She has a system

I’ve been living in my new, single-woman apartment for a month.
I’ve been single for two and a half months.
I’ve been off Tinder for a month and a half.

For the first time in my adult life, I am actively not dating. I have too much rebuilding to do. I have to work on my professional development (I failed a huge professional exam I wrote a week before Eleven and I broke up), I have to work on my self-esteem (I derive a lot of my worth from dating weird/cool people, or feeling superior to boring people), I have to work on unfucking my body (I just started having to wear a medical device that changes the way I look; I am self-conscious about it), and I have to work on my trust issues.

That last one is going to be complicated. I’ve been cheated on, gaslighted or both in every relationship I’ve been in since 2011. Part of Eleven’s gaslighting even INVOLVED my established trust issues, saying “That’s just your trust issues talking. I don’t know why you let Harold’s behaviour dictate our non-monogamy. If you weren’t broken, you’d let me do x.” As far as I know, he wasn’t explicitly cheating on me, but he definitely kept things he and his partners did from me and was very obviously establishing a fuckit list. Being constantly told that all your suspicions are rooted in being broken is such classic gaslighting behaviour. I am still very angry at him for that.

Two weeks or so after the breakup, I was doxxed on 4Chan. I discovered that the guy behind that egregious compromise was a man I’d considered a good friend. I had attended his baby shower, his wedding and had even posed scantily-clad for some of his body-positivity projects. When we dug deeper, we learned that six of my friends (at least) had also been doxxed over the years. I felt sick. I had given him so much social capital over the years – introducing him to friends of mine who would later be compromised, retweeting his projects, laughing at his jokes… he was a ~woke feminist ally who punched up~ and seemed to care deeply for his female friends. Though he initially denied it, his fall was fast and fiery. It was well-publicized, so you probably heard about it if you follow Canadian news.

I am SO TIRED of providing social capital to mediocre, narcissistic predators who think they have a right to femme bodies, time and energy. Oddly, or perhaps fittingly, the men who hurt me and my friends have shiny progressive exteriors. They know what to say and retweet and they have female friends who’ll vouch for them. Eleven won me over initially through referrals by other feminists, most of whom still stand by him. The Feminist-to-fuck phenomenon has been documented to death, and I just trust no one anymore. A friend with a locked account tweeted this a week or so ago:

I immediately side eye ~woke poly dudes~ (and all dudes whose “feminism” is noticeably limited to “sex/sex work positivity”). Like, I see you when your “feminism” is focused on the benefit of your getting laid more.)

It’s been years since I’ve been something other than Sex Girl Who’ll Do Weird Stuff/Prude Who Gatekeeps, a particular modernization of the typical virgin/whore dichotomy. Inexperienced dudes are fascinated by my thirst and need for control. Experienced dudes are repulsed by the same. I haven’t been respected in a sexual relationship in a long time, and it’s been even longer since I’ve respected my partner sexually.

I have a tweet in my drafts that just says “Hot take: what if sex isn’t worth it?”

I don’t want to be in a relationship, and since I’m not sure that respectful sex could exist for me I am just… not bothering. That, mixed with not drinking, has saved me a lot of money and energy. I wish I could say that I’m being productive with my time – studying, running, setting up my place – but… I’ve watched a lot of X-Files. I’m not proud.

Relatedly, my DMs lit up as soon as I let it slip that I’m not dating

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(I have some Funny Quality Content 4u next time tho)

 

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I dig you

I thought it would be too soon to meet up with someone from Tinder. I mean, I’m only just starting to pack up the condo I shared with Eleven. He even still has some food in the fridge that hasn’t even gone bad yet.

But, not to put too fine a point on it, I haven’t had a partnered orgasm this year.
I haven’t had someone excited by my body for significantly longer.

My friend Anastasia suggested we try Tinder Social with a friend of hers, which sounds awful, but I am a glutton for punishment (inasmuch as someone with my domme tendencies can be). I start swiping for all of us, and it’s… dire. Groups ranging in age from 21 to 45 or groups with one member who is 2165 kilometers away. I shut it down pretty quickly, but my swiping finger got itchy…

So I swiped for myself. I was picky as heck. I specifically wanted someone I’d probably never see again, because I had no idea how this would go. I live in high-tourist area, so my matches quickly filled with profiles that read “Here for a week!”

