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Tinderp Tale #13: I’m Still An Asshole, But You Already Knew That

Okay, let’s talk about attraction.

It’s kind of hard for me to specify what I find attractive without feeling guilty, because I think what shapes my (and many other people’s) perceptions of attractiveness is a bunch of toxic, oppressive bullshit we internalized from being force-fed Western-white-supremacist-cis-heteronormative-ableist-sizeist beauty standards all our lives.

“You like white guys,” a couple of friends have (half-jokingly) accused.

Um, excuse them. I used to passively like or meet up with guys who happened to be primarily white, but now that I’m much more sociopolitically aware I have overcorrected to make up for my internalized racism and unconscious bias by vocally and explicitly preferring guys of color.

When I first started out on OKCupid, the racial breakdown of my (16 total) dates looked like this:

  • 62% White
  • 19% Asian
  • 13% Black
  • 6% Multiracial

tinderp 13.1

Which actually isn’t that bad for someone with internalized racism!

So once I got off OKC and gave Tinder a shot with my new militant racial justice lens, the stats looked like this, 12 dates in (percentages calculated based off 28 total dates–OKC + Tinder combined):

  • 39% White
  • 32% Asian
  • 18% Black
  • 7% Multiracial
  • 4% Non-white Latino

tinderp 13.2

See, Oscars? That’s how you stop being so goddamn white. Be open and intentional about who you wanna fuck with (in your case figuratively, in my case literally) and don’t let your implicit biases turn you into an accidental white supremacist.

Anyway, at this point in my dating exploits, white guys were certainly not my type.

“Hipsters,” said my friend Darcy. “You’re attracted to guys who look like hipsters and then you become immediately repulsed by them when you find out they’re douchey, or whatever.”

“No! Well…” I thought about the most attractive guys I had been on dates with. I mean, sure, they wore trendy, fitted clothing and occasionally put on ironic or condescending airs about low-brow culture and routine work life, but… “Okay. Maybe,” I admitted.

So what, I’m attracted to dudes who dress well, and maybe that includes a plaid button-down and some degree of pretension. Sue me!

It’s difficult to really pinpoint anything else though. This is where the toxic, oppressive bullshit comes in; stuff that I have recognized is likely problematic and will take ongoing time and effort for me to sit with, reflect on, and change as necessary. I have a tendency to be attracted to dudes who are on the thinner side, but not too skinny; they need to be sturdy enough that I could assess their ability to give me a piggyback ride with full confidence. I am unbearably heteronormative and I’m not attracted to guys who showcase stereotypically or traditionally feminine physical attributes or mannerisms; but I am also not attracted to guys who showcase hyper-masculine physical attributes, personality traits, or mannerisms. (This especially applies to the way a guy speaks or sounds, as many of my friends know.) Okay so what the fuck are you attracted to then, you might be wondering. If I had to quantify my personally ideal mix of (binary) gender expression for a prospective male dating partner, it would be approximately…70% masculine, 30% feminine. (Keep in mind, this is purely physical. Personality-wise, 100% feminine please.)

As you can see, I am arbitrarily particular about the physicality of the guys I go on dates with, which okay yes, has been somewhat of a factor in why I have not had much success with dating. A couple of friends have (half-jokingly) accused me of being shallow. But I take into account other shit, too! Jeez. It’s not just about looks. As has been made clear by previous dates, I will immediately stop liking you if you are completely ignorant about rape culture, if you make unfunny jokes about lesbians, if you express a preference for virgins, if you are a white dude and justify racial preferences in dating, or if you play devil’s advocate.

No wonder I’m going to die alone!

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In the meantime, however, I just needed temporary rebound dick.

Okay, not literally, actually, because in the winter of 2016, I was too sad and self-hating to be horny. I just needed some male company that would make me forget about the asshole who devirginized me. I was swiping frantically on Tinder, trying to line up dates that would hopefully ease the pain of being fucked over by a trash dude.

I ended up matching with a guy I will call…Francisco. Francisco had an actual bio with substance, which is a rarity in the cesspool of Tinder. (Okay, so maybe I don’t remember specifically what was so substantive about his bio, but…whatever!) Unfortunately, he also had shitty pictures (DUDES WHY DO YOU ALWAYS DO THIS STOP DOING THIS I SWEAR I’M GONNA START UP A BUSINESS WITH MY FRIEND LAURA TO FIX YOUR WACK ASS DATING PROFILES), but it seemed like he had the potential to be hot, so I clung to that.

