Everyone has a Tinder story. With housemates to friends at home having found passionate one night stands to full blown boyfriends, I was starting to feel left out. “Tinderella,” I said to myself, “You too shall go to the ball!”
And so began intensive swiping past topless gym selfies, awkward pictures with drugged up Thai tigers, and “Live, Laugh, Love” bios. As the saying goes, you’ve got to left swipe a s**tload of frogs before you can right swipe your prince. And eventually, would you believe it, I’d bagged myself not one but two dates. I was a new woman, an independent single icon, Redland’s answer to Carrie Bradshaw. Neither suitor had even sent me the kind of creepy messages Buzzfeed articles thrive on – not one! I was ready to go out and seize the bae.
(Photo credit: Flickr/Caio Braga)
Despite pre-date nerves, Boy #1 was in fact, a normal, even attractive, human being. My awkward, over enthusiastic talking aside, we had a fine evening. Admittedly he didn’t understand my ‘pina coladas and getting caught in the rain’ reference at Turtle Bay and he asked me about class A drugs perhaps an inappropriate amount, but I made it home both physically and mentally unscathed.
The romantics among you may say that although being neither murdered nor catfished is a good start, it’s not all an impassioned fling requires. And you’d be right – several awkward Whatsapp chats and some appallingly bad jokes later, it became apparent that he wasn’t my Prince Charming.
RIP Tinder Boy #1.
Not to fret! Enter Boy #2, a mere two days later. Tall, dark, and perfectly fine looking, it was all going well. We somehow managed to visit almost every Whiteladies drinking establishment together – if an accidental bar crawl doesn’t scream true love, I don’t know what does. Assisted by fairly considerable amounts of alcohol we swiftly arranged date two.
A week later, together we romantically de-shelled prawns (shoutout to Bravas) and even kissed on the corner in the rain at the end of the night.
Onto the next date, and the next tapas dish. Shoutout to The Cuban. (This is an article about Bristol’s best tapas restaurants, right?) I’d shaved my legs, worn matching underwear, and so, like the sophisticated Sex and the City gal I am, I invited him back for some drinks. Yeah alright, they may have been cans of Stella, but nonetheless, it was time to Tinder as God intended.
Without going into the ins and outs (lol), it was bad. Very, very bad.
And I don’t mean slightly-awkward-but-cute-first-time-together bad. We’re talking I-don’t-know-what-you’re-doing-but-I’m-in-a-lot-of-pain bad. A whole three minutes of my life I will never get back.
But I’m not a quitter – I hadn’t come this far, eaten this much tapas to fall at the first hurdle. Cue date four/sex two, this time at his house.
This change of scenery was apparently too much for me: I swiftly managed to get locked in his bathroom, awkwardly texting him to rescue me. In hindsight, I shouldn’t have bothered. Another uncomfortable three minute sesh ensued, with the sexy addition of some accidental chin kissing. By him, might I add. Not to sound like some sex goddess, but I can differentiate between chin and lip.
Afterwards, quite capable of picking up on multiple, unsubtle hints about having an “Early morning,” I left. Walking home in the rain with my dress on inside out, I decided it was time to hang up my Tinder boots, at least for now.
So what has my whirlwind romance with the dating world given me? I’ve had a fair few nice evenings out, a lot of tapas and have developed a specifically designed “enthusiastic-and-interested-in-your-life” date face. Oh and chlamydia. Safe sex people, safe sex – no matter how brief.