I've gone out with six dudes, in six days. I feel like The Bachelorette, and I've given out NO roses. And I want to. I really do. (The batteries in my vibrator are dying.)
Four message bubbles pop up in my Tinder Box, all from the same guy.
Alo.
How art you
You loom stupidly familiar
And cute
Already you can sense I'm itching for this guy to proofread, or use some form of punctuation, can't you? He's playing video games in his profile picture. He's probably playing video games right now. But he's my age, which is an unexpected bulls eye in this twenty-something wonderland, so I decide to message him back.
And you're apparently the King of Typos.
Do I sound bitchy? Keep in mind this is Day #7 of Tindering... He responds swiftly.
Typass ya
Queen
Why am I even writing this guy? It's before noon. I probably need more coffee. He tells me he just moved here from Ottawa. Maybe that's why I "loom stupidly familiar." I lived in Ottawa for six years. (Sorry. There's no cure for that.) I start to think I actually have met him before, a long time ago, in the exotic suburb of Ottawa, Nepean. It brings a certain relaxation to my interactions with him. So I ask him if he's going out tonight...
I'm doing coke alone at home.
Now I know I should immediately block this guy. Between chicken finger guy, and Pizza Pizza guy, I've had my fair share of guys unrolling twenties to pay this week. But since I'm just messaging through a phone app, I don't give a fack.
That explains the typos.
He immediately writes back.
I'm joking!!!!!!!
It's a little early for coke jokes. I don't know you, and I feel like I might be one date away from meeting a cartel. I tell him I'm a comedian. I hate doing that, because then guys want a link to my act. Ugh. He tells me he loves comedy.
I'd blow Norm MacDonald.
(Guys, he wrote that. Not me.)
People say I could do comedy.
If I had a nickel...
Still... I'm oddly intrigued by this guy. I tell him to meet me at the Kennedy Public House after my show. (Yeah, I know I'm recycling last night's venue. Don't judge me. It's a great spot!) I warn him I won't be dressed up, because I have a show, and I like to dress casual for my gigs.
I don't care if you wear a lederhosen.
(He obviously didn't spell it right. He added an "i.") He lives on Queen West. I'm paranoid my High Park suggestion won't seem cool to him, so I mention how the DJ plays sweet throwbacks.
Awwwwwwww shit, throwbacks
(He used a comma. He's catching on.)
My show ends around 10:30 p.m. I check my phone, and there's a message from him.
You're my little nasty girl
Yikes! This guy is seriously creepy! I should NOT be going out with this guy. I take a deep breath, and pray he's just kidding.
Oh shit. You watched my act? I swear I have clean jokes too.
Why am I messaging this guy? There's another guy in my Tinder box who's messaging me, but when I asked where he lives, he mentioned something about Steeles Ave. and I lost interest.
Actually I watched a clip and it was all above the belt. I was listening to old hip hop and that was a lyric and I thought it was inappropriate to send someone you have never met, nor had any sexual pretext with. You're probably as vanilla as they come.
Is it weird that being referred to as "vanilla" seems equally creepy as "you're my little nasty girl?" Then I get it! I told him the DJ plays throwbacks. He's listening to old hip-hop. That's actually a lyric from my favourite B.I.G. song. (Most girls would have blocked this guy by now, right?) I decide I'm going on this facking date, no matter how creepy this guy might be. Johnny drops me off in front of the bar, like he's my dad dropping me off at a high school dance. He reminds me that he and Mary are around the corner, and will come and get me if anything goes wrong. Sweet. I have back up.
I take a seat at the bar and order a beer. It's the same bartender as last night, and I'm meeting a different dude. I hope she doesn't think I'm a hoochy mama. I barely have the chance to check-in on Foursquare before I hear,
"Hey."
I turn around to come face to face with the tallest Tinder of all time. A tall, sweaty, Italian guy. (He rode his bike here. Or he just finished dumping a body in High Park. Who knows?) He sits down, and orders a vodka soda cran, in a tall glass. I order a pizza. He orders a salad. Great. I feel like I'm on a date with Eddie Della Siepe. Then he says what every girl wants to hear on a first date...
"I need to eat a vegetable, otherwise I'm not gonna shit for a week."
(Insert Jack Tripper spit take here.) Obviously I burst out laughing. My gross out factor is WAY higher than poo jokes. When my laughter subsides, I ask him if he's met any other Tinder girls yet.