Francisco was sweet in his messages to me. He complimented me on a poem about capitalism that I wrote and posted on my Instagram, which had never happened before with a random dude from the Internet. So when he asked me out to drinks at Starline, a bar/restaurant/venue in Oakland, of course I said yes.

tinderp 13.4

Someone who appreciated my writing, recognized capitalism as an oppressive system that should be dismantled, and didn’t seem like an asshole? I was all in!

Well, until I wasn’t. I found myself once again crying in my office at the end of the work day, because I was still stuck in the pain inflicted by The Asshole and I didn’t know how to get out of it. This time my coworker Jakki was there to witness my embarrassing meltdown, but she was being very nice and non-judgmental about it while I sniffled and ranted and looked at the time and bemoaned how I was too much of an emotional wreck to go on a date tonight plus the scarf I was wearing smelled kinda funky but I had to keep wearing it because my outfit didn’t work without it so hopefully he wouldn’t notice the smell since I sprayed Febreze on it ugh omg did I have to go on this date I should have cancelled when I had the chance but now it’s too late and in fact I really should be going over there now oh fuck I’m gonna be late ok bye Jakki see ya!

The bar was incredibly packed when I arrived, several minutes late. I took a moment to survey my surroundings. Francisco had texted me to let me know he was already here, but I didn’t see anyone who looked like what I thought Francisco would look like. I got the sense that this was a bad sign. “Learkana?” asked a stranger now blocking my view.

“Oh, hi!” I said, smile plastered on. Francisco looked…well, he looked like this was going to be another disappointing night. It’s not like he Catfished me–I could see the resemblance. But he also was just…burlier and plainer than I expected. Don’t be a shallow asshole, I told myself.

Francisco asked me what I wanted. I got my usual cider, and we both sat down at one of the small tables by the entrance. I remember enjoying the conversation. We talked about our families, our jobs, our passions. He asked thoughtful questions and was a good listener. I could tell he was into me. He spent a good while talking about his niece and how he wanted to make sure she knew about feminism and the strength of women, which I recognized was an attempt to impress me. On occasion, he would ever so briefly and gently put his hand on my leg or the small of my back.

In one of these moments, I looked at his hand touching me, and then I looked at him. I thought to myself, This guy is sweet and sociopolitically aware. He likes me. He’s not ugly. He’s probably good in bed because he probably cares about the sexual pleasure and wellbeing of his partner, unlike some asshole I know. So why not let this happen?

But I just couldn’t see it. “It” being a future with him. A future in which I felt more than vague detachment at his hands on my body. A future in which I made out with him and felt aroused. A future in which we laid naked with each other and I didn’t want to leave the bed. It wasn’t there, and I wasn’t going to force it. Every subtle touch from him spelled out trouble instead of possibility. A part of me was sad. Sad that I couldn’t feel anything for this guy, who didn’t seem like an asshole, because I was hung up on a guy who was. I finished my drink, wondering how to end this.

tinderp 13.5

By the time he walked me to my car, I still didn’t know. He asked me for my number. I smiled, flustered, and told him I would message it to him. He took it in stride, said good night, and walked away. I got into my car and cried again on the drive home.

The next day, I sent him a lengthy message explaining that while it was great meeting him, I didn’t think it would work out because I was still recovering from a really bad dating experience. I told him that meeting up with him made me realize I needed to focus on myself instead of dating. He said he understood, and wished me well.

I unmatched with him and felt terrible. Part of what I said was true, but mostly, it was a lie to cover up the fact that I wasn’t physically attracted to him.

I wonder if men feel this bad about rejecting women based on their appearances. Do they inwardly chastise themselves for being shallow? Do they spend a majority of the evening trying to convince themselves that their date is attractive in a certain light, a certain posture or gesture, a certain circumstance?

Looks aren’t everything. But they are something. Yes, my perceptions of what constitutes attractive is most likely rooted in fucked up desirability politics that I’ve unconsciously internalized over the course of twenty-five years, but that couldn’t be undone in just one night. And as much as I felt guilty about rejecting Francisco based on his looks, I also thought it would be even shittier of me to continue seeing him while secretly still finding him unattractive. I would never want someone to date me in spite of my looks, so why should I feel obligated to do so? One could argue that attraction takes time, but as my dating exploits have demonstrated, time has never been on my side. I understood that much. Time was primarily allocated to chasing our dreams or chasing stability, traveling, and fortifying ride-or-die relationships with loved ones already in our lives, not hit-or-miss dates arranged on millennial dating apps. I was giving and getting scraps, and suffering as a consequence of it. But reframing the situation was beyond my capacity at the time.

