Well, you knew this was coming, right? I got to work last week, after leaving his place, and all my co-workers were like,
“So, how was your Tinder date?”
“It was facking awesome! He’s great.”
“Did you score?”
“No, we only went to first base.”
I love that I surround myself with women who understand if you want to sleep with a guy on the first date, you just should. You’re not just starving him of action. You’re starving yourself. Though to be fair, I had bloody kitty, obvi. And I did totally appreciate this text I got from him the day after:
BK is now being treated as a proper noun and deserves capitalization.
Holy FACK! He hasn’t even read my blog. He doesn’t even know my obsession with typos and grammar, and yet, he’s already on my side. Does that deserve a SWOON<3 or what?!
Through a series of Seinfeld references and Raptor game thoughts, our texts finally lead us to a second date. FACK. I’m not supposed to be wasting my time with second dates. My mission is 50 FIRST dates. But I can’t help it, you guys! You should feel how soft his hair is!
He offers to come up to my neighbourhood. Sweet. I can save another TTC token. He has to work late, which totally works for me. I send him a text.
Sweet. I don’t even have to shower until 8pm. Woot Woot!
He responds with:
Thank you for doing me the courtesy. Haha. I have some thoughts on showering… I do it every day but resent it greatly. Remind me to fill you in later.
HOLY FACKING SHIT! A dude that can understand how bothersome showers are!? Is he for real? If you know me, you know how many days a week I shower. My rule is, you only have to shower after the gym or sex. Oh, and does showering even work if you never wash your towels? (Hotel maids love me. I keep my DO NOT DISTURB sign on all weekend. I save them a stop.) (Oh but I often ask if I can steal a pen from the maid cart in the hall. Wait- it’s not stealing if you ask though, right?)
Fack. Sorry, I know I’m babbling. Who does back-to-back brackets? Let’s get to the date. We’re meeting at The Pourhouse. It’s on the Dupont Strip, in case you’re into urban planning, and understand how hard it is to get a neighbourhood name off the ground. (Now they’re trying to call my hood “Dupont By The Castle.” Make up your mind, urban planners.)
FACK! More babbling. I still get nervous writing about my kinky dates. You know that by now… I sit at the bar. My friend Mike is bartending. He knows I’m meeting a Tinder date for the SECOND time. He pours me a Guinness, as I experiment with my posture, and cross my legs in attempt to look as skinny as possible.
He walks in and I swear he looks even BETTER than I remember. Not that he has to up his game for me. He’s already proven he knows what a proper noun is. I’m turned on.
I’m dressed way more casual today than our last date. I say a billion self-deprecating things off the top, cuz apparently that’s how I flirt. We talk about beer, which is always something I can sound super informed about. We’re drinking Guinness, but both a little bummed out the Tankhouse is out of stock. He mentions,
“Tankhouse was the first beer that got me into hoppy beers.”
As we keep bonding, it turns out we both have the same favourite sandwich at Wendy’s too. The Spicy Chicken Filet. Am I the only girl that gets overly excited by having this sort of randomness in common with someone? I’m sure most people our age are discussing what they’re looking for in a partner- marriage, babies, etc. We’re discussing drive-thru options.
“So… I started to read your blog…
“Ya, but I had to stop…”
“Oh shit! I totally understand. You don’t have to. Which one did you read?”
“One with you and some guy in London…”
FACK! I’ve barely slept with ANY of these guys, and he just happened to stumble upon one where I do. This is slightly awkward. What guy would want to read about a girl he likes, sleeping with another dude? Is it too late to claim this is fiction?
“I just posted the blog about my date with you today. Did you see it?”
“Well, you gotta lot of likes.”
What a 2014 compliment, eh?
My friend Ana comes in the bar. Phew! Change of topic. I asked her to pop by, cuz I have a little surprise for my date… (not a threesome, ya pervos!)
“K, I have to go to the washroom. I have a surprise for you. I’ll be right back.”
Ana and I head down to the restroom/washroom- whatever the fack you call it. I secretly packed a second set of clothes. We change into the EXACT outfits we are wearing in my Tinder profile picture, and head back upstairs to the bar.
(Here’s my actual profile pic…)
“So remember last week when you said I only look about 80% like my profile pic? Well, NOW do I look like it?”
And with that, Ana lifts me into the air, and we re-create my Facebook/Tinder profile pic. Well, instead of Vegas in the background, it’s the Pourhouse. Whatever. The hot dogs are probably safer to eat around here.
(I seem to get more air time in Vegas, eh?)
“Okay! Okay! Hahaha! You get 100% now!” He says.
We nailed it! Well, except for the purse, which he points out. I bet he makes a good partner for Photo Hunt. He totally laughs. Phew. This was quite the stunt. I’d be so embarrassed if it bombed. Hey, who says bloggers aren’t romantic?
As we get back to the bonding, I really want to change back into my other clothes. Clearly I’ve put on some weight since last summer, and this jean skirt is so tight I fear it might cut my body in two. I’ll have to hire a magician to put me back together… The conversation eventually comes back to Tinder, as it always does. Us Tinderites are very much our own little singles community, each of us with multiple matches on deck. I tell him my age range is set to 25-50. Then I ask him what his are set to.
Don’t worry about it.
What? Tell me! Haha! Oh God. Are you looking at 18 year-olds?
