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 J@TinderDistrict.com!
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.
*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.
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.
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).
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),