I should have quit Tinder at this point, but I had no real intention of doing so. Being a shallow asshole on a dating spree wasn’t the greatest or healthiest coping mechanism, but it was the only one that gave me a sense of control, even if the reality was me spiraling out of it.

tl;dr Learkana is emotionally fucked up from losing her virginity and goes on another meaningless date in an attempt to fill the void in her heart and her vagina!

Now it’s time for…

RATE THAT DATE VENUE!
Venue: Starline Social Club
Rating: ***
Review: Honestly, I didn’t stray too far beyond the entrance of the bar so I can’t really judge. I should go back there with friends sometime. Seemed very popular judging by the loud crowd and difficulty in finding my date even though he was literally three feet away from me. Also I heard Solange performed there, so it has to be somewhat legit right?

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Tinderp Tale #6: Accidental White Dude

Over the past few years, I have garnered the reputation of being the anti-white bitch on social media. But let’s be clear: I am anti-whiteness, not anti-white people. I take issue with the oppressive structure that upholds whiteness as the superior racialized social construct, not with individual white people. (Why is this so hard to understand?! Oh wait.) Basically, if white supremacy didn’t exist, I wouldn’t have a problem with white people as a whole. Actually if white supremacy didn’t exist at all, white people wouldn’t exist either, come to think of it, but that’s an underdeveloped train of thought for another time/blog post.

Anyway, ever since my women’s college shook me out of my apolitical stupor and opened my eyes to the necessity of a liberatory social justice praxis, I’ve been doing my best to abide by the feminist mantra of the personal being political, and I decided no exception could be made when it came to dating. Well, I decided that no exception could be made when it came to race within the dating realm, which is a pretty huge factor. White supremacy is everywhere; it didn’t have to get all up in my vagina too. Which basically meant I was reverse racial profiling on Tinder. On occasion, I would stumble across a really cute white guy with a semi-interesting, allegedly progressive profile and be sorely tempted to swipe right. But then I’d do a check-in with myself–Are white supremacy and white privilege over with, Learkana? No? Then swipe the fuck left like the decolonized ho you wanna be–and the moment of temptation would pass.

Racial profiling is pretty hard. I’m not sure how racists do it so effortlessly (well, being ignorant hateful fucks kind of explains it). Whenever a racially ambiguous/maybe just white passing dude popped up on my screen, I had to quickly decide whether or not he was white enough to have unconditional racial privilege, and honestly, I erred more often on the side of caution than not in that split second of determination.

But there was this one dude. Let’s call him Antonio. He looked super white: fair skin, light brown hair, blue/green eyes. But! He didn’t have a typical white boy name! And I think he had international flag emojis in his bio! So maybe he was Latino or something and was just really white passing in which case it wouldn’t be fair to swipe left because he wasn’t necessarily like full-blown white or anything and I mean he is pretty cute and seems nice enough okay damnit I’ll swipe right!


You matched with Antonio on 8/23/15

Antonio

Hey! Good morning!


Me

Good afternoon lol [Was not actually trying to be clever with this comment, I’m just compulsive about taking things literally and by the time I responded it was no longer morning ok]


Antonio

Hehe! How are you? Rough night yesterday?


Me

I’m a little tired but otherwise doing all right. I stayed up late hanging out with friends *beige OK hand sign emoji* how are you?


Antonio

I’m good! Sunday off, sunny day! Took a walk around lake merrit [sic] and done a few other stuff! I’m feeling productive:) haha


 

We made more boring small talk. I learned Antonio was born in Brazil, moved to Italy  with his family when he was young, and came to the U.S. for work, which meant he spoke like 3 languages, which was cool considering I barely spoke 1.5 (I blame Amerikkka). While this conversation was kind of informative, it didn’t really help me figure out whether this dude was white or not, and this became kind of a burning question of sorts for me.

tinderp 6.1

I was pretty well-informed on racial politics in the United States, but shamefully didn’t have much of a clue of how race plays out in other countries and cultures. Well, Antonio was Brazilian, right? I mean I guess he was Italian, but Brazil was his national origin, right? So, Latin American. Right?

