Generation Tinder My phone buzzed with the message: Jim is here for you at the front desk. But only the brave and spontaneous prevail in the wilds of Tinder, so when a lateish bear-looking man accepted my invite within minutes of swiping right on his face — no further questions asked on his end — I rolled with it.
This was as pure of an experiment one could get on Tinder — I loaded a pic, swiped right on every single male and female I told the app to show me both , and immediately sent all those who matched with me an identical follow-up message: Would you be up for a chat this week? I felt like I was saying yes to first-date sex just by downloading the app at all… a weird kind of pressure to put on an already stressful ritual. But when I was granted a little distance, I swiped without fear.
Apparently this guy had been, too. Ten minutes later, and boom, my first response: He was far from the manicured, sleek seals of Manhattan men in the Vanity Fair article blowing up last week, the type who are apparently destroying romance for all and making Manhattan women lower any expectation of romance or decorum on the path to getting laid. Jim showed up a bit sweaty, teardrop dollops of sweat soaking through his blue button-up shirt and resting on his brow.
In person, he was less bear-like than in his pic — he had a rather weathered, sunburned complexion, and aviator sunglasses pushing back his blonde hair in a sort of Florida White Guy way.
His story spiced up from there: No luck back in the Midwest — only chatting. This for actual tangibility. If Brad Pitt is on there and says yes, swipes right, would you not hook up with Brad Pitt? I bet you would. No doubt, Destiny was hot. Jim plunged ahead with his typical opener: This was going fricking great.
Jim soon found himself knocking back Anchor Steams served in a icy bucket with her at a cheesy Financial District wine bar that few locals would never step foot in. In the course of the date she revealed she was a masseuse at a massage parlor. He figured out she was transgender. Destiny ordered a second bucket of Anchor Steams. Things were getting fuzzy. Jim quickly did the math. The Airbnb was across the bridge, an expensive Uber away.
But his new office was in shooting distance. The texts sort of fell off after that — a mutually understood two-night stand.