Married people want to know: Have I tried Tinder? There were no apps when my friends were dating. Phones were stupid then.
Me: The hook-up app? I’m dating so I can stop hooking up. I never want another hook-up again for the rest of my life.
The questions persisted. So did Tinder. I met three women who met their boyfriends on Tinder. Three data points is a theory.
It was a breach of my reportorial duties to not try.
Tinder is a picture-only dating app that uses GPS to locate you and every single man nearby. There are no profiles to read, no grammar mistakes to harrumph over. Love needs only the basics so Tinder downloads all essential information from Facebook profiles: pictures, ages, and first names.
Facebook thinks I’m 36 now.
Effectively, Tinder is Hot or Not, the video game. He’s nearby and single. Is he hot? Swipe to the right. Not? Go left.
I gave Tinder a go.
Him: Todd, 39. Broad-chested male, shirtless
Me: Six-pack abs and a six-pack of hair product.
Him: Christian, 41. On a motorcycle.
Me: Probably not Jewish.
Him: Josh, 34. With his dog.
Him: Jon, 45. On a boat.
Him: Josh, 39. At the beach.
Me: This is awesome. I have not read a single profile. Reading is stupid.
Him: Wallace, 45. On a mountaintop.
Him: Troy, 48. Cuddling a kitten.
Him: Albert, 43. Friend’s ex-fiancée.
Me: Oh, I liked him so much! But that’s weird, no? My friend’s ex? So adorable. Still, ethics prevail.
Me: No, wait. That happened years ago. He’s totally hot.
Stares at phone.
Me: Tinder is the simplest way to signal I would go out with him without actually approaching him. Good idea, app. Where’s the back button on this thing?
Scrolls through app controls.
Me: There’s no back button!
Him: Jason, 39. With a kid.
Me: Albert’s gone forever. Curse you, app.
Him: Josh, 41. In a suit.
Me: Didn’t we sleep together in 2007?
Him: Jesus, 47. In a suit.
Me: Jesus was a Jew once.
Tinder then set me up with the bachelors who swiped right for Sarah.
Jon, 45: Hi Sarah.
Jesus, 47: Hey what’s going on.
Troy, 48: Hey Sarah. ;) Cool serfing pic. [SIC]
Jason, 39: Hi Sarah.
How flattering. Or not. Tinder is undiscriminating. The men thought I was 36, blond, smiley, and stacked. Imagine anyone liking that.
Me: Hi Jon.
Me: Hi Jesus.
Me: Hi Troy.
Me: Hi Jason.
Jesus ignored me.
Jon: Cute pics.
Troy: Let’s grab a drink tonight.
Jason: What are you doing tonight?
I ignored Jon, 45.
Me to Troy: Where shall we drink?
Me to Jason: Grabbing a drink with a friend.
Troy, 48, never wrote back.
I had just brushed Jason, 39, off.
I wish I had swiped right for Albert, 43.
Tinder was grueling.
I do not have the attention span of Tinder’s young fans. Or I need a little wooing and texts are too brief. Or maybe hot just isn’t enough. More, I think I’m bad at Tinder because it has never been so hard to hook-up in Manhattan that I needed a boost from technology. I can go to a bar. A play. Take a class. Or meet a stranger’s gaze on the subway. There are 4 million men in this city; it’s not that difficult to get naked here.
Tinder only highlights the first orgasm problem: On any given night in Manhattan, there are infinitely many ways to have your first orgasm. But not so much your 41st orgasm, 141st, or nth. I’m trying to find the guy with whom to lose count, the unbounded orgasm.
There’s no app for that.