“How does race operate in Latin America?” I casually asked my friend Andrea.

“The fucking same,” she replied.

Goddamnit. So I had matched with a white dude. An international, “exotic” brand of white dude, but a white dude nonetheless. Oh well. I wasn’t literally a bigot, so when Antonio asked if I wanted to meet up and get a drink with him, I said yes. He was probably a somewhat decent guy. (Maybe.) When I tested the sociopolitical waters by mentioning to him that I had recently attended a trans rights rally addressing the recent killings of transwomen of color, he took no issue with it and just made a weird joke about transwomen liking karaoke. Maybe his sense of humor didn’t translate very well. (Was that somehow racist? Oh, I give up.)

I remember feeling completely unexcited about this date. The novelty of using Tinder had worn off at this point. I was tired of going on disappointing dates, and my past record was strongly suggesting that this one wasn’t going to be any different. The only thing that stopped me from giving up altogether was this theory my roommate Mackenzie had mentioned to me one night when I was griping to her about my mediocre dating life. “So the theory is, somewhere between the 38th and 100th person you make a connection with will be the one person who is the most suitable for you to end up with.”

“Connection? Like, just messaging with them counts? Or do you have to meet up?” I asked.

“I don’t know, whatever falls under the definition of connection,” she replied, shrugging.

Keep in mind, this was one late night conversation I had a while back, so the details are a bit fuzzy and obviously I just paraphrased what I thought my roommate had said. But my takeaway was that I wasn’t meeting up with enough dudes to find someone to be in mutual like with. It was all just a numbers game. (A point that had been reiterated to me by my former boss–I rant about my mediocre dating life to everyone, okay.) So all I had to do, in spite of my anxiety and impatience and insecurities and uncertainty and judgments, was keep trying. I mean, there are so many fucking assholes in this world who are happily married! Didn’t I deserve the bare minimum of actually dating someone, at the very least?

So far on Tinder, I had met up with 5 dudes. Factoring in my numbers from OKCupid created a combined total of 21 dudes who hadn’t worked out. Which meant I needed to meet up with at least 17 more dudes to hit that window of possibility for meeting Mr. Good Enough. Antonio couldn’t be him, but he was #22 and therefore a necessary stepping stone, which meant I shouldn’t cancel on him even though I was kind of tempted to. (I know, I know, I’m a terrible person. But, like, we’ve already established this! Also Pottermore Sorted me into Slytherin, just FYI.)

Antonio and I met up at Beer Revolution, a divey sort of bar in the Jack London Square neighborhood of Oakland. Damnit. I was less attracted to him in person. He had a really big head on top of a slender body. And unfortunately, his bodily proportions would go on to bother me throughout the rest of the night. “Hi! I’m Antonio,” he said cheerfully. “Is it okay if I kiss you? I’m Italian, it’s how we greet people.”

“Uh–okay,” I said, and let him plant a kiss on each of my cheeks. I didn’t kiss him back. I was wearing lipstick so I didn’t want to leave marks on his face, but even if I wasn’t wearing any lipstick, I wouldn’t have kissed him anyway because ugh, that’s weird. I was even weirded out by him just kissing my cheeks. I hadn’t had a guy’s mouth touch me in over a year because I was too physically awkward for that (among other things).

We sat down, got a couple of beers, and talked. Blah, blah, blah, the usual stuff. He told me he worked at a pizza shop. I tried really hard to remove my internalized classist lens and not make a silent judgment on that, because whatever! It’s not like we were getting married and his income would determine the quality of life for our imaginary children, or something. He also talked about how Bay Area public transit sucked and how Australians were racist (although my guess was that he meant xenophobic in his particular case). I distinctly recall my conversation with him not feeling very datelike. It was almost like we had gone into that bar separately, happened to have sat next to each other, and struck up a conversation just for the hell of it. We were simply two polite, emotionally detached strangers passing time, trying to keep loneliness and awkwardness at bay and failing at it.

