Okay, time to give myself a shake. I can lament getting dumped, commiserating with a growing soundtrack of songs. It’s funny how many pop ditties are relatable. When I’m not feeling wounded, it’s the song’s hook that draws me in. Now I’m drawn to lyrics about getting the hook. I suppose the corresponding visual is exit stage left in these Tinder times, but I still envision a sudden chute opening up at the person’s feet, sending them down into some deep, dark hole, relegating the sad-sack to bumming a morsel of pizza crust off a sewer rat.
Hours after sitting through my closure call with my ex and hearing Taylor Swift in my head, summing up his point of view—"We Are Never Ever Getting Back Together”—I downloaded a “dating” app. I think it’s actually more for hookups but the guys on this one seem to still keep it a tad higher brow. Perhaps it’s a formality but they complete the “I am open to” box with Friendship, Relationships, Dates before adding Random play/NSA. (NSA=No Strings Attached=hookup.)
To be honest, I’m not open to any options right now. I’m here for Woofs and Likes. After getting dumped, I need to know that someone might pause on my photo, read a sentence or two of my profile and think, Yeah, he’s okay. Not worth a message or anything but, I’m here and woofs are free. That’s right, I’m craving virtual barks from humans.
The world gets weirder.
In the days that followed, I reactivated my profiles on Plenty of Fish—a pond that’s more depressing than ever—and OkCupid, a site that Vancouver men seem to have abandoned. Cupid’s apparently been playing with poison arrows.
And then I crossed over into the present century, diving into the very shallow pool that is Grindr. No risk of neck injuries from my head hitting the bottom, just a range of STIs.
Good lord. (I don’t say things like, “Good lord,” but I’m thinking I’m going to need something akin to divine intervention to help me cope. I’m experiencing shortness of breath just typing on the topic. Seriously!)
I think the name of the app is supposed to allude to sexual friction, bodies grinding together but my first image was me getting chucked into a large meat grinder, shredded down to nothing, a variation on that woodcutter scene in Fargo. Not kidding. That’s where my head went. This app is going to grind me down.
Lordy lord.
Unlike the other apps, I paid some sort of fee. This is my virtual beer. When I used to go to gay bars, my survival instinct always said, FLEE! To combat this, I’d order a beer. I hate beer. I couldn’t gulp it down like a rum and Coke or a Tom Collins, well drinks that were always mostly ice. Being raised with a sense of frugality, I knew I would finish the beer. It would take forty-five minutes, tiny disgusting sip after tiny disgusting sip, but that meant I’d have shown up and stayed in a gay bar for practically an hour.
Sometimes I could kid myself into staying a bit longer. Never much of a drinker, I’d wonder if I might have a buzz and whether, should a police officer pull me over, I’d blow above 0.08. (I’m 6’1” so highly unlikely.) I’d add to the STAY incentive, speculating the DJ would play a Janet Jackson or Madonna song next or, if not then, right after that.
Paying for three months of Grindr means I’ll check in a time or two. Get my money’s worth. No woofs, but taps instead which manifest as a flame symbol. (I’m not sure how a flame translates to a “tap,” but I’m guessing no one else is bothered by this illogical visual.) Tap away, guys. I really need a boost. I’m paying for affirmation.
Grindr scares me. Most of the messages I’ve received are mind numbingly lite, a mere three letters—hey or sup. Are some users billed by the letter? Jeez. How does an overly wordy guy like me navigate three little letters? I really, REALLY don’t belong here. But hey is safe, at least. Not scary. I just delete it or, once or twice, I’ve hey’d back. It’s a dare. Message me again. More letters, please.
People don’t like dares.
It’s the other possibilities I’m afraid of. Something urgent, direct, crass. No mention of coffee. No talk about a favorite hike, no question about what I write. I’d share some examples but I don’t have any. I delete these messages right away, as if my device might succumb to a virtual STI. I really don’t want to have to take my phone in for repairs. How would the tech dude react if I set it on that counter and say, “I think it might have gonorrhea”?
“Sorry, man. You’re screwed. No antibiotics for that.”
So I’m paying for flame emojis and the screams are, what, a bonus? I have a low threshold for horror. I’ve never seen a Halloween movie or anything with Freddy Krueger. (Had to Google the character so as to not confuse him with that Flintstone guy.) What I’d be more than willing to pay for is a blocking mechanism. No faceless profiles, no profile that includes the word “daddy,” and no unsolicited homemade videos. Call me retro, but I’d prefer floppy disks to dicks. Sorry. Grindr made me say that or, more specifically, aspiring videographers with an inflated sense of, er, pride.
Damn you, Grindr. As the gays have flocked to you, the staid sites gather dust, mould and an archive of profiles from guys who haven’t figured out how to download a photo from the present century. (Seriously! Same photos for active users on Plenty of Fish from when I first logged in somewhere around 2006.) I’m tempted to contact a lawyer to bring monopoly/antitrust charges against Grindr.
“What damages would you allege?” Thomas Buckingham Lowden III, Esq. would ask.
“My phone has gonorrhea! And I’m going to be single forevermore!”
“With all due respect, sir, I’m not sure we can prove in a court of law that the last part is on account of a dating app.”
I hate lawyers. (I can say that. Used to be one.) No validation from the legal system.
*Logs in*
No new flame emojis either. Someone just show me the trap door shute. I’ll go willingly. Sewer rats aren’t nearly as scary as certain cellphone icons.
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