If I make it out of this Tinderhole with out catching the clap, I’ve won. As I was waiting to hear back from Tinder #4 about our date that night, I got “matched” with another man with the same name. He chatted me up. He was the youngest thus far (thirty-six), but was cute and had a quicker wit (that I could tell) than the other one. But not all people translate well via text, so you never know. He (Ryan number two) said that he’d happily “slide in” to the other guys slot if it didn’t work out. It had been two hours since my last communication with Ryan one. Being the overly fair gal that I am, I text him one last time. He responded. Said that he had lost his ID while entertaining out-of-town guests over the weekend and was dealing with getting a replacement all day. He said it was troublesome. Um, yeah, it’s Sunday, the DMV is closed. I suppose he could have been doing it online, but it’s unlikely. Either way, it was no skin off my nose. I said it was totally cool if he wanted to reschedule. He said yes and thanked me for being understanding. Ryan part duex was up! I got to my pre-date friend dinner, which was running late, but I was having fun, and after an hour, I didn’t want to leave, but I’m no flake. I text Ryan Too and said that I was running a little behind (I was five minutes from the bar, so I was sweatin’ it too hard). He mentioned that he also had a friend dinner, so I was hoping/betting on him being in the same boat. He wasn’t. His thing got moved to a different night. He was watching HBO. Shit. We made our new plan for 9 p.m. and I said I’d see him at the bar. He chose The Drawing Room. Which was Cash’s and my old haunt. It’s interesting to see where a man suggests a date. The older ones have said nice joints. The thirty-six-year old? Drawing Room. The time was upon me and I reluctantly said goodbye to my friends. I got to the bar at 9:03 p.m.
He had said that he was heading there before me, so I expected him to be there. I asked him to text me his exact local (I fucking loathe the stranger meet and I’ve been doing it on a massive scale this week). But I hadn’t heard from him. I walked in. Same ol’ smell. Same ol’ bar flies. Same ol’ cranky bartender. I scanned the room. I saw a potential with his head deep in his phone and I was about to approach him when I saw a dude walk in and I recognized him. Tinder only allows five images, so it’s easy to look different in each one. You know, sunglasses in one. Ski mask in another. And the classic group shot, giving you no clue as to who you’re saying yes to. We hugged. I gave him shit for beating him there. He said he had to stop at the ATM. I always forget it’s a cash only bar, which is never an issue since I always pay cash. He ordered me a (super shitty) vodka soda and a million limes (to mask the shitty), and got himself a beer. We snagged a corner spot along the benched wall, below the TV. I didn’t want to sit anywhere where you could see the TV. Full attention and all that. He was cute. From New Orleans, with a sweet accent to prove. The conversation was light and silly. I was already two cocktails in and feeling perfect. We talked about our Tinder experiences. After maybe thirty minutes, I could tell that he was in a bit of a rush to leave, but I wanted more foreplay. He was touching my bare legs, and we had kissed some. He mentioned not liking PDA, which I promptly ignored. Buddy, if you wanna get in my pants, you’re going to have to kiss me at the bar first. The kisses were decent. Nothing to write the President about. He got us a second round. By the end of my second scuzzy drink, I decided to sleep with him. There was an attraction. Might as well see if there was chemistry. His apartment was ridiculously close by. It was a trippy hodgepodge of man cave and tiddy, but not much personality. I sort of wondered if it was his hookup pad. He had told me that he was currently housesitting a place in the Hollywood Hills, but when I asked if it was worth seeing (when we were making our plans), he said it was a condo. So that was a no.
We lay on his bed and made out for two point two seconds when he started taking my clothes off. I asked him to put on some music. Come on, dude. I don’t need candles or rose petals, but there’s no need to do this in silence. As he did, he said that he didn’t have any condoms, that his “kit” was currently at the condo. Luckily I had a random one left in my purse that my girl Chase had given me. It turned out to be blue and not the greatest, but in a pinch. Let’s be honest. We all hate condoms, but I’ve made it this far without an STD, no way I’m picking one up now from a one night fool from a fucking phone app. The sex was sex. Not horrible, not amazing. His dick was OK. Not small, not huge. He felt good inside me. I liked the way he dug into me and choked me. Still, it had that whole, we-don’t-know-each-other-at-all vibe. We were laughing and being silly, but still. Didn’t take long for the cobalt condom to dry me out. I didn’t have any lube, nor did I care to continue with the pumping. He clearly hated the thing, so I told him to take it off. I offered to lick his balls while he jacked off. I’ve never seen a condom come off that fast. I blinked and his Smurf dick was no longer. His balls were way too hairy, but I kept to my word. He came. At least I think he did. Honestly, he could have faked it and I wouldn’t have cared. I got up, peed, and did my crotch wash, and then got dressed. He did as well. Said he had to head back to the condo (or wife, or a second Tinder date). He walked me to my car. We hugged. No discussion on a second date. Didn’t even cross my mind. I drove home. On my drive home, I felt like this: Why? Why can’t I find this thing that I’m looking for? Why do I fuck someone I know isn’t it? Why do I treat my vagina like it’s the Holiday Inn? It’s not like I don’t get laid. Think I’ll be cooling it on the Tinder. It’s a serious time suck. I’m going out of town tomorrow to see The Texan, and I have a couple more men set up after that, in the meantime, I’ll try not to swipe right.