After finishing our beers, Antonio asked if I wanted to take a walk. I agreed, mainly because I needed more time to sober up. We left the bar and strolled up and down a few blocks. Some part of me was waiting for him to become attractive to me. Like maybe if the night went on long enough, and he talked long enough, and he smiled and said some of the right things, I would feel something. It never happened. He was still an uninteresting scrawny white dude with a big head to me by the time we called it a night. I wasn’t sure what was going on in his head. He probably felt a similar way, right? Or else he would have made a move by now. Ugh. I hated this so much. The ambiguity and nonchalance, the reification of gender roles. Was this really the only viable channel through which I could get laid? (In my situation, yes.)

tinderp 6.2

Antonio walked me to my car. He respectfully asked to kiss me goodnight. I let his lips touch my cheeks for the last time, got into my car, and drove away feeling empty.

We never hit each other up again. The usual mutual apathy and disinterest, as I suspected.

I inexplicably found myself on a semi-hiatus after this date. I chatted with a few guys, but never met up with any of them. There was one good-looking dude who expressed interest in devirginizing me, but we got into a huge fight about whether or not some John Mayer song was sexist (IT WAS AND IS) and we never talked to each other again. Story of my life. (Much later down the road, I would stumble across his Facebook profile and see a public Valentine’s Day post in which he sweetly referred to his mother as his Valentine and thanked her for raising him. I experienced some weird cognitive dissonance, reading his status. I couldn’t quite reconcile the sentimental mama’s boy on social media with the horny fuckboy who wanted to send me dick pics and got aroused at a picture I sent him of just my bare legs. Yeah I know, people are complex or whatever. But like, do cishet guys not get how hilariously fucked it is to act like fucking saints to the women whose vaginas they exited, then turn around and be fucking dickholes to the women whose vaginas they’re always trying to enter? Like, is this an Oedipal thing where they’re just mad that they can’t return to the safety of the womb because that would mean fucking their mothers and society makes that unacceptable so they displace that pent up sexual frustration and anger onto the hapless women they try to get it in with, whose vaginas don’t and will never compare to their original home? #FREUDIANFUCKBOYTHEORY #LongestParentheticalEver)

Anyway, a few months passed without a single date scheduled in my calendar. I hung out with friends, worked on creative writing endeavors, worried about the state of the world. I holed up in my room, my primary source of freedom and comfort. I went to bed alone, except on the rare occasion when a friend or family member spent the night. Sometimes I’d long for someone to curl up under the covers with. A cuddle buddy who wasn’t my plush Olaf from Frozen. A guy who could just come over on weekend nights and hold me until the ache went away. (You know, like that Sam Smith song, except hopefully like way less needy-sounding.) Why was it so hard to name that desire? To ask for it? To put it out into the universe in some way and wait for someone to answer?

You’re okay, I would tell myself. You are way better at being alone than most people. So what, you might potentially be unlaid and perpetually single for the rest of your life. These aren’t things that take away your self-worth. The ache will come, and it will go. You have learned to live with it. You’re okay. You’re okay. And for the most part, I believed it.

tl;dr Learkana is not racist! Learkana meets up with her first white dude in a while! Learkana survives another cold and bitter virgin winter by hibernating in her premature spinster cave! (Oh, and masturbating)

Now it’s time for…

RATE THAT DATE VENUE!
Venue: Beer Revolution
Rating: **
Review: Too noisy and not enough seating. A good place to kick back with a good friend or two, but definitely not an ideal place to meet up with strange men from Tinder who want to put their penises inside of you.

 

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Tinderp Tale #2: I’m An Asshole

My experience with Tinder was vastly different from my foray into OKCupid. For one thing, I had control over who messaged me, which was a huge factor in my preference of Tinder over OKCupid. The downside was that most of the guys I matched with on Tinder seemed way more passive–they were totally okay with saying nothing at all. (Then again, it could have been a racial difference, given that I had instructed my Dating Sensei to only swipe right on dudes of color. Maybe the white boys on OKCupid felt more entitled to my time and attention, because of white supremacy and Orientalism and other complicated shit I don’t feel like getting into right now.)

Suffice it to say, I was forced to take more initiative on Tinder. I started messaging guys first with the hope that they would follow up by asking me out, only to have it not pan out, even if they appeared interested initially. In addition to not striking up conversations, these guys were also completely fine with meaningless small talk that trailed off into silence. It was annoying, to the point where I finally started sympathizing with cishet dudes who adhered to sociocultural expectations of being pursuers and instigators. To put yourself out there, again and again and again, with no results? It’s pretty soul-crushing and demoralizing after a while.

