swipestories

[swipestories]

Him, 29, Boston

It was the boldest move I ever made. Summer of 2017, I'm in Boston at a club I stumbled upon after hanging out with a few people I met on an internet forum. Meeting people from internet forums was a thing in the mid-2010's. I recall a lot of blue lighting and terrible, terrible club smog.

  There I am, cranberry vodka in hand, dancing solo to some hit Pitbull probably had that year. The steam is steamin' and the thirst is thirstin'. I see a guy right at my twelve o'clock. We lock gazes for less than a second and I look away. Not two seconds go by and I return the gaze.

  He's Indian, short, dressed too well which tells me he's trying too hard to fit in which leads me to conclude he's new to The States. Presumptuous, I know, but how did you think in 2016? None of this is relevant because what's most important is that he's alone. Like me. Alone.

  I see him, he sees me and I go straight across the dance floor dodging Pitbull enthusiasts to only walk up to him and say "You wanna get out of here?" He's unsure of what I said but knows I'm not going to repeat myself so he just responds, "Yes." We walk out in the middle of Downtown Boston and walk to his apartment nearby. He's a dental student at Tufts. I assumed from the dental molds on his dresser and the scrubs all over the floor in his messy bedroom. We begin to kiss and within the first 5 seconds, he aims for my chest only to retract. He sits on the bed and begins weeping. Deep, heavy, long weeps. He tells me he's married and can't move forward. He misses his wife, he misses intimacy and he landed here two days after his wedding. Why I chose to stay there and hold him for the next thirty minutes is probably because I felt partially responsible for standing between this man and his fidelity and not only that but I also understood what it felt like being alone. So alone you end up consoling a complete stranger because it beats spending another minute alone with yourself.

  He called me an uber and on the ride home I thought about what overcame me to make such a bold move tonight. Was it to be a pioneer in charge of my own nighttime destiny? I'd say it was the vodkas but that would be a lie. I only had one. I decided to give the credit to Pitbull and his consistent "Dale!"

#tinder #dating #bumble #boston

[swipestories]

J, 26, Houston

I met J at a buffalo wild wings. It was the third quarter of the NBA 2017 playoffs and my team was losing terribly to the Cavs. I arrived and noticed that he looked less approachable and more judgmental in person. This came as a total 360 considering the nonthreatening polo and khaki shorts persona he pulled off on his tinder profile. J had the kind of judgmental look all brown people are genetically imposed with. The “I’m above this haram shit,” look. I was wearing a pencil skirt and noticed his gaze pointing directly at my bulbous calves. It reminded me of the look the men in my family gave me when I made eye contact with them. The feeling that I was their prey.

J sipped on his lager and watched as I sipped a well vodka and canned cranberry juice concoction. Already bored with the “I have this job where I do science blah blah blah…” I turned and yelled out a few curses at the tv screen. A normal reaction to a people who are paid ridiculous millions and can’t manage a free throw. J had never seen this before. A woman, a girl, a date spitting foul words his close minded existence had never witnessed. I could tell by the consistent annoying question, “what did you say?” that he kept throwing at me.

I knew that ultimately things would never work out with J but I was alone and lacked confidence after my weight was criticized on a blind date. This was the first date I had been on in the last few months. J was ignorant and naive and made me feel dumber. At the same time, there were days when I felt like J was the only person who would find me attractive. To me, J became the last man on earth and I had to compromise if I was to ever be remotely content and fulfill my desire for children.

I remember the first time I was intimate with J. He sat next to me and then hesitated before he sat on top of me. J was afraid. He later told me his only other intimate partner was a sex worker. Of course, at the time, my ego had the best of me and I found that to be incredibly intimidating and competitive. J stuck his fingers inside me and he was unsuccessful. He felt embarrassed by this. I turned to the night stand and took a few hits. He tried again, and this time, he followed the natural lubrication back to the source. I turned and positioned myself to have him inside me. I remember thinking of one of those claw machines at arcades and watching multiple attempts and quarter losses because the probability of a win was maybe once or twice a year. I remember feeling like the claw, aiming for a generic stuffed animal I could care less for, and freeing it from its prison for my quick pleasure. I was in and I was hooked and it was that feeling of accomplishment (the win/the toy) that came with the greatest orgasm I had ever had.

