FIFTH TINDER DATE
Matt and I had been chatting. He seemed fun and sweet. Had a quick wit about him. And a handsome face, but was super short. Like 5’7. I prefer over six feet, but I’m not a dick, people can’t help how tall they are. He was cracking me up in his messages. And like I’ve said, I’m not looking for a boo or a husband. I’m looking for an amazing, non-committal sex partner who can handle my lifestyle. Which is a tall order, but a girl can dream. Our day arrived. I messaged him. He asked what I wanted to do. I said, how about bowling? I figured I could do him a solid and be in flat bowling shoes. He liked it. We said Shatto Lanes at 9 p.m. I told him to meet me at the bar at the lanes. I wanted to make sure I liked him before getting into ten frames. He said no prob. That was early in the day, he text me again at 7:08 p.m. and asked if we could meet a half an hour early. I’m pretty anal, and I time my life accordingly. I responded, “If I can be ready. I timed myself for 9 p.m.”
Him: “It doesn’t take you that long to get ready for bowling does it?”
Not a great way to start, honey.
Me: “Don’t mess with my system.” And I sent him a fun photo of my tongue sticking out.
Him: “Do you thing, princess.”
Princess?! I fucking hate being called a princess. I’m just about the furthest thing from a princess. I can’t think of a grown woman alive who likes being called that. Come to think of it, this may have been the reason I decided to meet at the bar first. I was suddenly not as excited for this date. As it happens, I was ready early, so I text him that yes, I could meet him there before 9 p.m. He called me a “pain in the ass”. Playfully. I decided to wear heels. Sorry if I tower over you, buddy, that’s what you get for calling me a princess. Dick.
I drove up and as I parked (on the street, I hate their parking lot, super weird mojo in that lot), I saw a height challenged man trying to find the entrance. I was hoping to beat him there, but whatever, let’s do this. I walked up onto the sidewalk. “Matt?”
“Hi. The entrance is this way.” I hugged him. I was significantly taller.
“You had to wear heels, huh?”
“I’m a girl, I like heels, but don’t worry, I’ll be in bowling shoes soon.” I smiled and took him in. His clothes were super tailored. Even his fancy jeans seems as if they were made just for him. I’d venture to say that his button up was a tad too tight, but he obviously works out, so he was workin his attributes. Nothing wrong with that. We walked upstairs to the bar. It was busy for a Thursday. I don’t think I’ve ever seen so many people sitting at that bar. We snagged the only two seats available on the corner. The bar has a strange octagon shape to it with fixed stools. We ordered. He was handsome, but had a sheltered vibe to him. Conservative maybe. Something. We chatted. I’m a professional talker, so I can talk to any man about almost any subject, and as my friend said the other night, there isn’t much I haven’t done. A few sips into our drinks, I already knew. I think he knew that I knew. IT wasn’t there. He wasn’t as witty in person, and honestly, height aside, he was just too slight for me, it would be like going back in time and fucking my first boyfriend. I probably wasn’t as sweet, sexy, playful (you name it) either, but the conversation was easy.
We ordered a second round. By this time, we both knew that our fingers were not going to see the inside of any bowling balls. Obviously I would have picked a different bar had I known, but I love that bar, and in the end it didn’t matter as there was no sex connection. I decided to put the nail in the sex coffin—I told him how I pay the bills. He thought I was fucking with him at first. Then he had a barrage of questions. Which is natural. I answered most of them. It’s not that I plan on lying, I’ve just been omitting. It’s my business. If I find what I’m looking for, then yes, I will let them know. I think. I hated what happened with my ex, but I’m proud of who I am, and I’m an honest being. We finished and closed out. I’m the cheapest date in the history of dating! My drinks couldn’t have totaled more than twelve bucks. Including the tip. I used the loo. Took a photo of my legs for another man, and we left. No kiss. We hugged. We nice-to-meet-you’d. I got in my car. Three more Tinder’s on the books. I’m not scheduling anything further. I’ll go back to jacking off and drinking with my friends.