So it was ironically refreshing to return to established gender roles when I eventually stumbled across someone who was proactive in his interest in me. (Let’s call him Ben.) Soon after we matched, Ben sent an incredibly flattering and straightforward message that went something like this:


Ben – Summer 2015

Hey, I want to say that reading your bio was a huge turn-on for me. I’m not too knowledgeable about social justice issues but I do my best to check my male privilege, and I would love to take you out and learn how to please a strong, independent woman such as yourself if you’re willing to give me the chance.


I checked out his profile. Honestly, nothing stood out in particular. I couldn’t really tell if he was physically attractive based on his pictures but I mean, how can I reject a dude who writes a message like that?

(I should probably tell you what exactly in my Tinder bio inspired this message, but the truth is, I’m not really sure. I’ve changed it so often that all the attempted witticisms are just one big blur in my mind. However, I can say with moderate confidence that it very likely involved references to feminism and low-key insulting men.)

So I responded with something very articulate like “Lol oh wow thanks” and then we made plans to meet over dinner.

tinderp-2-1

This is where my memory gets really fuzzy, but after mulling it over and using a combination of half-assed Yelp research and eye-squinting reasoning skills, I am 70% positive that we met up at Belly, a restaurant in uptown Oakland.

He was very tall in person. I was disappointed to find that I did not care much for his face. Obviously, this is a shitty reason to bail on someone, so the date continued. He paid for dinner, and was really smooth about it, too. (I don’t expect guys to pay but it’s nice when you’re a broke motherfucker–or any motherfucker really.) We sat at a little table by the window and ate. I had ordered a salad. He had ordered something that definitely was not a salad. We talked. Well, he talked a lot and I half-listened, tired and semi-disinterested.

I don’t remember much of what was said. It probably mirrored most first date conversations I’ve had with other guys. It starts feeling like a script after a while. Where I’m from. Why I moved here. Where I went to school. What I do for fun. The music I listen to, the shows I watch. Where I work. My family. Your entire being gets distilled into a handful of small talk, your complexity and nuance flattened and hidden behind your reserved persona and a wall of carefully chosen words, barriers put in place for a whole slew of reasons that include social anxiety and a general mistrust of men. You recite the same lines and hope you get a slightly different reaction you can work off of. You’re always gauging interest–yours and theirs. You gauge, and gauge, and after all the mental gymnastics you go through you are only rewarded with uncertainty that eats away at you to the point where you are just tired and going through the motions of someone on a date and wondering why you even bothered in the first place. Or, you know, maybe that’s just me.

When we finished with dinner, Ben asked if I wanted to grab a drink at a bar nearby. OKC Learkana would have made a shitty excuse and gone home. Tinder Learkana went along with it, because she was trying to be open-minded and easygoing for once. We walked a few blocks down to Woods Bar & Brewery, a pub Ben had stumbled across on Yelp. We got our drinks and sat down at a high table along the wall. The atmosphere was intimate. The beer was surprisingly good. (Woo, house brews!)

“Blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah,” chattered Ben.

“Blah blah,” I replied.

tinderp-2-2b

Not a picture of the actual bar, the first page result of a Google search has failed me.

(Yes my memory is too hazy and I’m too lazy to seriously try reconstructing our conversation. But I’m pretty sure my estimate of the blah blah ratio between us is spot on.)

We ended up lapsing into a lot of long conversational pauses that made me squirm in discomfort. “Don’t you hate awkward silences?” I blurted out (yes I know, really not helping matters at all).

“Nope,” he said. “I enjoy them. I like sitting here and looking at you. You have pretty eyes.”

“Oh.” I didn’t know what to say to that. No one had ever said anything remotely like that about my eyes. Except my friend Elizabeth who I’m pretty sure had a weird Asian fetish thing. But Ben was Asian and probably didn’t have a weird Asian fetish thing, so I decided it was a valid compliment, which in and of itself was still bewildering, because the guys I went on dates with didn’t usually compliment me.

Ben soon launched into a lengthy monologue about dropping acid in college and how everyone should drop acid at least once in their life because it’s really awesome and will expand your mind, to which I tried to respond in as pleasant and neutral a manner as possible in a poor attempt to disguise the fact that I had the drug history of a straitlaced prepubescent schoolgirl and wasn’t planning on changing that anytime soon. (This also, embarrassingly enough, was my first inkling that experimenting with drugs other than weed was a normal pastime for a lot of seemingly well-adjusted people my age. Yes, it’s possible to be a sheltered girl from the wrong side of the tracks.)