Then Rocky super-liked me. I am so torn about super-likes. They didn’t exist two years ago, which was the last time I really swiped for men, and I take them as a compliment but they aren’t going to sway me towards swiping back if I’m not feeling it. This guy, though? I was feeling it hard. Something about his huge brown eyes and stubble were extremely compelling for me. There was a bit of a BTSK vibe, which meant there was a bit of a Michael Weatherly vibe. He even had “In Toronto until Thursday for a conference” in his profile.

We arranged to grab a beer on Tuesday night, at a dark little pub walking distance from condo I shared with Eleven a fortnight ago. Prepared for the worst, I confessed via text that I had just been through a rough breakup so this could be weird. He said, “We’ll just take it as it happens.”

Rocky showed up in a slender navy suit and didn’t touch his phone all night. The conversation moved quickly. We almost immediately went for the fucked-up family TMI stories, and he shared stories of working up in northern BC (where he lives). After two hours, I invited him back to the condo. Any guilt I felt about bringing a person back to the white box I tried to make a home quickly dissipated when Rocky confessed that he has submissive tendencies.

I made him praise my body, which had only been touched reluctantly for the past year, and not at all in 2017. I made him beg me to touch him. I made him call me Ms. with a “Z” sound. I ran my fingernails so hard down his back he had raised marks the next day. I used him in a way that facilitated three orgasms for me. I was unprepared and out of domme practice, but we immediately made plans to meet up again the next night after the conference.

I washed some of my favourite toys, put on my boots and strappiest Agent Provocateur set and lounged around the condo feeling very glamourous and powerful. By 9:30, though, I hadn’t heard from him. I sent him a stern “Tell me where you are” text, and it was after 10:00 before he got back to me.

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I sent him a snapchat of my outfit, but was not going to try to convince him. He was effusive in his praise, but chose a good night’s sleep over our booty call.

I was a little peeved at the time, so I asked a few girlfriends if I could send them the picture too, and their praise and affirmation was more important than his would have been.

I don’t know if there’s a lesson here. It doesn’t really matter, I guess. It was something to get out of my system, and now I can focus on things like my move and the 5k race I’m running this week. I’ll likely never see him again, though he has texted me a fair bit since he arrived home.

I just need to keep myself further and further away from Eleven.

 

 

Plus Ca Change…

I’ve been single again for two weeks now. It’s weird and complicated and my emotions rise and fall like roller coasters surrounded by signs that scream “Not for the faint of heart or stomach.”

That simile works especially well because roller coasters are designed so that you end up right back where you started. The tracks are unchanging, and if you’ve ridden once or twice or seventeen times you learn the bumps and jolts.

I didn’t think I’d been here before. I thought that this was a new kind of heartbreak, accompanied by a new kind of disappointment and a new feeling of foolishness. Reading over my posts from my last round of life partner auditions just shows that I don’t learn from the mistakes I make. I fall for the same people – ones who excite me enough to think I can fix them, or bore me in ways that makes their inevitable rejection hurt less.

And I don’t know how to change that.

My breakup with Eleven can be summarized by quotations I’ve already written on this blog:

“At the time, I was living with Harold, and we were doing the typical things that couples do during the slow death of an unhealthy non-monogamous relationship. That night involved coming home after having eaten separately, lying on the bed and spending silent hours on our phones until either bedtime (when we’d each decide if we wanted to have sex), a stream aired a west-coast basketball game or one of us would pick a fight.”

or

“Spare me the self-flagellation, Catch. You wanted to ignore something until it went away and it’s not working out very well for you. The people in my life ALWAYS do this; the “I acknowledge my obviously shitty behaviour, point to a personality flaw upon which I can hang everything, and call myself an idiot before doing absolutely nothing to change my behaviour” thing. The men in my family PRACTICALLY INVENTED that crap.”

That might be the saddest part of all of this. It’s not the loss of the future I imagined where somehow Eleven worked as hard for us as I did. It’s not the loss of his wonderful family, or that he knows everyone and will have no trouble moving on because no one will hold him accountable.

It’s that I’ve had enough power to take myself out of these situations before, and I didn’t this time. I was so unhappy – we broadcasted what Carly Lewis calls, “the sort of chic pseudo-polyamory that conflates dishonest promiscuity with ethical non-monogamy and seems to propagate my peer group.” Meanwhile we were loveless and sexless and desperate to hide it, as if we cared what others thought. Eleven resented that he couldn’t act single while benefiting from all of my emotional labour, and I resented that he kept moving the line of what *I* had to do to satisfy him. Still, I stayed. I didn’t even PLAN to leave. I usually have backup plans upon backup plans, and the explosion two Mondays ago was especially devastating BECAUSE I was had no recourse.

