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The Last Tinder Date: Chapter 1

February 19, 2019

The Last Tinder Date: Chapter 1

If you've asked me where I've been this past year, I can't tell you. I don't really know myself. A little here, a little there, but mostly in my head. You know, sorting shit out.


The past year started like most of my years, telling myself that I'm done with men, deciding to adopt twenty rescue dogs, preferably all three-legged, and figuring out a way to move some Serbian village where I could spend my time procrastinating to write and occasionally talk to my nearly dead neighbors. You know, old people shit.


These thoughts usually came after coffee dates, where I wasted two hours of my life, thinking to myself, haven't you had enough? Haven't you had enough of these useless fuck boys? This guy is so fucking insecure, you blind bitch! And you're going to let him play you? Yeah, I know... but isn't it rude to leave?.... I just can't leave, right? Natasha? Hello? Is it rude? Should I leave? Fuck it, I'll stay.


And the answer was yes, I was beyond exhausted. I was getting tired of going out to clubs, pretending my favorite song was playing, but my favorite song never played - it was too slow.

I was tired of listening to lame lines being whispered in my ear by men who wanted me to look longingly in their eyes, only to ghost me two weeks later and reduce my self-esteem to the size of a peanut. And then try to do it all over again to me two months later. Cheeky bastards. But that's what also kept me going - the desperate hunt for more and the idea that one day, one of those fuck boys would love me.


The day before meeting him started like any other. I would take a shit while swiping through Tinder, looking at the equally desperate faces trying to connect with someone...anyone.


And then I came across his face. He didn't look desperate. He looked like someone you could talk to and who would listen. But really listen. He also looked like a guy who liked to cuddle. I liked that. His photos were a little staged, but let's be honest, we're all trying to stage our lives. I swiped right.


If you're not on Tinder, "to swipe right" means I wanted to talk to him. And if he wasn't a complete tool, meet him. Though most people believe you can't find love on Tinder, I disagree. Tinder is like the Costco of the dating world, you can find everything you need and in bulk. You just have to sift through the items and decide whether or not you need a lava lamp or a food processor.


Anyways, we matched. Of course, we did. Tinder guys liked my photos and, I must admit, my photos were pretty good. They were all lies, but they were pretty good lies. Like the photo of me wearing pants. I hate pants, I prefer underwear with holes for ventilation. Or the other photo of me looking angelic and easy-going. I'm wired up like the god damn energizer bunny.


I was pretty excited about this match which never happened with Tinder guys. But his eyes gave me a tingling feeling in my stomach. I debated with myself, should I write to him? Should I make the first move? But I've been around the block; you can't show any emotion too soon - they feed on it. You need to bring them in as if you were fishing for a sturgeon - nice and slow.


At 11 pm, I received a message from him.


"Hey, what's up?" Sigh, another fuck boy. I didn't reply. Instead, I disconnected my phone from wifi, and scrolled through some Whatsapp messages I secretly saved from men who broke my heart. Then I went to bed.


The next morning, I received another message from the same Tinder guy. I name all the men I meet "the Tinder guy." If they impressed me, I'd add specific details to "the Tinder guy." For example, "the weird goatee Tinder guy" or "the one that just told me he's not single Tinder guy."


"Hey, I'm leaving today to go back home, but I thought we could grab a coffee," the message read.


I paused before reading further, oh, watch, just watch, he'll offer meeting at his hotel room. "Just tell me where to meet you and the time. I'll be there". I told him to meet me in an hour in front of Zara.


Before the date, I decided to work out. I figured by working out right before the date; I'd instantly look hotter. I did jumping jacks, crunches, I even squatted.


Engulfed in lunges, I glanced at the clock. You're late. In a panic, I grabbed my shoes, slipped them on and ran to meet the Tinder guy. I think I smell, is that me? Yup. It's me. Just don't hug him.


He waited patiently in front of Zara, dressed in all black. His jeans had a bunch of fake zippers on the thighs, but I decided not to judge him. I was drenched in sweat, wore a stained winter parka, and my deteriorated workout pants. With a giant smile, I hugged him hello.


We released from the hug, he did a weird twitch and immediately started to talk while we walked towards the cafe. I looked at him as he spoke, but I didn't hear a word. I was busy, busy thinking.


Hmm, well he's cute, I don't know, he's kind of a talker, can two talkers be together? Would it be too much talking? I love his eyes though, Jesus... he's pretty. I think he's cold, should I give him my gloves? Oh god, you're such a pussy. I smiled politely as he kept on rambling, oh, yeah, he's been around. No guy can talk like this and not bag women on the daily. He has that whole suave vibe. Just be cool. Natasha, when the fuck have you ever played it cool.


His talking stopped abruptly as he coughed, "sorry, one second." He coughed a couple more times and cleared his throat. "Anyways," he said as he continued. Aha! He's nervous, oh Natasha; you got this. Go on the date, who gives a shit. You'll get a free coffee. He probably won't be the last Tinder guy you meet.


To be continued...

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