I was somewhat buzzed. I felt warm and relaxed. As Ben rambled on, I thought, This isn’t so bad. He talks a lot but I don’t really feel like talking anyway. He’s nice. I can just sit here and kind of listen.

Eventually though, we left the bar. He wished me good night and said, rather bluntly, “I’d like to go on another date with you.”

Who was this guy? His honesty and unabashed interest in me were terrifying and awkward as hell. “Um. So I think you’re really cool but…I would rather be friends,” I said slowly.

He took it well, thankfully. “I’m fine with that.”

We hugged and parted ways.

By the time I was fully sober and had gotten some sleep, I regretted my choice of words. The more I thought back to that night, the more I realized I did not want to be friends with Ben. He was nice, sure, but he talked way too much about himself and if I was being honest, I had mainly found it tolerable due to sleep deprivation and intoxication. Anyway, let’s be real, I wasn’t looking for friends on Tinder. I was looking for someone I liked and wanted to do sexual things with, and it wasn’t going to be him.

It’s not like he was straight-up ugly or anything! (Ugliness is a social construct, beauty is in the eye of the beholder, blah blah blah.) I personally just didn’t find him attractive. If someone didn’t find me attractive, I certainly wouldn’t want them to continue seeing me in spite of my looks. I mean, how insulting is that? So really I was doing him a favor that he didn’t know about, right?

I really hoped he wouldn’t hit me up again. I mean, why would he? He wasn’t looking for friends either, right? And I had made it very clear we would not be fucking, right? Unless he thought hanging out would eventually lead to me fucking him, right? Ugh.

A few weeks passed. Radio silence from him. I exhaled in relief and moved on with my life.

Then…a couple of months later, I got a text from him. It went something like this:

Ben: Hey! Sorry I took so long to contact you again. I’ve been really busy but now that I’m free, when are you available to hang out? Mondays, Wednesdays, and weekends are good for me.

Godfuckingdamnit.

tinderp-2-3

I didn’t know what to say.

‘Hey sorry, I changed my mind about wanting to be your friend. After sobering up, I realized you’re boring and not worth my time lol.’

Or what about…

‘Hey sorry, I don’t wanna be friends cuz I already have enough friends plus you talk too much and it’s actually kinda annoying now that I think about it. :(‘

Or how about the classic, ‘New phone. Who dis’?

“Don’t say anything,”my friend Chelsia advised. “Just ignore him. He’ll get the hint and move on.”

“But–but isn’t that fucked up?!” I cried.

She shrugged. “What can you say? Just say nothing. Nothing is better.”

So I did it. “It” being nothing.

I also unmatched with him on Tinder. You know, just to shove the knife a little deeper into his chest. For funsies. (Okay really it was because I started freaking out about the possibility he would hit me up on Tinder again and demand explanations for my assholish behavior.)

Poor, oblivious Ben. I felt guilty as hell.

It’s official, I thought. I’m an asshole, just like Rishi and all the other guys I never heard from again.

Oh, whatever, shot back my inner voice that just so happened to be manifesting as a bitter premature spinster. He’s gonna marry some nice, cute, well-adjusted Asian girl who will totally think he’s hot and totally drop acid with him. And I might as well come to terms with being a full-fledged asshole now, it’s not like online dating is going to get any less ruthless.

The cynic has spoken! On to the next one.

tl;dr Learkana messages passive guys who don’t give a fuck! Learkana finally gets asked out by a refreshingly forward dude! Learkana meets said dude in person and realizes he’s not cute and actually kinda boring IRL and she feels really bad about ghosting on him but it’s her life, her choice!

With that said, it’s now time for…

RATE THAT DATE VENUE!
Venue: Belly
Rating: ***
Review: I mean I suppose it’s not totally fair to rate this venue given that I’m only 70% sure that it was the actual venue of my first and only date with Ben. But I swear the setup of the restaurant looks A LOT like what I remembered! And it was also definitely in uptown! And it’s MY blog and through MY lens, SO THERE. Anyway, the food was good from what I recall, but I did feel the minimal seating made for an awkward first date arrangement. My philosophy is: the more randos around you to provide a moderate amount of background noise, the less uncomfortable it is for you and your date when you two inevitably lapse into awkward silence!