Tales of Tinder: The One That Got Away On Me

If you’ve been following along, you’ve probably already read my two previous episodes of ToT. There was the Sweaty Iceberg, where I was fooled only to exact heinous, borderline diabolical revenge on my date. And then there was The Wolf in Sheep’s Clothing – where I fell in love and was subsequently crushed beneath her sexy, red high heels. Obviously, as the author, I recommend both of them as reads, but honestly? The following Tinder Tale takes the cake.

No, I mean she actually took the entire fucking cake.

I present to thee:

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The One That Got Away On Me

It was a cold, wintery night in downtown Edmonton, Alberta, and yours truly was looking for a Tinder snuggle buddy to make it through the long and unforgiving winter. I had just broken things off with an uber talented and far-too-kinky sexual acquaintance, and I was back on the playing field again with nothing to lose but my pride and self-worth. It had been a couple months since I’d been on any dating apps, and so I was a little nervous to hop back on the train.

See, my traditional Tinder game kinda blows, mainly because I don’t use the typical metrics when choosing someone to date. Attractiveness is important to me, but I’m extraordinarily picky when it comes to intelligence and one’s ability to hold a conversation, which can make things really difficult. Despite what I’m sure all of you believe (including you, Grandpa!) I’m not the guy that types three lines of convo, plans to meet his date in a mall Family washroom, shags for a few minutes on the diaper changing station and then goes on his merry fucking way. I usually need some sort of connection and I genuinely need to like the person before I can start using any baby changing stations. Well, unless there’s a ton of booze involved. But those are the type of stories that . . .


crying man.jpg


My point is, I put a lot of stock into personality, and when I started chatting with one of my matches, the conversation flowed easily, the puns came naturally, and we immediately liked our text chemistry. But unfortunately . . .

Text chemistry does not maketh the compatibility.


Now Sara was what I would objectively call a 6.0 on the Dickter Scale: pretty cute, red-headed, not even close to a gym rat and had what I would call a “classic” Eastern European look. As in she’s super white and pale as my bum in mid-January.

I will remind you that the Dickter Scale is not something that I have made up. It is science. I have no control over these ratings. The objectivity is absolute.

So what I’m trying to say is that she was very intelligent, a great texter, totally fuckable but nothing to write home about. THERE I SAID IT.

Anyway, we decide to meet up at a bar just down the street from my old place. She lived pretty close, so it was a nice and convenient place for us to share an appie and a couple of drinks. It had also become a little later in the evening than I would have preferred, since we’d been texting all day and humming and hawing about actually meeting up, so I figured it would be a quick drink and a good first meet.

So I spiff up, put on my Tuesday best and shuffle on down to the bar for 8 o’clock. As usual, I’m a little early and I grab myself a double Jameson to settle in and calm the ol’ nerves. 8:15 rolls around, and I begin to play a little pocket pool to warm the fellers up with it being winter and all. 8:25 ticks by, and I’m still waiting, now with a boner since the pocket pool turned into a full on jack off session because WHAT IN THE FUCK ELSE AM I SUPPOSED TO DO WITH MY TIME.

Yeah, I’m not good with people being super late.

But then Sara finally shows up. To my surprise, she doesn’t offer an apology, sits down and then orders a shot of tequila. As she’s going full-on Liquor Rambo on me, I have to do a double-take, because while Sara looks kinda like the girl I was supposed to meet, her personality is already oozing douchebag, and I start to mentally grab at excuses to bail without being a total prick. However, my stupid conscience gets involved and I feel bad for wanting to leave already, because she did do herself up nice and all, and she did kind of eventually explain why she’s always late, which had something to do with her shitty time management skills. I guess these days that passes an excuse for wasting someone else’s time. What the fuck do I know.

Not a great start. But then she tells me I’m much more handsome in person, which strokes my ego, and then I remember how great our conversation was earlier that day on Tinder, which is just enough for me to give her a second chance. As I decide this, she tells me she doesn’t like the bar we’re at, picks up her purse and tells me to come with her.

I’m like, “Um, why? I can’t just leave, I have to pay.”

She responds, “Oh you do? I usually just pay with cash when they bring the drink. Let’s go.”

To what I WANT to respond, “Yeah, well you didn’t pay for your fucking tequila, did you?” But I bit my tongue and then the bullet and left $20 on the table to pay for both of our bills. Because I guess I’m a fucking gentleman sometimes. We leave the restaurant.

So instead of staying at this bar with reasonable prices and an awesome greasy spoon atmosphere, she insists that we go to Cactus Club instead – a higher end, pricey restaurant with servers that average at least a 9.5 on the Dickter Scale. That last point really has no bearing on the story, but let’s give a high-five to Cactus Club.

Nice goin' guys!

Nice goin' guys!

