I recently joined this phenomenon called Tinder. I was curious and felt I could always use the opportunity to take my self esteem down a few pegs. Though I am confused about this mysterious app. Is it for hooking up? For dating? For both? And if it’s both, how do you know which you’re going to get?
Whichever it is, I will say that the concept of swiping right or left, yes or no, within seconds of seeing someone’s photo is insane to me. And somehow incredibly fun. It feels like the Candy Crush for dating.
Plus, I have become a Tinder snob. Friends will watch as I swipe left within seconds, asking, Mikey, how could you possibly know? I realized I developed a subconscious set of rules. Most of these are completely unjustified, but hey, they’re not your rules.
Automatic left (no) swipes from Mikey:
Your main photo is your dog. Just your dog.
Hey, I think a guy with a pup is great. They’re lovable and fun…most of them at least. If you’re that obsessed with Fido that he gets the lead role on your dating profile, I’m sure you’ll find a lovely dude equally obsessed with dogs to take you on. I’m not him.
You’re with a group of dudes.
I’m not looking to play a game of Where’s Waldo here. I feel like to pull this off you would have to be absolutely confident that you’re the shining face amidst the group. I’m not that confident. I crop those bitches out.
You have no head.
I’m a face person. It tells a lot. Not showing one tells a lot, too. Like, “Hey, these abs or so nice who cares what the rest is like?” I do; paper bags now cost ten cents.
Every photo is a selfie.
You pucker your lips in every photo.
Once can be cute and funny if you have a good pucker face. More than that and I wonder what you do to the mirror when you brush your teeth in the morning.
Every photo is the same with a different Instagram filter.
Mikey, do people really do this? Yes. In this guy’s defense, one was cropped a little differently, but they were ALL THE SAME PHOTO. Unless you’re the Tinder Andy Warhol, you go to the left.
You didn’t write anything in your bio.
“Hey, I’m so pretty I don’t need to have a personality.”
You say something way too serious in your bio.
“I’ve been burned before, and I don’t want that to happen again. So please don’t contact me if you’re a flake.” Why don’t you just wear a shirt with a red flag on it? Way too much pressure for me to even consider this chat.
You don’t smile in a single shot.
Whether it’s in bed or at the movies, I want to know the person I’m going to spend a little time with can have and can be fun. Call me old fashioned, but I find the inability to smile not fun.
“So Mikey, with all of these rules, how many Tinder dates have you been on?”
But when I do, he won’t be arriving at my door wearing a weird pucker face.
love and red flags,
I suck at bar flirting. It’s awkward for me. Not the whole thing, but the important parts. You know, the part where you seal the deal, either with a date or hell of a one-nighter? I suck. I thought I had a slutty phase in my twenties when in reality my slutty phase would resemble that of a nun hiking up her skirt above the knee during the eighth grade dance she’s chaperoning.
Flirting? I can do that. I think. I never really know if someone’s flirting with me or just chatting with me while he plays hard to get for someone else in the room. I make a great decoy flirt. Cute enough to make the other guy a little jealous and funny enough that it’s not painful to chat with me while you’re waiting for that guy to make the move.
What I am good at is using my lack of tact to help other people. Once I was in a gay bar with a girlfriend. She needed to get laid. I needed her to get laid (straight girlfriends are happier for weeks after their kitty’s been punched). How on earth would I expect her to get laid in this bar? But this is where we ended up. When I walked back from the bathroom, I happened to run into a pretty delish straight guy I knew who was there with a few gay friends he worked with.
“Hey, Mikey, what’s up, man?”
“You’re straight! You should have sex with my friend!” He started laughing and asked me who. I told him to look for the only (actual) woman in the bar.”
He laughed, and I thought, oh well, worth a try. A half hour later they were making out. An hour after that…you see where this is heading.
Yesterday I was out enjoying a little Sunday Funday with a couple friends. It was one of those “Who wants to go to brunch?” days where brunch is followed by an after-brunch, usually at a bar where there is some sort of fundraiser so we all can feel god that we are day drinking for a cause.
Towards the end of our visit, a strapping young Latin man walked by us on his way to the restroom. Words like “strapping” are the reason I suck at flirting. On his return Señor Biceps looked over my buddy, Caleb. When I say looked over, I mean, looked over. I love Latin men. Their version of subtlety is grabbing your back end instead of your front.
Caleb is adorable in that he is one of my favorite loudest friends, but when he is noticed by something delicious, suddenly he is a shy and demure mystery of the bar. Despite my urging, Caleb didn’t talk to him.
As we were about to leave, Señor Biceps made another trek to the restroom. This time, his eyes locked on Caleb so hard on the way in and out, that I even felt like I had gotten pregnant just by standing next to Caleb.
“Caleb, go get his number before we leave!”
“I can’t!” he cried. And we left. We got about a dozen yards down the street. The entire time I yelled at Caleb as he said, “I know, he was so hot!”
Fuck it. I don’t go to this bar enough to really care about my impression. Plus, whenever I do something shameful, I write about it so I can retroactively say it was on purpose.
I marched back into the bar, straight up to Biceps and said, “Excuse me. I need your number.”
“Wow.” Was the reaction from him and his friends
“Do you even want me name?” he asked me.
“Oh. Sure. That, too.”
He was confused. I don’t even think he had seen me all night.
“You were majorly cruising my friend, and he thought you were hot, too. But we have to leave because I am a super famous comedian, and I have a to tell jokes on the west side in a half hour. He’s coming with me. So maybe we can meet up for a drink when we get back.” He wasn’t coming with me, but I wanted to make it seem like his time was in high demand.
He gave me his number. There was absolutely no reluctance about it. He would have written it on my nipple if it meant Caleb would see it and call him.
“Look,” he added. “I may not be out later, so if I’m not, that doesn’t mean I’m not still interested in your friend. My friends might just want to go home.”
I informed him that I was still a very high-in-demand superstar comedian and couldn’t stay for the chitchat, but that I would pass his number along to Caleb. I did, and now I anxiously await the details.
Why was this such an endeavor? It was beyond obvi that these two boys were into each other? But in a town this big, sometimes what subtlety gets you is a missed opportunity. At the end of the day, which is worse: Possible rejection from someone who really seems like they have no intention of rejecting you? Or missing a chance for two people to be happy, whether it’s for two hours, two weeks, or two years?
By the way, I’m also available for eighth grade dances.
love and overstepping,
In my stand-up routine I often complain of the eons it has been since I last had sex. Unless, of course, I have sex. Then I must wait a few weeks until the complaints can be reintroduced. That’s not true. I’ll actually still complain the next day because it makes for good material. Unless I actually threw my legs in the air for someone in the audience that night (has happened), they are none the wiser.
Last night a boy gave me his digits. I like to say “digits.” It makes me sound hip. Young. When my niece and nephew lived with me I caught on to all the cool new lingo. When my nephew was moving back here from Italy, I needed his full name for something. I asked him. He said, “I’m on the grid as Christopher.”