(He’s 31. I’m not a total cougar. Yet…)
Don’t worry about it.
He’s laughing. What’s so funny? Finally he flashes a sincere smile, and says,
My settings are 23-31… So basically, if you didn’t lie about your age, I never would have met you…
FACK! I didn’t for a second think that his age settings would send me to Burn City. So… see? Sometimes lying about your age is a good thing! Suck it, world! (To be fair, I lied about my age when I joined Facebook, not Tinder. I was 26. No reason to lie at the time, but then again, I didn’t know Facebook was gonna TAKE OVER THE WORLD.) Hey, does this mean I’m his first older woman? Kinky.
When the bar does last call, I invite him over to my place. I’d like to pretend this was a spontaneous move, but like most chicks, it was totally premeditated. I cleaned my apartment so hard you’d think the health inspector was coming. I’d also like to thank Shevaun at WaxOn wax bar, cuz she did her part too. (She’s Irish, so obviously she spells it with a B. Siobhan? Something like that. Anyway, if you want to know what my bing bang looks like, I guess you can go down and ask her.)
Inside my apartment, I give him a quick tour. I show off my Taylor Swift poster, Ke$ha poster and teach him how to flush the toilet. Then we head to the kitchen, for a glass of wine. I even dish out some blue cheese, spicy salami, and my FAVOURITE crackers my friend Erica Sigurdson was kind enough to bring me from Vancouver. They don’t sell them here. Get your act together, Ak-Mak crackers!
We spend the majority of the night in my kitchen, bonding. Just like a good house party, all the fun always happens in the kitchen, eh? He inspects every fridge magnet and picture on my fridge. He points at the picture of Tania and me. I giggle.
“I was 19 there.”
“You look the exact same.”
I guess my regimented diet of pop music and drinking four days a week has kept me looking youthful. That or the fact I have the same birthday as Dick Clark. That guy doesn’t age, eh? (Oh wait- is he dead?)
He finally tells me his theory on showers.
“It’s not the actual shower that’s annoying, it’s the dry off.”
“I know! It’s all the shit you have to do AFTER the shower that’s the hassle! I totally agree!”
This guy is nailing every thought of mine. I’m agreeing with him so hard, I’m probably yelling. It’s okay though. If my neighbours hear anything loud coming from my apartment, they just assume it’s a burp.
And then, over a powerful bond of hating showers, he pulls me over and kisses me. I know this sounds like a cornball line, but my heart is actually racing. I wonder if Rob Ford’s heart beats this hard when he does crack? And as we make out, you KNOW my hands are going straight for the soft hair. I like this guy. I’m getting terrified of the sex at this point… What if it ruins it? My chemistry with him is so wicked, he could have a half-inch penis and I wouldn’t give a shit. Also, if Tinder is a hook-up app, does that mean it’s over once we do it?
I pour a little more wine for us, and we move to my favourite couch. (The one with all four legs.) I mention we don’t even know each other’s last names.
Bahahahahaha! I burst out laughing. But on the inside I’m thinking, “Thank God I got that wax…” He’s pretty funny. We start making out again. Now I know it’s time to move to my bedroom. (There’s too many cracker crumbs on my couch to enjoy doing it here.)
I didn’t have the chance to wash my sheets before he came over (correction- the chance was there, I just didn’t do it,) so I put fabric softeners between my pillows and comforter earlier in the day, to make it smell like I washed them. I’m smooth, eh? I know it would be a hotter seduction to leave my underwear on, and let him take them off, but instead I take everything off myself, and make apologies for all the parts of my body I hate, until he tells me to shut up, and kisses me. Phew! I’m super turned on… I need to grow some balls, and finally touch his. So now I’m going for it. It’s like Christmas morning… time to stick my hand in the stocking and see what’s inside…. HOLY FACK! I was worried for nothing. Santa has been GOOD to me. There is NO extra room for a mandarin orange in this stocking. He brought his own condoms. (Custom made, probably.) K, I have to stop being pervy here, and skip over some of the dirty details. Maybe over drinks ladies, but not here on the interweb. All I will say is, after barely fitting into that jean skirt, it was nice to have something barely fit into me.
He left early in the morning. I slept in until 11. Perks of not having a real job. I send him a text later in the day.
Last night was facking awesome.
He writes back…
I had a great time too. My underwear have mysteriously vanished… I took the subway home with only thin wool pants between me and the outside world. I think this goes without saying, but we should see each other soon.
What’s this? There’s a pair of MEN’S UNDERWEAR in my bedroom right now? I run to my bed, rip back the sheets, and find them. They’re super nice too. Do guys have special underwear that they wear for us, just like we do for them? And just like a dude, did I not compliment them at all last night?
I’m kind of blushing as I write this, but is this the ol’ “leave behind” move? If it is, I’m truly honoured.
Keep calm and Tinder on,
P.S. Am I supposed to wash the underwear before I give them back? Bare in mind I use a Laundromat.
P.P.S. I can tell when I like a guy, if I write too much. I try to limit my blogs to 1500 words. This one is 2212. Sorry if I rocked any A.D.D.
P.P.S.S. I don’t know how it happened, but I ended up on the trending page of Tumblr this week! Maybe this guy is a good luck charm. Woot Woot! Thanks for reading, y’all!