I’m one of those perennial users of Tinder. I log back in when I’m horny and desperate, only to log back out shortly thereafter because dating for a thirty-something—actually, I’m an even thirty, but 31 is right around the corner—sapiosexual is very hard. I know. I know. What in tarnation is a sapiosexual? In the age of denouncing heteronormativity, why not use obscure labels to more accurately define oneself (but who can really define oneself; to paraphrase Krishnamurti, a conditioned mind is not a free mind…think about it). Basically, a sapiosexual is someone who’s attracted to intelligence. You could be downright ergly, and I’d fall in love with you if you were intelligent and witty. And not intelligent in the “a squared plus b squared equals c squared” kind of way, but in an abstract way. Someone who’s weird and says dreamy existential stuff, and not because they’re a hipster, but because they yearn to understand humans in the way I do. Although I appreciate the boys at SUNY Cortland being displayed like a conveyor belt of beefy Ken dolls, I don’t want to date them. The motto is true in 13045: suns out, guns out. AND I LOVE IT. They’re eye candy, and that’s as far as it goes. The boys at Cornell are dapper and smart, but they fucking know it. They come to the testing center—the job within my job—at Cortland looking like Christian Grey with their tailored suits and suspenders and tie bars and hair that’s coiffed like the ocean waves they ride in the summer. And, let’s be honest, who cares about Ithaca College? I have yet to meet someone interesting from IC. In terms of rank and importance, IC is equivalent to the middle child #sorrynotsorry
I tell myself that my most recent log-in to Tinder was driven by my professor’s sine qua non for “triangulating” my research—to make it as “ethical” as possible—but, with all due respect to you, my audience, I’m gonna let the cat out of the bag: I really like boys, and as much as dating sucks, I’m a hopeless romantic, and I can’t let go of the idea that there is someone out there for me to date. And I don’t necessarily mean “going steady” or using labels like “boyfriend” or “girlfriend.” I just mean someone I can connect with on a level where I actually want to see them again and not run for the hills. THAT’S ALL.
After my last stint on Tinder—just about a month ago—I came to the conclusion that silver foxes with ripped abs are just as douchey as jailbait with ripped abs. Age doesn’t matter when contemplating which end of the spectrum to fish from.
I had a date—aka I let this dude come to my apartment at 1:00 o’clock in the morning on a Saturday night, or rather a Sunday morning, because he was begging, and I was drunk and positive it would cure my dry spell—with one of the two silver foxes with ripped abs (I assure you, I am not being facetious about the anatomy of their rectus abdominis, they were both crisp from pec to pelvis). I always lament the tragedy of objectifying females as sex objects, but I find myself in a Catch-22 after I digitally drool over the noticeable v-line of men (young or old, apparently).
Before I jump into my (mostly non-existent) sex life, allow me to give you a vague description of myself so you have some sort of mental image while you scroll through my blog. I’ll give you just as much information as dudes glean from tinder before they send me an unsolicited dick pic. I wonder what goes through their mind: “Oh, you’re a female with eyes…you must want to see my dick then.” Really? REALLY?! Anyway, I’m a thirty-year-old female who works two jobs and goes to school. I’m an introvert (leaning closer toward misanthrope). I love lipstick. (And no, Gazpacho, a true blue-red, is not the same as Beetroot, a bold berry, so stop insinuating that one lipstick should suffice. There’s a color spectrum for a reason, people!) I can’t eat gluten. I live alone. I used to have a dog. I have brown eyes. I never smile with my teeth because it looks too forced, making it awkward for you and me. Instead, I always give a closed-mouth grin that makes me look mischievous (but I’d rather look mischievous than awkward). I’ve been married. I’ve been divorced. I’ve been in love (ironically, not with my husband). I’ve had one-night stands. I’ve had Cutty Buddies (or rather, friends with benefits; but don’t kid yourself, at some point, one, if not both, of you are bound to get the feels). I’ve had short-term relationships. I’ve had threesomes. I’ve been a mistress. I’ve ghosted, and been ghosted on. I’ve done it all. I’m on Tinder because it’s simple and straightforward. I don’t have an agenda. I don’t prescribe to monogamy. But I don’t know if polyamory is my thing, either. I refuse to be in a relationship for the sake of being in a relationship. I crave human connection like any other, but I’ve made enough bad connections to know the wiser.