What is it that Chvrches sings? “I never promised you anything I couldn’t do, and you never promised me that you would see things differently.” Lauren Mayberry, the goddess she is, says we should “Bury it and rise above.” I assumed the chorus was about putting a toxic relationship in the ground, but Genius claims otherwise.

Sorry to my fellow Scottish feminist princess, but I am sticking to my interpretation. This relationship is six feet under (and I can grieve as much as I need), but the lesson is the same: I bury it, and I rise above. I just have to fucking learn from it this time.

She’s a Marshmallow…

I’ve gone on about fifty first Tinder dates in the year I’ve had the app. That’s more than the number of times I’ve seen my lifelong favourite band in concert (though not by much). That’s more than the number of other first dates I’ve had combined.

I’ve had a lot of fun and met some truly adventurous, hilarious and interesting people, but I’ve only been limerant of two of my Tinder paramours: The first date, and the most recent.

The first, whom I’ll call Gunner, deserves a post of his own. I adored him but put him through hell because he was my first partner after Harold and I opened up our relationship; a failed experiment at his expense. He jumped through so many hoops for me in the few months we gave it a go and I like to think I helped him work through some resentment he had over his ex. It must have worked, though, because Gunner is making one of my best friends very happy – they celebrated six months together recently and I take full credit. (note: they do not give me full credit, but we all know I set them up, okay? okay.)

The second though? Ooof. I’m calling him Catch. Not just because he is pretty much an ideal person (at least on paper) but because I know that when he breaks my heart I’m going to relate way too hard to this song:

(Allie X is a treasure, btw, and you should listen to everything she’s ever done)

His profile made him sound like he just wanted to show off – he stated his (impressive) profession, his height (excessively tall), and his favourite dessert (also my favourite dessert). His pics were typical: suit pic, pouty selfie, darkly-lit guitar pic… but Catch looks like every unrequited crush I’ve ever had, from the former frontman of my favourite local cover band to my favourite basketball player with a little bit of my high school best guy friend thrown in; like Jeff Winger from Community meets Robb Stark from Game of Thrones. He is very educated in fields semi-related to mine and has one of those jobs that impresses moms. He’s well-rounded (plays guitar! and sports too!) and is as obnoxious as I am. He’s also not on social media, which is frustrating but I’ll deal with it. I’m convinced I Weird Science’d him into existence.

My profile asks people to talk to me about glasses if they need an icebreaker, and he asked me a question about stemware as a wedding gift for his sister. After dozens of “So… Tell me about glasses lol” first messages, I was all about it.

Most importantly, he likes Veronica Mars, which is possibly the most attractive quality any person can ever have.

Our first non-tinder text conversation involved covert references to favourite video games and old flash cartoons from 2002. He got every reference and we accused each other of being hired by our friends to heal us from our fairly recent breakups. He texted me the next day and said “I can’t stop thinking about you.” I felt the same way, so we met up for midnight milkshakes at a diner halfway between karaoke, his work (where he’d just finished his rotation) and his condo. We talked until 4:00 am. He offered to let me crash at his place and was a complete gentleman (though I later found out that it was because he didn’t have condoms).

The next day I texted our mutual friends who had only glowing things to say (with the exception of an ex of mine whose other ex was Catch’s roommate and remembered only bad hair and combat choreography).

We had to wait for our second date because he had to go home for a bachelor party (they played Diablo III the whole time and he texted me every time he won). I was the first person he saw when he returned and I showed him my favourite downtown parks where we exchanged Community quotations and discussed the cultural significance of The Simpsons. I got to use the “You’re more handsome than the guy who’s famous for being handsome!” line and actually mean it.

He had sent me a text beforehand saying “This is going to sound RIDICULOUSLY presumptuous… But I have not had a chance to get to a drug store or equivalent… so if sex is at all on the table… You should maybe bring something… Don’t tell me if it’s on the table though! That way I can still have the joy of being all ‘Will we? Won’t we? What if she’s changed her mind? etc.’ (Yes, I know, I’m romantic to the core).”

So we went back to his place where we had amazing, safe sex in an overwhelming number of positions. Like, the kind of sex that could ruin sex with other people. I climbed him like a tree and he gave me the best workout I’ve had since my last bike ride out to the 905.

