maybe she just wanted to run home and tell her life partner/spirit animal (the aforementioned blow-up duck) about how she had bamboozled yet another suitor.


Don’t think I have all the answers. I’ve just been on one date—one date where somehow, J didn’t stumble away after downing more drinks than her date that night, or even drink at all. She just had a milkshake. And I appreciate her being upfront about her past issues with some aspects of mental and emotional well-being, even sans liquid confidence. I don’t think she’s some evil, conniving woman out to take out her frustrations on MANkind by way of Tinder trickery and deceitful dinnertime conversation. Honestly, I don’t think the real J is actually all that much like the entertainer that we all get to laugh with and enjoy on this website. I think there’s a lot more to it than that.

I’ll probably need at least another date, though, to get the whole story.

Calamity James

TD Guest: The Girl with the Fake ID

Context: Hey readers! If you’re wondering why I haven’t been bringing you tales from my own dates recently, it’s because I’m kinda sorta seeing someone…? It’s weird, I know. When I told my friend JD, he responded with the following:


I think the thing that really pushed me to delete dating apps from my phone (tbh thought I would still have them when I was married, just for shits and gigs) was when this guy invited me over for our 4th date and cooked me dinner AND breakfast. WHAT?! If a guy cooks me a meal that a) doesn’t kill me, b) he bought the groceries for, and c) involves wine, there is a 100% chance you’ll find me on the phone with my best friend late that night telling her about the mac n’ cheese that made me realize I was ready to get married. And, since my best friend knows me well, she’ll realize that I’m making this call while awkwardly standing in this dude’s kitchen looking for post-coital snacks while wearing nothing but underwear, because if a dude is sweet and attractive enough to get me into his home AND can cook?! Sex. Is. Happening.


Therefore, I’m back with another story from a friend I made at my conference last weekend! And, I think I can say with confidence that none of my date stories have gotten to the level of WACK that this one reached. But, you be the judge! Take it away, JW!

Hi, Tinder District readers! My name is JW, and when J introduced herself as a “dating blogger” at a conference we attended this weekend, I knew I needed to share my stories with her. I’m now happily in a relationship, but I’ve had my fair share of wild experiences! As the well-known saying goes, “crazy is as crazy does.” That might not actually be a well-known saying, but I’m pretty sure I heard it in a movie once. I digress.


I was out having coffee with a girl, “Star,” who I met on I know, I know, but this must have been nine or ten years ago – before the Tinder days! We were having a nice conversation, and we started talking about fake IDs for some reason – I think because we saw some teenage kids walking into the package store next door.
JW – How old were you when you got your first fake ID?
S – Oh, I was about 16.
JW – Wow, you really started hitting the bars early!


At this, she cast her eyes down shyly at her hands on the table, and replied “No, that’s not why.” Thinking logically, I asked “Oh, were you a smoker?” She replied no again, and racked my brain for other possible explanations. “Did you gamble?” Once more, she shook her head no.

Puzzled, I inquired further. “If you’re not drinking, smoking, partying, or gambling, then what in the hell did you need a fake ID for?!”

Nothing could have prepared me for what came next.

not ready

“Well, you remember how I said I was from California…?” I nodded and took a slow sip of my coffee, curious as to where this was going. “A friend and I got this great idea that we could make money by shooting adult videos.”

Have you ever had hot coffee come out of your nose? It is not a pleasant experience. Yet, there I was, coughing and sputtering uncontrollably. Somehow through the pain, I managed to spit out a casual “YOU DID WHAT?!?!


My date, somehow calm through this pivotal moment in my young life, responded with “Yeah, I tried it. It was awkward at first, but I eventually realized I wasn’t good at it.”

I’m now attempting to blot the coffee that’s dotting my shirt while casually changing the topic to literally ANYTHING else, trying to decide whether this is a fantasy come true or a clue to run, when she continues her monologue. “I mean, I was good at it, and I really enjoyed it, but my vagina is just too shallow!” I must have looked like a deer in the headlights, because she continued on. “By the way, how big are you??”

I was beyond befuddled. This young woman whose life goal is to become a schoolteacher is telling me about how she used to be filled to the brim by old men, and now she’s asking me this?! I was so confused that I muttered something, and before I know it she has reached under the table and grabbed my junk.

time to go

“Oh, yeah, you are big!” she exclaimed, in the MIDDLE OF THE COFFEE SHOP.

Cringe, shudder, die inside.