There simply is no pill that can replace human connection. There is no pharmacy that can fill the need for compassionate interaction with others. There is no panacea. The answer to human suffering is both within us and between us.
– Dr. Joanne Cacciatore
Okay, back to the juicy stuff. So my latest (and by far, not the greatest) Tinder “date” was a 48-year-old martial arts instructor from about an hour away. Before you get too critical, let me explain: I was working overtime one night and trying to explain Tinder to my 60ish, female coworker. She was really interested in how it worked and what kind of men were available in her age range, and I gotta admit, my curiosity was piqued, too. I upped my age range to 55+, and after a bit of horrified swiping, I came upon two nubile men with ripped abs (I don’t care if they’re slightly wrinkly, they’re still hot). The guy I invited over was handsome and fit and witty and charming. He loved compliments—giving, but mainly receiving. That should have been my first clue. I wasn’t overly smitten with him, but he met the minimum criteria. We had only been texting for maybe two or three days when he begged me to invite him over late one Saturday night. Even as I write this, I can hear my mom scolding me: DON’T INVITE RANDOM MEN TO YOUR HOME! YOU’LL GET RAPED. YOU’LL GET MURDERED. YOU’LL GET DISMEMBERED. But horniness can cloud even the shrewdest of minds (especially under the influence of a lot of whiskey). I was drunk off several rounds of el camino’s. And no, not the car, but the cocktail with 1 ounce mezcal, 1 ounce rye whiskey, ½ an ounce of Bénédictine and 4 dashes of Peychaud’s bitters. It’s the muscle car of the craft cocktail world. Whiskey and I have had a love affair for years, and mezcal just recently came into the picture. It’s smoky and burns oh so good. Sorry, Sex and the City, but none of that cosmo crap for me. Anyway, he said he was wired from a show—apparently he plays guitar in hotel bars LIKE A WEIRDO—and I was drunk so whatevs. That should have been my second clue. But he appealed to the adventurous side of me with remarks like, “We’re both up and eager to meet each other, so why not?!” Exactly! Why the fuck not?! As you can see, it didn’t take much convincing, on my end—I really wanted to get laid. And I thought to myself: this is the proverbial booty-call. There is absolutely no way this midnight excursion won’t end in sex. No one in their right mind would drive over an hour, at one in the morning, not expecting to get some. I would soon learn, that he was indeed, not in his right mind.
He called me just as he got in the car, and we chatted until he pulled into my driveway. Usually I’d get those pesky first-date butterflies as I set eyes on the man I’ve been digitally courting, but not this time. I knew exactly what was gonna go down. He came inside, and I gave him a brief tour of my apartment. As we came back full-circle to my foyer, the energy stalled a bit. He clasped his hands together like a professor does at the end of class as he’s warning you about the near eventuality of a pop quiz, and very matter-of-fact, asked me if I wanted to kiss. My first thought was: What the fuck? Okay, I guess… Is he asking to kiss me because he’s socially inept? Or did he ask to kiss me because that’s what old dudes do? Ya know, the whole “chivalry isn’t dead” type of thing. Or did he ask to kiss me because of the recent media storm surrounding consent? (Regardless, it was strange and unsexy and a total buzzkill.) After a slight bewildered pause on my end, I accepted his invitation. So there we stood, in my foyer, making out to the backdrop of streetlights peering in from my windows. Sparks didn’t fly, but it was nice feeling someone’s lips on my own. I eventually pried his face off mine and invited him to “get a little more comfortable” in my bedroom. I climbed into bed as he lumbered over to the other side, and as soon as his back hit the mattress he started opining about the woman he’s been in a long-distance relationship with for almost a decade. The “love of his life.” The woman “no one compares to” (even though he’s tried his damnedest to find her). They’re head over heels in love, and he left his wife for her, and she was supposed to leave her husband, too, but she hasn’t jumped ship yet because there’s kids involved, and she’s just not ready yet. BLAH BLAH BLAH. I laughed maniacally—think of Ursula in The Little Mermaid—when he said that last bit. What a fucking idiot. Apparently that wasn’t the response he was trying to elicit—he jerked his face toward mine and frowned like a child who just got told to stop watching TV and do their homework. I may not have gotten laid, but at least I wasn’t as pathetic as this nimrod. I kicked him out and it felt so good.