He confessed he doesn’t generally do the casual sex thing, and I told him that I’ve been over it for a while but haven’t met anyone I’d want to date exclusively in a long time.

I spent the whole next day with a big stupid grin on my face, even if sitting down was the best kind of uncomfortable. My coworker called me on it and had no idea how to handle it; she knows that I don’t gush about my dates.

The third date happened after I received this text:

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SO Catch, in one text, made a pretty compelling case for heteromonogamy.

I took him to my favourite pizza place, we watched the movie, he insisted I spend the night…

I woke up the next morning to him sitting on his couch, playing “Odds Are” by the Barenaked Ladies on a beat-up teal acoustic guitar. I sang along and thought about how perfect that moment was.

I’m trying not to read into this too much, but I’ve always been on to talk myself out of anything good. I’m at least using this giddiness as a sign that I should pare down the less-exciting people in my harem. I don’t have time to spend making out with people who don’t make me smile like a doof every time I think about them.

But no pressure, Catch. I know how hard “ideal” is to maintain. 😉

007: You Only Live Twice

“Hi can we cool it on the hookup front? I have some feelings for someone I’m trying to work out.”

Goddamn I hate iMessage first thing in the morning sometimes.

“I’m not just going to call you in two weeks when it blows over, don’t worry.”

That’s what I would do if the situation were reversed, and I think he knows that.

I’m trying to figure out exactly why I’m bothered by this, because I am. I’ve heard it a dozen times in my life from many different people, but I’ve never been on the other side of it. I want to say it’s because I can handle casual hookups. I don’t know if that’s true, or if it ever was.

The radio played “Do I Wanna Know” as I got dressed for work. I’m glad this song wasn’t around four and a half years ago, when 007 first gave a sexual friendship a try. It was more applicable then, when I was looking to be in a relationship with him; when I thought everything he did was art. Learning that 007 is human with flaws and insecurities and a guilty conscience made me more comfortable with him. I think he liked being with me because I know how hard he works to not be the person he was back then. I’m not the same person I was at 22 either.

“Yeah, no probs.” I replied, “Hope it works out! She’s lucky, whoever she is! :)” Completely fucking honestly. He is, above all else, a completely solid friend and a dude whom I am lucky to have in my life.

I have a weird expectation for myself that I say what I mean and mean what I say. That I hate the grey areas that exist when open communication doesn’t. I am excited to spend time with 007. I am excited when we’re at a house party full of people who don’t catch us checking each other out; I’m excited when we watch episodes of TV shows he wants to share with me; I’m excited clothed, naked, eating twizzlers, drinking tea and any state in between. 007 passes Mark Manson’s Fuck Yes! test. He passed the Fuck Yes! test even when we were seeing other people and he tutored me through my academic upgrading. 

Shuffle managed to play “Heartbeat” on my commute. This is more like it. An ex of mine used to tell me that 007 reminded him of a white Donald Glover. “I’mma flirt with this new girl and I’mma call if it don’t work.” I’m guilty of that.

Every part of me is screaming “THIS ISN’T ABOUT YOU, T.” And I want it desperately to work out between him and whoever the girl is.

And if it ends, I want him to take me climbing again. Because I know I’ll still be into it. I’ll still shout “Fuck yes!” Even when I find someone else with a sexual charge as strong as his, I’m going to proposition platonic baseball games or long bike rides with him, no expectations of a happy ending (of either kind).

In the meantime, I’ll be on Tinder.

Great and Terrible Expectations

As I sat on a plush blue couch in a humid apartment in Midtown on a Tuesday night, I purposely put a partner of mine on the defensive.

“I just think it’s rude,” I said, “that say you’re going to stop seeing me altogether once you’ve found someone new even before you know if she wants to be monogamous. Like you’d drop me just for the idea of someone else.”

This isn’t the first time we’ve discussed this. I’ve been seeing BTSK for almost nine months; he’s the longest current relationship I have, and has nicely bridged the gap between my former polyamourous ways and my new not-poly-just-single life. We met on Tinder and officially count our first meetup as the Frank Turner show where I texted to ask “Wait, are you the guy three rows behind me who looks like Michael Weatherly?” We count our first date as the night I brought him to karaoke and he blew me away with his rendition of “Wrecking Ball.” We have a standing date every Tuesday and I’ve always tried to treat those evenings as socially sacred – if we only get one day a week, we should make the most of it.