I remember the first time I learned J was talking to other women. I remember the feeling of abandonment and neglect. Betrayal and deceit. The basics associated with infidelity. But when you’re insecure, you also feel like it’s your fault he’s just not that into you anymore. The feeling of shaming your body and your choices. The feeling of rewinding your brain to find exact situations where you can spot a hint of the unpredictable outcome. I recall scorning modern science for not inventing a time machine. I blamed my mental health causing my lack in drive. I blamed myself and then I found myself reading a bullshit refinery29 article and feeling empowered. I met him for dinner, ambushed him with my recent knowledge and slowly digested the three entrees and champagne I had ordered. The bill arrived and I left for the bathroom. I met him outside after my return and he leaned in for a hug. I stood still, numb to his affection and bid him adieu.

I saw J on and off again for a few months mostly for the sex. He had me: a regular supply of weed, pussy and an ear for his mommy issues. I remember feeling like J was the only man on earth again and reliving that feeling of betrayal when I invited J to join me for drinks at a friend’s birthday and watching him flirt with her next to me. I remember him looking at her as if she were prey. I remember hating her for it and hating myself for hating her. I remember begging for his keys and driving him home after a night of him making eyes at multiple women.

I remember the day J told me he couldn’t see me anymore. He was talking to a girl that matched his race, religion and parent’s preference. I remember feeling like there were no men on earth and crying on my drive back to my empty apartment. Months pass and I forget J.

Until a few days ago, a conversation stirs again. J suddenly offers to take me to dinner and to stay over at his hotel since he’s on a conference. This time, I remember the orgasm. I reply “no” as to not come off as desperate. He offers again the next day and this time, I ask him to pick up my favorite meal and bring it to my new place. I meet him outside, unable to recognize him without the facial hair. He’s smiling and only holding one to-go box. I ask if he is also eating and he replies “no”, a clear implication that my favorite meal broke his wallet.

He enters and examines my much upgraded, renovated and nicer than his apartment. He compliments my new haircut and starts investigating the rooms. I begin diving into my meal after hitting the blunt I have him roll me. He’s watching me like I’m his prey again. Meanwhile, I’m watching season one of House of Cards and twirling my fork around my plate, aiming at each corner. I turn to him as he brings up memories from our past and questions he’s premeditated to ask. J never had good tv manner. An utter disrespect for my appreciation for pre-me too Kevin Spacey. I put my plate aside, ask J to kiss me and watch this man treat me like a melting soft serve cone. I’m being twisted around and covered in his smelly saliva. I stand up, position him on the couch, hop on top and adjust myself.

He’s speaking but I’m ignoring him. Satisfied but confirming he hasn’t reached climax, I get off, saying I’m tired. This comes as a surprise to him. He isn’t used to this selfish side of me. He asks again if I’m tired and I affirm. Now I demand dessert. He drives me to get frozen yogurt. I fill the cup with 20 percent yogurt and 120 percent toppings. By the time I reached the weighing station, the toppings had clearly abused the “fill the cup” policy. He drove me home, pointing out to be places we’d been together as a couple. He voluntarily tells me he’s been religiously following my twitter page and the girl he was talking to left him after their first date. As he pulls into my driveway and tells me he misses me, and the pleasure of sex and desserts is past me and I remembered the times I blamed myself for his infidelity. I remembered the feelings of insecurity and reaching foolish conclusions about him being the only man for me. I remembered him: his boredom, his ignorance, his lies and my unhappiness. He got out of the car and leaned in for a kiss as he hugged me goodbye. I turn and walked towards my front door turning and yet again, bidding him adieu. This time, I was feeling like I could finally discard my claw machine prize.

[swipestories]

Shell Guy, 23, Houston

Tall, lanky and goofy, there isn't much to say about the guy that just landed a job at Shell after his recent graduation. Employment in Oil and Gas in Houston is like a fraternity. It's an old boys club where southern alma matters are celebrated, meetings at strip clubs are normal and everyone owns being overpaid and wears it like a badge. Their tinder profile description is just that: "O&G" and nothing else. Like that says it all - stability, success, self-validation, but most importantly, power. 