I remember so, SO clearly how she leaned back in her seat, bit her lip in deep contemplation, and then finally said “I’ll blow you, but I won’t fuck you.”

good to know

Like a fighter in the corner with the smelling salts, I finally came to my senses and hastily threw a few dollars on the table to cover the coffee that had now taken up residence on my shirt. I awkwardly stumbled out of the coffee shop, past the teenagers who were now leaving the package shop, and drove off. I didn’t care where I was going, I just needed to be anywhere else.

I’ve thought a few times about the experience I turned down that night, but in the end, I think I’m comfortable without the STDs.

kiis gbye

Thank you, JW, for sharing your story! I can’t wait to hear the others!


TD Guest: Finding Love on Tinder

Context: Happy Monday, everyone! I was in the midwest for a conference this weekend and, as I have come to expect, I became known as ‘Tinder Girl’ within the first 30 minutes of the conference. I mean, what else would I bring up in icebreaker activities?! That night, as I pounded tequila shot after tequila shot (7 in all), my new conference friends regaled me with their tales from Tinder and other dating apps.

Thus, I present to you the first guest post in my conference series! And it’s a sweet one, proving that you CAN find love on Tinder and that I have obviously been doing literally everything wrong. Enjoy!

first swipe

Hi, Tinder District readers! I had the pleasure of meeting J over the weekend, and I must say that I am quite impressed with her friendliness, ability to hold her liquor (she. drank. so. much.), and her writing ambitions! I’m here today to share the story of my short time on Tinder.


I originally downloaded Tinder as a joke, because some of my buddies were using it. I opened the app, and the first picture of a girl named ‘Katie’ immediately caught my eye. I started a conversation, and I found out that she went to Clemson University, but that her parents had just moved to West Virginia (where I was in college) and worked at the same hospital work at.

Just from this beginning conversation, I knew I really wanted to meet this girl. She was different than other girls I had talked to, and seemed to be very future-focused. I asked her if she would be able to meet, but she responded that she would be in Cincinnati and couldn’t hang out*.

*Later found out she lied about this… excellent #WasteHisTime game

love me

I knew that most guys would give up at this point, but there was just something about this girl that I couldn’t get past, so I kept talking to her. And talking. And talking. It took three months of us talking on Tinder until we finally met… at her parents’ house.

The second she opened the door to her house, my heart exploded – because at that moment, I knew she was the one. We spent the night together and did *typical first date things* hehe. The next day, I took her to meet my parents, and my whole family loved her. They just clicked together SO well. I’m very family-oriented, so that was very important to me, and confirmed what I needed to do.

She went back to Clemson, and we started FaceTiming every night. One night, we were talking after midnight and I knew that I needed to make a move. I asked her to be my girlfriend, and she said yes! I have never, ever been happier than I was at that moment.


The crazy thing is, no one knows how we actually met. A friend of mine (who sadly passed away) went to Clemson, so everyone assumes that we met when I was down for the funeral.

I know this sounds rushed, and crazy, and even a little bit stalkerish, but there’s something about love that changes the whole game. Currently, Katie and I have been dating for about a year and a half, and have lived together for a year. I am fully sure that I will marry this girl, because she is the missing piece to my puzzle.

complete me

So, long story short, my first (and only) Tinder date was the love of my life! Thank you for letting me share my story, and best of luck to all of you!

Thanks for sharing your story, friend! I wish you and Katie lots of love and happiness. Readers, if you have a story you would like to share, please feel free to email


TD Guest: Why I pierced my nipple

Context: Let the guest posts roll! Today’s post was submitted by my very hilarious friend LE, who doesn’t actually use Tinder but has met multiple of my Tinder boys before and approved of them all before they turned out to be dickwads. Talk about bad judgment (jk!!!). Take it away, LE!

Hi, everyone! While I would like to pretend to be one of the roommates that write this blog, apparently climbing their building pipes and sleeping on the balcony “doesn’t count” because I don’t help pay the rent.

'I'd invite you in but my box is a mess.'

OK, fine, I don’t actually climb up to their balcony – but only because I really don’t have that kind of arm strength, not because I think it would be strange. Even if I were one of their roommates, I don’t think I’d be well-equipped to contribute to this blog because 1) I don’t have a Tinder (or Hinge, or Bumble, or Farmers Only) profile, and 2) I don’t go on many any dates.

Truthfully, I’m not asked on dates because, by the time someone would work up the confidence to ask, I’ve already been ghosting them for months. A recent viewing of Aziz Ansari’s stand up comedy made me feel bad about this way of conveying rejection. Sweet, sweet baby Aziz says this ineffective method of communication hurts his feelings… but bad habits are hard to kick.