It usually plays out pretty much the same way every week – we always end up watching Parks & Recreation reruns (sometimes with popcorn) and talking him through whatever latest life choice he has to make before retiring to his room for some solid (albeit vanilla-as-heck) sex. Most recently, he’s thinking of moving back in with his parents in the suburbs. He told me he does not expect me to ever come visit him.

For a majority of the time we’ve been seeing each other, I had a primary partner in Harold. For that reason, BTSK and I have never considered each other as someone with whom we’d spend the rest of our lives. We’ve met each other’s friends (though not until Harold and I broke up) but not each other’s family. We never use terms like “boyfriend” but have acknowledged that when this ends, we’ll probably refer to each other as exes. I like to think he’d help me move if I needed him, but beyond that we are what we are.

I felt bad for a while that BTSK couldn’t do girlfriend things with me, and I know he’s been seeking, for at least the last few months, someone who could fill that role better than I can. He’s still on Tinder and on OKCupid, and I’ve never been jealous about the messages he gets. I’m not a jealous person to begin with, anyway, but especially not with BTSK.

Return to the blue couch on a Tuesday; he is talking to me about a few dates he has lined up. “This one girl? We’ve been out a few times. Get this – She’s a self-described west-end snob.”
I don’t care what else she has to offer. He can do better.
“Does she know you’re casually seeing someone?”
“Well, no.”
“Oh.”
“It’s just that she wouldn’t want to see me again if she knew.”

Monogamy has been so engrained in him that he hasn’t kissed her (or anyone aside from me) yet. That makes me nervous and a little guilty, because I made out with seven people at my birthday party alone. He’s from a small city east of here, and everything is very traditional there.

Monogamy right off the bat is an expectation in his world. I don’t deny that eventual monogamy is the end game of an overwhelming majority, and I know that having been in a long-term nonmonogamous relationship (even though it will be held up as an example of all the things that can go wrong) has made me a deviant from this.

That said, I think the presumption of monogamy is silly in the early stages of a relationship, particularly if the two of you (like dear BTSK and the West-End Snob) met on an online dating app.

Think about it: Two people meet on OKCupid or Tinder or POF or Grindr or, heck, HotOrNot IDEK. Though both of them have several cool matches worth getting to know, this one seems special. The conversation is amazing and both are attracted to each other based on the pictures. The first date goes swimmingly, and ends with a kiss. The second date is less great. Someone shows up late or reveals a weird opinion on Israel or makes a joke in bad taste about a cause important to the other. Is that enough of a faux pas to undo the fun of the first date? The third date goes better. One even deletes the app off of their phone. But it doesn’t work out. Everyone has those one-month flings that just fizzle out. Should they have to restart from the beginning? Reactivate OKC or Tinder and explain to other matches that they were less compelling than another match?

No. Eff that.

Date everyone once. Meet everyone knowing that everyone you’re meeting is also meeting other people. It gets rid of the Grass Is Always Greener mentality that is so prevalent in the early stages of monogamy. You have the chance to really get to know many people before committing to one. There shouldn’t be jealousy; there’s no expectation of commitment right away. Think of it as the sexiest process of elimination of all time!

“But T,” I hear you cry, “How ever will we know when someone WANTS to be monogamous?” Effing communication! Oversharing will ALWAYS be better than keeping things in. Say “Hey, this is great. Would you be interested in exclusivity?”

As far as I’m concerned, I can do whatever I want with other consenting adults until we have the exclusivity conversation, and I of course have an expectation of my partner(s) that they are doing the same.

After my breakup with my primary partner, everyone (including Harold) expected BTSK to start transitioning our relationship into something monogamous. I remember a few weeks after the breakup, I was lying in bed with BTSK and I said “You’ll want to know when I start sleeping with other people again, right? For safety reasons?”
He paused, and didn’t look me in the eye. “Yes, of course.”

A few weeks after that, we were hanging out again and I said, “Just so you know, I’ve started sleeping with someone else.”
“Oh. Guy or girl?”
“Guy. 007, actually.” (He’d heard of 007)
“Does this mean we have to stop seeing each other?”
“What? No! Of course not.”
“Oh, okay.”

And that was that.

Let’s return to the blue couch. I tell him that I know we’ll be ending things sooner or later, but what we have is pretty cool right now. I resent feeling like he thinks I’m disposable, and he can date anyone he wants but I won’t let him dump me unceremoniously after nine months because he feels weird about kissing two separate women in the same week. It’s rude AND nonsense.