He arrived to the first apartment I ever had after a night of bar hopping nearby. He looked like an asshole, not in a dick way but  like what asshole wears a golf shirt to pick up women on a Saturday? Anyways, he was annoying from the get go. High pitch voice, no personality, bragged about his new job and asked nothing about me. 

We somehow ended up on my mattress, which lay on the floor because I couldn't afford a couch or bed frame at the time, so that's all I had to sit on really. He removed my clothes, I let him as I sat there in obedience. He kissed me, I remember it being awful. No feeling, no passion, just an abrupt dry kiss. We had boring missionary sex, he tried to go down on me but I wasn't in the mood. The smell of tobacco and whiskey on his breath disgusted me.  While I laid there, with my eyes closed because his blonde here continuously poked me, he continued to pump me like a machine. He kept slipping out. I'd heard the term pencil dick before but if anyone had one it was this guy. It was average, skinny and feminine. 

I don't know if it was my disinterest, lack of reciprocation or his inability to perform to his liking that he tickled his penis near my asshole. I warned him, "no, wrong hole," he continued, sticking it in so powerfully, like the force of pent up carbonation waiting to release. It was painful, I screamed. After three pumps, he exited. I laid there in silence. 

I wobbled to the bathroom and checked my behind to discover blood. I didn't know what to do but I definitely didn't want to be the girl that overreacted to something I couldn't handle. They don't teach you about hook up rape in middle school. I came out of the bathroom and he was gone. 

I normalized this behavior as boys being boys when it happened. I didn't tell anyone, I didn't do anything and the next day I checked my tinder account only to discover that I was unmatched. I saw him again, years later, years after I had forgotten about it and suppressed it. He was yards away from me, standing in an office building lobby, looking up at me while I was on an escalator. I saw him, he saw me and he immediately disappeared among the small crowd. I wonder if he knew what he did was wrong. I wondered if anyone had ever taught him what consent was. I wonder if he even cared. 

I want to say that I stopped the cycle of swiping right on guys with "O&G" in their descriptions but I didn't.

[swipestories]

John, 30, Boston

Generic with a dad bod, the most interesting thing about John was his apartment. This must have been when I was 26, unemployed and spending a depressive summer couch surfing in Cambridge.

There are two places, I’ve noticed, that have the best shopping: Boston and London. Something about the fast fashion in these cities just works. I threw on my finest Primark tweed and ordered an Uber. I distinctly remember it freezing and I was wearing a pink coat that was more Hillary Rodham Clinton than the Blair Waldorf look I was going for for some reason. Why I thought sophistication would be better than a thot-fit? Not sure. If I think about it maybe it was in the hopes for something more meaningful and to portray some sort of class outside of the self shame I gave myself for hooking up. Who knows...

Uber drivers know when a person is about to get fucked. I wonder what judgements they cast on single girls, closely clutching their knees and purses, biting their lips and taking deep breaths out foggy windows.

We drive over the bridge and soon arrive into downtown Boston. It’s beautiful, it’s expensive, it’s old money and new money  but new money living like old money. I step out to a 32 story condo building that must have been newly constructed. The doorman enters and I again think if he knows my agenda.

John didn’t have the decency to come downstairs. I knocked on the door, he answered, and there he was - white T-shirt, joggers, frazzled residing hairline, you get the picture.

This place was huge and overlooked Boston common. The apartment was completely empty with one couch, a dingy coffee table and terrible lighting. John was well off. He worked in stocks, he was Ivy League educated and you could tell he was the type that had a very long relationship in the past that probably went sour because she wanted him to convert to Judaism or something.

Note - If you think I’m presumptuous, this blog is not for you.

We sit on the couch and catch up. He’s tired and uninterested and not seeking conversation. We light a bowl and a vape I brought and soon the indica slaps.

He lays his hands on my black tights. They’re velvety soft but not the kind you’d find at a fetish shop or anything. He leans over, rubs his chubby fingers through my hair, pulls me in and blows his vape smoke in my mouth. A common practice, new to me, I inhale, cough and reciprocate with a kiss.