You may recognize this conflict-averse character trait in yourself. In fact, some women’s magazine writers like to call it ‘fear of commitment.’ I, however, give it a medical term – ‘Romantic Anxiety.’ This way, I feel justified when I ask for prescription drugs from my pediatrician (shoutout to Xanax #holler).

For the past six months, I’ve worked alone in my office for the most part, save for some HVAC repairmen who I command to adjust the temperature when I’m hot (which is always… get it???). Every now and then I’ll get a visitor – and one very special day, a well-dressed young man came in to see me. On this blog, the writers give their love interests ‘Dear Abby’-esque nicknames, so in tradition I would like to call him ‘Un-ironic Letterman Jacket Wearer,’ or if that’s too long, Wisconsin. This is because he’s from there – not because his skin reminds me of the color of cheese curds (which doesn’t really sound like a compliment, but cheese curds are delicious, so it is).

BISMARCK, ND - NOVEMBER 30: In this handout photo provided by KXMB TV Bismarck, Ron Burgundy (Will Ferrell) participates in the KX News evening broadcast on November 30, 2013 in Bismarck, North Dakota. (Photo by KXMB TV Bismarck via Getty Images)

While he was asking me about our building’s recycling program, I found myself sneaking a peek at his left hand to confirm his marital status. Normal flirtation technique, right? The coast was clear – so to say – and since then I’ve caught his eye a few times in the elevator or parking lot, which leads me to believe he’s interested in me as well (or that I am entirely delusional, and may need to hit up the pediatrician for a new prescription).

Here’s where my whole commitment problem starts to become dangerous (don’t worry, not in a ‘Fatal Attraction’ kind of way). The last time I saw him, our eyes met, and at that exact moment an emergency alarm went off in my head. I saw my whole life flash before my eyes: I work as an office secretary for a few years while we date (ice skating, apple picking, a summer trip to a two-star beach where we stay in a budget hotel), then we get married, settle in the suburbs, have 2.5 semi-athletic children, and grow old driving around in a used Prius while we listen to early 2000s pop music – which we fondly refer to as ‘the classics’ – the whole nine yards.

'Where's the dog?'


There’s something about being able to predict what the rest of my life is going to look like that really revs up my Romantic Anxiety©. I want excitement! I want intrigue! I want to become a career woman with one of those treadmill desks in her office who takes trips with her girlfriends to exotic Caribbean islands every winter! I want to move abroad and be featured on that international realty show where couples shop for million-dollar homes and drink a lot of red wine! I want one of my friends to become rich and famous and pay me to live in their mountain cabin so it doesn’t sit empty all year!

Where do I find the man who can give me excitement and intrigue? Has it been in front of me this entire time? Is it… Tinder?

Am I going to join in on the Tinder Train now just so I can spice up my life with a little uncertainty (like the kind of uncertainty that happens when you agree to meet a stranger who may or may not be a convicted felon)? Not without being heavily medicated. Sorry J. BUT I can understand the merit of this game. I’m not necessarily in a rush to find a man – I don’t think it will be hard to fall in love once I start looking (idk, ladies, falling in love seems pretty easy in romantic comedies and video games like The Sims).

But, stand by. Maybe Tinder is my next move. If so, will you let me guest post again??? Please??? I’ll let you house-sit my mountain home!

No, I needed to do something rebellious that didn’t cause permanent emotional damage, like the embarrassment of being myself around a stranger. And I didn’t want to rely on a man to provide my rebellion – that just sounds like a recipe for accidental pregnancy.


It may sound crazy at first, and I know my mom will cringe when she hears me say “Instead of finding a man, I pierced my nipple,” but the longer you think about it, the better it sounds. A nipple piercing is a very rebellious piercing because it insinuates that people look at your boobs enough for you to add embellishment (this may or may not be true, and I don’t care what you think). A nipple piercing can be hidden, it’s not permanent, and it causes no damage to the function of the breast. In the words of every woman who misquotes Lena Dunham, “I could have been a drug addict!” <– this is the actual quote, btw. LEARN.

Paying for bodily pain is not a decision anyone should take lightly, but I must say that I highly suggest the nipple ring. Even if I do end up in the suburbs, comparing canned soup prices alongside my 3 children (how did I get here from 2.5? Milk. Drink your milk, kids) with various food allergies, I will know that there is something unique about my life. I may even publicly breastfeed with this boob only just to stick it to The Man one more time! Take THAT, boring suburban Stepford life!

So there you have it. I think this’ll be a pretty sweet story to tell my grandchildren.

