Well, the seasons are changing here in Edmonton, and it’s gotten me into a reflective mood this evening. I began tonight by reminiscing on the fact that I’m terribly single and alone, and there were probably babies born today that will get laid before I ever will again. And then I reflected on that last sentence, and quickly realized I typed the words “babies” and “laid” in the same line and promptly threw myself in front of a moving bus.
So I’m finishing the rest of this blog post from the Emergency Room at the Royal Alex Hospital because, well, I love you. All of you.
Except you Kent. You’re a stupid fuck and nobody likes you. Stop sending me those weird photos of blocks of butter half-melted with a hole in the middle. It’s weird. I don’t understand it, so just stop it.
I quit Tinder about three weeks back, and if I had to give myself a grade I’d say I’ve been going relatively strong. I’d tell you what “relatively strong” exactly means in this case, but how about you go eat a dick instead. It’s embarrassing.
But it’s given me time to think back on all the wonderful, bizarre and downright shameful dates I’ve been on over the past couple years, and even more time to get down on my hands and knees and thank the good Lord that I still have my penis and it mostly works pretty good.
Because I’m a borderline psychopath, I got into this habit of writing what happened during many of my dates, mainly because I needed to make sure I had the facts straight about the women I was seeing. When you went on as many dates I did, it’s probably one of the most helpful things you can do when you have a shit memory like mine. Never again did I bring up a girl’s dead Golden Retriever that was very much alive, or forget a girl’s nut allergy and sprinkle cashews all over her salad while she was in the bathroom. There will never be another death by nuts under my watch . . .
Moreover, I just like writing shit down. It helps me process things, jog my terrible memory and then look back on moments in my life where I made not only questionable decisions, but downright fucking redarted* decisions. Lucky for you too, because it’s allowed me to kick off a new segment I like to call . . .
The Wolf in Sheep’s Clothing
Her name was Jessica.
One fair evening, I was swiping away on Tinder, dipping my over-baked fish sticks in my salty tears of loneliness because, well . . . I’m resourceful. And then something happened. Something shocking.
A lot of you know this feeling. It could have been on Tinder, or at a bar, or maybe at your last family reunion (Kent you’re a sick, sick fuck), but it’s a great feeling. You get a little boner (or a clit boner, ladies. Don’t think I forgot about you), the heat rises in your chest and then you start sweating because someone far more attractive than you is eyeing you down like a piece of rotisserie chicken. You’re immediately at a disadvantage, the power dynamic is completely out of your hands, and it feels GOOD.
Oh, and if you’re one of those super confident people that has never felt this before and thinks they’re King of Shit Mountain, well I’ve got news for you: YOU DON’T EXIST
I matched with a girl that was way out of my league. I consider myself a hard 7.5, maybe a hard 9 when I’m hard, but this girl was a TEN. I remember looking at the Tinder match screen and thinking:
“Yeah, this girl’s not real. Just call her out on it, man. Yeah, it’s probably some dude on his phone with a fake profile and bigger boobs than she has, but . . . but, what IF?”
And then, despite the astronomical odds, Jessica messaged me first. In the history of Dustin on Tinder, this is more elusive than a double rainbow. More astonishing than finding a humpback chub frolicking in the Colorado River.
And her message was witty! Jessica was kind and flirty, and although I don’t remember the specifics about our Tinder convo, I remember being extremely excited and decided to stop texting while I was ahead. I knew that if I continued my luck would run out and I would make some sort of reference to her perfect boobs.
So I asked her out for supper later that night instead. The back and forth was going pretty good, my boner had mostly subsided, and I knew that if I didn’t strike now the sweet spot* would be behind me. And guess what?
She said yes.
Shortly after we made plans, I remember looking at myself in the mirror and seeing a few muscles that definitely weren’t there. My jaw line was surprisingly square, and after a quick shower my dick had also grown two sizes, so it was safe to say I was feeling pretty good about myself.
After throwing up in the toilet three times, completing a There’s Something About Mary*, and spiffing myself into the perfect picture of studly manhood, I was ready to show up at the restaurant early, get a little fucked up on whiskey, and then wait for her at Joey’s, feelin’ good and lookin’ good. She lived close, I lived close. Perfect scenario.
I strolled down Jasper Ave, got to the restaurant thirty minutes early and was surprised, and a little pissed, to see her already drinking at the bar. I was about to storm over there and tear Jessica a new strip for stealing my coping mechanism when I got a really good look at her.
Jessica was somehow better looking in person. She was wearing a gorgeous shoulder-less skirt, had long brown hair that ran down past her shoulder blades, and was just classy enough to not slip into the slutty territory. I don’t really know how to quantify her beauty with a number, but I was fucking flabbergasted. Instead of going right up to her at the bar, I dodged her wandering gaze and went to the washroom to take a breath, and this time when I looked in the mirror everything had changed.