Heteromonogamy, you guys. I don’t really get it.

Magic Mike

Though Magic Mike was the first match I received on Tinder when I first downloaded the app almost a year ago, he and I didn’t meet up for several months. He was uncomfortable with my open relationship and our schedules were incompatible – I worked 10-7 every day and he said he was a bartender. He looked like he could be cast as the male lead in a bad teen fashion drama – pretty and mischievous with an alliterative name that lends itself to Teen Choice Award ballots. “I bet you get all the tips,” I texted to him after he sent an “all dressed up for work!” picture. He simply said, “You have no idea.”

We’d send each other workout snapchats and pay hyperbolic compliments to each other’s torsos. Normally I prefer to be stronger than the men I date because feminism but I make exceptions for Worcestershire sauce-coloured curls and people who are genuinely embarrassed of bad tattoos they got in their teens.

After a few weeks of this, he responded to one of my pictures saying “You should get really thick oversized glasses instead of the ones you have.”

Record scratch

I asked if he was negging me.

“No, but it’s funny you know what that is.”

I deleted his number and unmatched with him. Everyone worth snapchatting with appreciates a good pair of FaceAFace frames, right?

Fast forward a few months.

I get a “Hey, what’s up?” text from a number I didn’t know. At that point in my Tinder career, this isn’t a rare occurrence.

“Not much – just getting ready for work.”

I ask for a pic. I recognize those strong, actually-groomed eyebrows as Mike’s right away. Nobody has eyebrow game like that except men who are paid to be pretty.

This time, he and I agree to meet up. The bar we pick is centrally located in a hip area in which neither of us live. It’s off a side street; it’s dark and dirty and the drinks are cheap. There’s a food menu but I’ve never seen anyone ever order the $6 Pad Thai. We hug hello and he seems relieved that he’s taller than I am.

We talk about our childhood and coming from big blended families before it turns to what we do for money. I start talking about glasses, and he says he’d love to be an actor. I ask where he tends bar and he laughs.

“Confession time: I am not a bartender.”

“Oh?” I lift my drink and prepare for the worst. I don’t do well with lies.

“You know *REDACTED*?”

“As in, the men’s strip club? You’re a stripper?” I take a big gulp of Strongbow.

He shrugs and gives me an aw-shucks blush.

“Cool! Can I try to guess your schtick?”

He laughs. “It’s an obvious one.”

“Schoolboy?”

“Kinda gross for a 23 year old, eh?”

Once he starts talking about how much he actually enjoys his work, I realize how charming he is. He has no qualms about answering my questions about Channing Tatum’s movie (“It’s maybe a *little* more glamourous than that…”), his clientele (“Older gay men are the kindest! There’s no entitlement there!”) or his coworkers (“We all want to be there, at least where I am.”) He even answered my most pressing question: how do patrons tip since we don’t have $1 bills in Canada? (“We get $5 or $10 tips but we do more for it!” with a wink)

He invited me back to his place, and I was curious to see what kind of condo could be rented with bundles of sweaty Lauriers.

One with a really nice view, it turns out.

His bookshelf was filled with acting guides (and yes, a copy of The Game, which was the only work of fiction I saw).

The kissing was good. The physicality was excellent. I’m still not used to partners who can overpower me but this was nice. He was very preoccupied with making sure I had a good time.

After several hours, he told me he had an audition in the morning and that he’d walk me back to the streetcar. He asked me what I was reading, and had never heard of Foxfire OR Joyce Carol Oates. He told me he didn’t really read much. I know, bro. I know.

We didn’t see each other again, but the post-workout pics still get sent. He’ll see on IG that I’m in a thrift store change room and ask for snaps of the rejected clothing. When he got cast as the shirtless male lead in a music video, I watched it four times (though it was on mute for 3.5 of them).

Recently I decided to get a manicure while waiting for a different Tinder date (no rest for the wicked) and as I was waiting for my fruit punch shellac (very uncharacteristic) to dry, I saw that the salon was playing the Magic Mike dance scene cut on a loop. As soon as I could touch my phone again, I was texting my own personal Channing Tatum. We decided we’d meet up a second time when he finished his trip home. Apparently he quit his job, but as far as Tinder stories go, Magic Mike and his eyebrows and terrible tattoo will live on in infamy. Will he be as much fun without the novelty? I guess we’ll see.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ll be in my bunk.