The next story I’ll tell them will be about my piercer being male and using the line “here, let me get this extra lube off your nipple… I bet you’ve heard that one before.”

I hadn’t.


TD Guest: Kenia like the country

Context: Hi readers! J here, coming to you live from a dark and windowless conference room at my client site! I’m very, very excited to bring you our first guest post from BP, who you may remember from last Friday’s post. Enjoy this story of Tinder from the male perspective, and if you have a dating story you would like to share, please contact me at!

Hello all, BP here! You may remember me as “that guy who got Friendless to illuminate us all on the ever-unchanging prices of Costco pizza slices.” I’m writing today to let you in on a little-known #PurpFact* – I downloaded the glorious minefield of women known as ‘Tinder’ in Fall 2015, and employed that lovable gem of an app to meet up with three different gals. This is the story all about how, I downloaded the app and my life got turned upside down.

fresh prince

*It’s a nickname, y’all, don’t Urban Dictionary this ish.

The first girl I met (right out of the gate, really Tinder gods?) was named… not even making this up for the sake of the Internet… Kenia, “like the country.” Wow. As far as I know the only people who should have names “like the country” are douchebros named Chad and I GUESS people named Jordan but even then… really? Anyway, she told me she was at the bar with her “Korean friend from elementary school, getting drunk” and invited me to join them. Two girls for the price of one! Sold, seeya in 15.
let em love you
I showed up at the bar and they had about four drinks in front of them. Perfect… except all were for Kenia. I will tell you now that the Korean friend, C, NEVER left our side for the rest of the night. She stayed close. Middle-school-dance-chaperone close. Anyway, C was very sober and clearly pissed that Kenia had betrayed their halcyon bonding session to break her off a little piece of BP and haughtily ignored us. Fine. I bought Kenia a drink (mistake), downed a brew myself, and was invited to Mad Rose tavern for a drunken dancing session. I like to get my groove on (shoutout fellow dance-class-goers, stay groovy) so I complied.
middle school dance

Note from J: Next time you’re feeling down in the dumps, google “Middle School Dance.” PURE. GOLD.

We roll into the bar, and the first thing I go for is a little pat on the back from my pal Jose (#JoseIsBae2016). I go to pay for my shot, and as I’m reaching for the plastic I feel an arm snake between my hip and my elbow and GRAB THE SHOT RIGHT OUT FROM UNDER ME. Kenia 1, BP 0.
I shrugged and decided that good decision-making is for bitches, bought another shot and joined her on the dance floor. She’s quite liquored up at this point, begins whipping out all the slutty dance moves that her mom would disapprove of, and even MAKES OUT WITH ME ON THE DANCE FLOOR AT LIKE 11 PM. Um…I met you less than an hour ago and you’re treating my lips like mouth-playdough.
Well, turns out I wasn’t the only one disgusted by this display as I hear a little cough behind me, half-turn and get PROJECTILE VOMITED ON BY ANOTHER WASTED PATRON OF THE ESTABLISHMENT. My clothes mostly survived but my arm was… I think the only appropriate verb here would be “drenched.” I mean… I was dripping. I high-tailed it to the bathroom in shock, cleaned up, and Kenia (and C, of course, remember she never abandons our little tripod) do the same. I exit… and she begins to grind all up on my business AGAIN. Thanks for rubbing that stain in, Kenia like the country.
I should have gone home at this point, but I had heard you’re not supposed to do that on Tinder so I stayed out there. Yet another mistake. We hit another dance club, she continues to dance as if she’s expecting some rain to be made in the vicinity, and even continues to steal my drinks (this time chugging half a beer while I wasn’t looking).
did i do that
I finally dipped out, but was followed by Kenia, who DEMANDED some late night pizza. She tells me she knows the pizza purveyor and the slices will be gratis. Fine. SHOCKING plot twist – I paid for all three slices of pizza (at least C was sober enough to enjoy it).
Eventually I call an Uber as Kenia leans in and informs me that she wants me to “make sexy time” with her and take her home. I declined, as date-rape isn’t really a casual hobby, and she promptly passed out in my (entirely unwilling) embrace. I then literally picked her up and dropped her into C’s Uber. I sulked home, full of regret and certainly smelling like it.
The worst part, of course, is that I had the misfortune of being born male, meaning that I am not entitled to the free booze that your regular writers enjoy. In fact, the short time I spent on Tinder did so much damage to my bank account that I had to start turning tricks to stay in the black. When times got tough, I at least consoled myself with the fact that I have NEVER, EVER told anyone my name was pronounced “like the country.”
XOXO (the least manly sign-off possible),


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