She was suddenly real, and this time looking back at me in the bathroom wasn’t a studly man with bulging muscles and chiselled jaw. It was fucking Quasimodo.
It might sound like I’m a giant pussy, but people that know me know that I’m a reasonably confident dude. I’m always a little nervous for dates, but I can brush that away pretty quickly with deep breathing (try it, it works!) and a brief call to my mom so she can pump my tires and tell me I’m special. But this girl had me stunned.
So, tongue tied and hunched over like a French cripple, I bit the bullet and walked to the bar to finally meet her. Jessica was texting on her phone when I arrived, and just before I squeaked out a hello, my phone went off in my pocket, alerting her to my rather creepy ghostly presence at her back. A little startled, she turned around, saw me standing there all sweaty and nervous, put her hand to her mouth and started laughing.
“I just texted you,” she said, giggling like a beautiful idiot. “Hey, you’re a lot cuter than in your photos, Dustin.”
I get this a lot. I’m 100% prone to taking horseshit pictures. I’m that guy in the group picture that always looks like he’s afraid the photographer is stealing his fucking soul or something. I even tried to perfect a repeatable Barney Stinson-esque pose, but it ended up looking something like this:
She thought I was cute.
My nerves peeled away, the skittish farts stopped and I was myself again. Jessica had a predictably wonderful smile and after an exchange of kind words we sat down at a table and got down to getting to know each other.
Moments later I picked her up by her thighs, threw her on the table and we made love in that restaurant like a couple of Emperor Penguins in heat. Thirty minutes later, when our sesh finally ended, a slow clap could be heard somewhere in the kitchen, and soon the clapping and the cheers thundered throughout the restaurant. Worried that Jessica was startled by all the noise, I stood upon the table naked and quieted them with a rousing speech. And then we settled down into our seats and the Thai chicken bites were ready.
What really happened was quite normal. Just a great meal, fantastic conversation and bit of footsie action from her under the table. I was on Cloud Nine, feeling like a pimp and, by the way the waitress was looking at me, I guess I looked like one too.
I couldn’t shake that part, actually. The waitress kept looking at me like she knew something. At the time I figured she was just as stunned as I was that this girl was on a date with a hard 7.5 like me, but after I cleaned up the tab, well north of $100 mind you, I got the straight of it.
I shit you not, these were her words as soon as the bill was paid:
“Dustin, I’ve had an amazing time tonight. I think we have a really great connection, and I know you live close, but if we’re going to continue tonight, I’ll need the money before we do.”
“The money?” I said, smiling as my heart shattered into a million pieces and visions of my 50 year old self eating cake naked and alone in the bathtub flashed before my eyes. “You mean . . .?”
“Well, yes. What did you think this was?”
Jessica was a fucking hooker.
I started laughing, a little hysterically actually. I was completely oblivious, she gave off absolutely no signs, and I remember thinking two things about the next few moments as we sat at the table, ready to leave:
1) Jessica’s going to say she’s kidding, man. She’s gonna! And then we’re going to part ways with a kiss, meet again on the weekend, I’ll propose to her in front of the Alberta Legislature and then we’ll spend the rest of our lives together perfecting the Kama Sutra and making money creating sexy web cam videos like healthy couples do.
2) I wonder how much she costs.
Instead of taking the plunge, I got up, brushed off my shirt and left my soulmate behind to mope around Joey’s with her perfect breasts, sultry lips and blue eyes that could cut diamonds. That was seriously tough not to give up three or four days’ pay for that, but I did. And before you judge me, just put yourself in my shoes.
The pragmatist in me told me I'd already made an investment in the date. The teenager in me recognized that I was staring down a TEN. And the hopeless romantic kept going back to the fact that I'd made a connection, even though the realist knew it was all bullshit to begin with.
But those feelings don’t just go away. You understand that she duped you, but then you remember the smile and genuine laughter, the similarities between your personalities and the fact that her butt conforms perfectly to the contours of her dress. The temptation is REAL, and fuck me, as whiskied as I was, I almost caved and took a step into the darkness.
What darkness you ask? The darkness of self-identifying as a JOHN for the rest of your life.
To my credit, I resisted temptation and walked home half laughing, half weeping, promising myself that I would never tell anyone this embarrassing account of the time I almost fell in love with a hooker. Instead, I waited a year and decided to tell all of you on here.
And so concludes the first edition of Dustin Does Tales of Tinder. The lesson?
YOU WILL NEVER BE HAPPY
*Sweet spot– the point in a Tinder conversation where you must CAPTURE THE WOMAN AND BRING HER BACK TO YOUR TRIBE FOR SWIFT MARRIAGE, by picking the exact right moment to ask her out. If you miss this, you are royally fucked.
*Redarted- A politically correct way of saying the completely politically incorrect word: “retarded”.
*Pulling a There's Something About Mary- the act of relieving oneself before a date in which you are over your head. Pun intended.
For another hilarious installment of Tales of Tinder, check out my story about little miss Sweaty Iceberg.