"You're my first."
In a weird way, I'm excited to be the first. But then again, gauging off some of his messages, I can understand why.
"Well, you did come off a little creepy in a couple of messages."
"I'm creepy? My buddy messages chicks on Tinder and he's all 'I'm playing with my penis.' Girls love it. But when I say 'I'm playing with my penis,' I get blocked."
"Yah! Because it's creepy! And those girls who like your friend playing with his ding dong are probably spam bots. Do you know how terrified I was when you wrote 'You're my little nasty girl?"
"I just wrote that to make my buddy laugh."
What? I thought girls were the only ones to engage in dirty talk and not mean it? When I was a teenager, my best friend Tania and I would call chat lines that were free for women. We'd listen to all the creepers, then send them messages that they should meet us at Arby's. Obviously it was a joke to us. We didn't even have our driver's licenses. And who eats at Arby's?
Then he asks me how many Tinder matches I have. I feel like I don't need to lie to this guy.
"Um... I have a lot. Over a hundred."
"That makes sense."
He pulls out his iphone. Obviously, he's one of those people with a cracked screen. He opens his Tinder app.
"Cuz this is what guys do on Tinder. Yup. Yup. Yup."
(He gives EVERY girl a heart!)
"Guys don't give a shit. In fact, sometimes we're taking dump while we're on Tinder."
I laugh my head off. I facking love the honesty. I know he's right. Guys are probably "liking" EVERY girl on Tinder, just to see who bites. Plus, even chicks check their phones when they're on the toilet. We know that, we just never advertise it.
Our conversation encounters no silence. I tell him about my other dates, and he, of course, corrects my pronunciation of gnocchi. Facking Italians! Can't we just enjoy your food, without the language lesson every time? Then we talk about music. He tells me he doesn't know who Ke$ha is. What?! How is this humanly possible? I have so much to teach this guy.
"Hey, at least I know who Taylor Swift is," he says. "It seems like she has a hard time holding a boyfriend. Maybe she has the equivalent of a small penis.
"You mean she has a big vagina?"
"Well, maybe it's just mangled."
We talk about past relationships. He just moved here from Ottawa for a girl who then broke up with him. We're starting to bond, when the bartender does last call. The bar closes at 1 a.m. The bartender gives us our bill. He doesn't even try to reach for it, so I do. I suggest we each leave $30.
"Yah, that works. I don't pay til at least the fifth date. Women are perfectly capable of paying for themselves."
Busted! My free riding week is over! And he's right. I am capable of paying for my own food and drinks. I know that. Milking a social convention that's from an era when women weren't allowed to work is actually a little embarrassing...
I suggest we go next door to the Firkin, since it's open until last call. He's into the idea, so we head off. Inside, we grab a seat at the bar. He finally leaves his self-conscious vodka ways, and gets a beer. We start talking about comedy. He tells me he listens to the Dean Blundell Show every morning. I hate talking about my comedy life in front of civilians, because I get scared it's going to come off as bragging. But I decide to tell him I was on the show recently.
"When? I listen every day. I probably heard you."
Ugh. I really don't want to tell him it was due to a heckling incident at Casino Niagara, but I do. I got heckled "Show us your tits! Show us your bush!" Not the highlight of my career.
"I totally heard you on the show! Wow. What a bunch of jerks in the crowd. There's a real pussification of men going on in the world right now. A lot of men don't know how to be equals with women."
Pussification of men?! This is coming out of a dude's mouth!? I'm floored. I also can't believe I was so creeped out by this guy earlier. He's actually the most fascinating dude I've met so far.
"I actually consider myself a feminist," he says.
I haven't dated a lot in the past few years. Is this a line? Is this what guys are using to get laid nowadays? Have they replaced "you're so beautiful" and "guys actually prefer small boobs" with "I'm a feminist"? Because if you are, gentlemen, this is a good one. I'm totally charmed.
We do a shot for last call. Jager obviously. I try to pay the bill. That's right! I'm giving back, guys, and not even in the form of cab fare. But he won't let me, and throws me 20 bucks. It's been a surprisingly uncreepy night. He's actually pretty cool. I kiss him goodnight, and flag a cab on Bloor St. He takes a stab at making the fun continue.
"I don't want the night to end."
"Sorry... I have to go home," I say.
But I have to admit... I totally wanted to...
Keep Calm, and Tinder on,
Walkinsauce
