Page 38 of Tinder B@ng

Seventeen

I survived my first internet dating breakup at age forty-five. It stung and for a minute there I wanted to be upset about it, but then I paused and realized I got exactly what I wanted. I didn’t want something serious. I said so. I am not looking for a girlfriend or wife. I am not a quitter though, and I just know my kids are waiting for me to quit or at the very least fail.

How hard can this be? It’s an app, it’s an algorithm, and I am pretty sure somewhere in it all there’s a person I could date — or screw on the regular.

I open up my Tinder app and start by deleting the bio my spawn wrote for me. I am ashamed that they came from me sometimes. I have had to write my own bio more than a few times over the course of my career. This is no different. Short, to the point.

What is important to me?

Father. Since that chased Channing away.

Stamp collector.

Retired.

Golfer.

Looking for something casual. I think it’s better to put it there that I am not looking for a wife.

The other thing I make a point of doing is changing the horrendous pictures that Tala uploaded and replacing them with respectable headshots, and a golf picture from a tournament I played in. They’re a fair representation of who I am — well, who the world thinks I am. Suit and tie. It was fun to let the other side of me out for a while with Channing. I’m not going to attract the women I need in my life with that part of me though.

I adjust the sliders that set the age, distance, and some other parameters. Switch out to a paid subscription, because I want the power to undo, to see who likes me, and I am no fool. Any app that has a paid option is not great when it’s free. I pour myself a sundowner and take it out on my balcony. The late afternoon sun is slowly sinking, painting the sky with pink and orange. The city smog makes it a work of sad art.

I begin to swipe left and right — surprised how many women have no pictures, no bio, or their photos are so filtered I cannot see anything but a cartoon. I nope far more than I like. The amount of jobless, thirty-somethings out there looking for a wallet with a dick is overwhelming. So many just smack of pure desperation; is this desperation? Am I one of them? Am I this desperate?

There are many high society ladies that would date me without me having to wade through the dating puddle that clearly has sewage in it. The thing is — nothing about that excites me. I want excitement. Something about this shit gives me a thrill that I haven’t felt in years. It’s like a rollercoaster.

At first there’s a lot of matches and even more very disturbing text conversations. But I learn fast to be more selective about who I swipe on. It’s dark out when I eventually stop falling down the rabbit hole. I have a date — a night-time one, in an hour. With a stranger, and something about that is erotic as all hell. She stays this side of the Hudson, and wanted to meet somewhere discreet. I let her choose the place. I have a feeling discreet is Tinder code for married, but I won’t know if I don’t try.

The place is on the wrong side of town, and my car stands out like a sore thumb beside the row of motorcycles. There’s a distinct smell that lingers in the air — stale beer, smoke, and vomit. Three steps from the bar door, I wonder if I could just leave. Maybe the only women willing to date a guy my age that has kids are the type that pick this as a meeting place.

What sounds like country music filters out when a burly man in leather pants staggers out the door. I hope he isn’t about to hop on a motorcycle. I don’t wait to see, I just hold my breath and go inside.

My date, who I am almost certain isn’t really Lisa, is waiting as she said she would be in a booth at the back end of this dive. At least she looks like she did in her pictures, just with less clothing on. Her dress is very revealing. Almost embarrassingly so. The only place for my eyes to go is to her chest.

“Hi, Lisa,” I greet her still looking at her boobs — obviously fake, but she seems very proud of them.

“You actually came.” She seems very surprised by that. I wonder how many times she’s stayed here waiting for a man to show up and been left hanging. She stands up, grabbing her purse, as if she wants to leave. I haven’t even sat down yet. “Did you drive or Uber?” She pulls out some car keys.

“I drove,” I answer confused.

“Oh good, we can just park around the back and no one will see.” What the ever-loving hell have I got into?

“We’re not going to have a drink first?” I ask, looking around to see if there’s something I might be missing.

“Listen, you and I both know ‘something casual’ doesn’t include drinks. My husband’s shift ends in an hour and a half, so I ain’t got all night.” I don't know how to diffuse this without making a scene or attracting the attention of the bikers in here. “I didn’t come here for a drink, I got tequila at home. I came here for dick, because my husband doesn’t know how to use his.” I choke on air, because Lisa is loud. I’m sure she’s turned a few heads already. I take Lisa gently by the arm and lead her back out the way I came in. I am not sure the discussion should be had here. As soon as we’re out of earshot, I stop and face her.

“Look, Lisa, this isn’t what I signed up for. I am sorry I wasted your time. But this,” I point between us, “isn’t going to happen. I am definitely not a parking lot sex sort of man.”

“All men are parking lot sex men, you’re just a high society snob that is looking for a perfect doll.” She’s getting angry, and it isn’t pretty on her. “Just go, I have enough time to swipe and find someone else for tonight.” She stomps back inside, and I am left in the car park with a mouth full of teeth and an experience I’d rather not speak of ever. I need to be more selective, more careful and direct about what I want. And don’t want.

This is just madness. I shake my head and have a little pep talk with myself on the way home.

There’s a red bubble with a bunch of notifications on the Tinder app when I eventually brave looking at my phone again. Some are just matches, and others are forward ladies that like to message first. I filter through them with tonight's experience fresh in mind.

Nope. Unmatch.

She is. And she has a bio that lists an actual job. I swiped on her because she looked normal — no crazy eyes. I engage in a text conversation with her. I can’t believe at this age in my life I am back to ‘what’s your favorite’ questions. We enjoy similar things, and she doesn’t stay too far away. Our conversation turns to banter, and she has made me smile a few times.