We walk in, and as I predicted there’s a twenty minute wait. By this time it’s already 9 o’clock, and I literally had to get up in 8 hours for work and we hadn’t even sat down yet. She is intent on waiting, and so we stand there in first date hell, squished in a group of people and trying to make conversation.

Oh wait, did I say that we tried to make conversation? No, that was left completely up to me, because she was completely inattentive and preoccupied with dreaming up ways to be a complete kent on the first date. I visualized opening up a sewer lid and booting Sara inside so she could rejoin her shitty people beneath the streets of Edmonton, but alas the hostess showed up and took us to our seat.

After we sat down, I removed my coat, went to the bathroom and mentally reset. I thought about how I spent the entire afternoon talking to Sara, how I’d been really excited about the date just an hour earlier, and I still wanted to try and turn things around.

I’m a fixer, it’s what I do, and I used to have this stupid fucking habit of giving people the benefit of the doubt.

I get back to the table and there’s a full bottle of wine waiting for us.

Oh wait, check that. Not for us. She proceeds to tell me that she didn’t order for me, but was really craving a glass of this particular Merlot. I tell her that if she looks really closely at it, she’ll notice that it’s actually an entire fucking bottle, and she nods and smiles and tells me she had a long day.

This is when the night really started to get away on me.

I sit down, baffled, and because I’d already eaten, I plan on just sharing an appetizer with Sara as we discussed earlier in the day. We agree on fish tacos, but when they show up, she puts them in front of herself and starts going to town. Unbeknownst to me, she thought the fish tacos were for her and that I should just order my own appetizer. And as she’s scarfing the fucking tacos in her mouth she tells me to get something else as the tacos she’s demolishing “aren’t as good as she expected.”

I get the tacos anyway.

Small victories . . .

Small victories . . .

When the server comes back, the Taco Monster pipes in and orders a fucking entrée. And it’s not a salad or a sandwich, but a $40 steak option. I look at the server, my eyes filled with the fiery rage of Satan himself, and tell her I won’t be having an entrée. The server looks down at me like I’m some cheap asshole, and normally I would agree. But she doesn’t understand that the date Sara and I had planned had me dropping $50 on the entire night, and I quite literally couldn’t afford to be spending more. 

Sara polished off the bottle of Merlot before the entrée even arrived, and that was when this trainwreck of a woman finally started to talk to me. She began in the most attractive way possible by bitching about her work, and then went on to other thrilling topics such as how she can never find a good guy and how the dating world is just a mess and this other guy she’s currently seeing recently ghosted* her. I nod, asking myself WHY I ever wanted this person to say words, and then she proceeds to order a fancy drink to go with her entrée. I just sat there, sipping on my whiskey while thinking of ways to ditch the date and not pay a dime of her growing tab.

But we were at the back of the restaurant, I couldn’t pull the bathroom ditch without taking my leather jacket with me and I swear to god the server had her eye on me, half-expecting that I would try and get away without paying (because of course I was the cheap fuck that didn’t buy an entrée.)

So I stayed and watched as she crammed the steak into her mouth and then a huge piece of cake for dessert, which of course she didn’t share. By the end, Sara was happier than a pig in shit, having a great time now that she was full of food and booze and had the chance to tell me every life problem she had.

The server returned to the table, brings the bill and it’s a whopping $140.00. The server asks if I want to do cash or credit, and to my delight Sara says credit.

The look on my face must have been priceless. I totally didn’t expect her to pay for anything, and here she was, drunk and happy, willing to pay for her own night of over-excess.

Here’s where I fucked up.

She goes to the bathroom before the server returns, and at the back of my head I’m thinking, “She’s going to ditch, isn’t she?” I wait, and as the server comes with the machine I see Sara standing a few feet behind her, waiting for me. She didn’t ditch, but she sure as fuck wasn’t coming back to the table to pay the bill now, either.

I give her this face:

what the fuck.jpg


To which she replies, “C’mon, already. Let’s go! You said you have to work in the morning.”

I call upon the gods to strike her down with lightning and make her poop money upon death, but nothing happens.

The server is standing in front of me, clearly annoyed. I bring out my card, tip her 20% (because fuck me, she was a good server), and half storm out of Cactus Club, wishing there was a literal cactus I could nudge Sara onto before bidding her adieu.

But then she said, “So what are you doing now? Do you want to go back to your place and fuck?”

Yeah . . .  so like, I did.


The Lesson?

Move along. Nothing to see to here.


*Ghosted - The action of slipping out of someone's dating spectrum simply by ignoring them like a child would. Usually reserved for immature cunt-bags, it is sometimes a necessary tactic for the mature, well-intentioned person when the the ghosted individual is bat-shit crazy.


Like this? Well why don't you check out Episode 1 and Episode 2  while you're at it. 

Thinking about trying Tinder? How about you check out my post on Tinder Addiction first.