As my clothes became to come off, my new dress’s buttons undone and the reveal of my absent bra, he pulls me closer, kisses the middle of the area between my breasts and and pushes me down. He inserts himself between my legs lit with goosebumps from the sudden chill of cloth removal. This is missionary, it is what it is kinda sex. He’s sweating a lot, I’m stoned out of my mind and just riding the wave. As he’s occupied, I drift off, head hanging off the side of the sectional, observing his apartment. I notice an expensive caramel briefcase, a camel coat and loafers designed for a Brooks Brothers wannabe. Art is absent, the floors are bare and again, this lighting is awful. 

It’s not like I didn’t try to take the lead or enjoy myself. I think we were both so high that neither really tried or bothered. He gets up, leads me to his bedroom. We brush our teeth, make plans for breakfast in the morning and I fall asleep to staring outside the window at other buildings around me. 

Morning comes, it’s brutally hot. The heater has been on all night, I’m profusely sweating and I have no idea how to fix it. He’s snoring and in deep REM state. I throw on his white oxford from his work day earlier. It smells like decisions + stress sweats + some form of men’s Armani. It’s comforting. I, attempting to be cinematically adorable, model for myself in his mirror, staring at my butt peaking out. 

I wait 30 minutes thinking about how he will wake up, call me over for a kiss, slide me next to him and we spend an hour deciding what omelet looks best. This doesn’t happen. 

The heat becomes unbearable and I come to the conclusion that I, like many other women, live in a world where we have the stupidity to expect men to honor their word, better yet, give a sliver of attempt. 

I throw his shirt on the bathroom counter, put on my clothes, order an uber, take one last look at Boston Common through his window and set off. 

My biggest regret - not taking a selfie with that gorgeous view in the background.

[swipestories]

Cody, 24, Houston

I remember landing on Cody’s profile on tinder. This is early 20s so you would actually go on a date before sex was even mentioned. Courtship was involved. Cody was beautiful - fit, tall, blue eyed. He was the exotic white guy every 14 year old South Asian girl growing up in the diaspora inspires to date from learning about relationship from the Disney Channel.

We decided to meet at Hay Merchant in Montrose. I felt safe enough to give him my address for a ride. Cody didn’t have much of a personality aside from his geological excavations for shell that made him remotely interesting. Dreading the conversation, I continued to dive deep into my cider. I couldn’t stop staring at him and being mesmerized by everything he was that I wasn’t - white, male, stable, secure, and as I was forming these presumptions in my head, he whipped out a device and began to prick his finger. As the blood became visible, my nipples perked and I was infatuated with his disability. “I’m diabetic, sorry I gotta do this,” he said. Giving off my maternal cool vibes, I replied “No you’re good, it’s cool. Are you ready to get out of here?” I couldn’t contain it. I was incredibly turned on by learning that he was in some way not as perfect as I perceived but damaged.

With our drinks still full, he threw some cash on the table and we walked back to his car. His arm lay on my lower back, a secret g spot that still makes me wet til this day if touched.

It was close to midnight and I lived w a roommate at the time. We tip toed in, entered my room, shut the lights and began to passionately kiss. My lips followed his tongue and I began to suck it the deeper he inserted it. Now getting impatient, I began to strip him of his dorky khakis and golf shirt. I wore a wrap dress that he unwrapped, walking his fingers across my navel to the ties to undo them.

Note - at this time I had read a lot of Simone de Beavoir and was not keen on giving blow jobs. He didn’t protest. His mouth made his way on my hips and soon why lie between them. I hesitated, embarrassed when he looked at me. To shy to show him that I was enjoying it. Looking back at it, I was one annoying young adult too trapped in my own head.

I remembered when he inserted himself in me, like a splash of water hitting your face in the morning. The sudden jolt. As he repeated himself inside me, I took the finger he pricked and put it in my mouth. To him, this was weird, to me, it was a sudden turn on and a reminder of his imperfection.

I flipped him over, sat myself on top and took Cody for a stride. This time, he put his finger back in my mouth as I motioned back and forth. He then moved the finger on my clit and massaged it until I gushed all over his torso. This action made code rise in a 90 degree angle, one hand on my shoulder, the other grabbing my ass and he hugged me as he came what seemed like a pent up release after a while.

We laid their afterward, relaxing our heart beats. His alarm went off to do a retest and we locked eyes.