Inside the Pussy: Tinder

I am currently a junior at Swarthmore College studying Economics. “Inside the Pussy” is a column about daily awkward sexual experiences and sexual encounters. Because I am far from a sexual goddess, many of these stories will detail my flops and failures in trying to find love, recover from love, and get it on. It will be updated on a weekly basis.

I was single for my last month living in California, and thought it might be nice to check out the local talent. By that, I mean getting a Tinder. Tinder is just a horrible way to meet people. At least for people like me. And for people who end up on dates with people like me. At the time, I didn’t know how to “play the game.” I still don’t know how. Anyway, I made my profile, which included a few photos of myself back in my days of youth, and wrote the caption “Interested in film and economics!” I was not particularly popular.

I finally matched with someone— a redhead from Australia named Ollie. He studied computer science at Berkeley and sang in an acapella group. He recommended a fantastic first date idea in a town nearby at a museum’s live-music night. Because I had arrived fifteen minutes early, I paced nervously around the train station waiting for him. When he came over to shake my hand, my palms were incredibly sweaty and clammy—the touch of a woman. I was bad at making small talk.

I tried to be funny. If I made a joke, like “Haha, does your red hair mean you’re the spawn of the devil?” he wouldn’t laugh and I had to say something like “Oh no, hahaha just kidding, sorry, sorry.”  We were not a good match. The worst part came when I began telling him about my little doggie back at home, and he told me he didn’t like dogs! His exact words were, “They’re kind of disgusting and dirty.” That was when I stopped apologizing for my spawn-of-devil jokes. I knew immediately that we would never make small redheaded mixed race children.

The worst part was being forced to make small talk for the rest of the date. At one point, he put his arm around me and I released a quiet, nervous fart. After the date, he sent me a text saying “you’re nice, but you’re not as funny as you think.” I knew, right then and there, that I would have to write this story one day to memorialize good ol’ Ollie and his dog-hating ways.

I went on one more Tinder date while I was in California. Little did I know that he was actually a racist bowler. John was a physics student at Berkeley from Idaho. I asked him how he decided on Berkeley, and somehow the conversation became a long rant on his belief that Native Americans were lazy and incompetent gamblers. At this point, I knew I wanted out, but we were stuck at a restaurant and we had both already ordered.

I tried asking this piece of shit what else he did in his free time besides making fun of marginalized populations. He was apparently on Berkeley’s “prestigious” bowling team. When I tried to poke fun at this pastime, he gave me a serious look and told me that he had been invited to be on the national bowling team in high school and that bowling was highly underappreciated. I said I admired his athleticism. This guy knew how to get the chicks.

After the dinner, he said that even though we had different political views, we could still have fun together. I deleted my Tinder afterward.

I don’t want to discourage any readers away from the great art of Tinder-ing, instead I would like to encourage readers to not be discouraged after a discouraging Tinder date. Tinder is what it is. It’s for some of us, and others? Not so much. Whenever I see my friend pull out her Tinder, a cold sweat grips me as images of bowling and dogs flash in my mind under a backdrop of bright red hair.

If you have ever had a terrible Tinder date, feel free to send me a message about it at swatpgalore@gmail.com. If you ever need advice on anything, feel free to shoot me an email anyways. I’ll be writing about loud sex next week.


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