The story about how I popped my Tinder Cherry

I must be honest here… As shocking and unexpected as this may seem, I hate all social media. I hate how it lures you in and sucks you dry. I hate how it forces you to communicate with strangers, especially when they choose to be all creative and say things like ‘hey’ or better yet ‘wyd’. I hate that there are a million and three websites solely dedicated to helping those ‘in need’ of finding their “better” half. I hate that a million and three people think that they could find love by filling out a profile with their likes and dislikes when in fact they’re far more likely finding a gay best friend, if that. Let’s face it; the online world is filled with freaks and if anything, you’re lucky to get out alive.

Needless to say, all things that we hate do eventually find a way to catch up with us and swallow us whole. Never did I ever think that I’d play a part in the social media life full of social media profiles, let alone participate in a thing called ‘Tinder’. Yes, you guys, I did the unthinkable and created a profile. Granted I was practically duct taped to a chair and blind folded when it happened but it did happen. I did allow it to be activated and I did scroll through the messages and responded to people.

In my defense, I sorted through them all and picked out the good ones. By ‘good ones’ I mean those that had anything other than ‘hey’ and ‘wyd’ to offer. This particular one rings a bell… He was a long haired fellow with a yellow lab in more than half of his photos. His profile was uncomplicated and his message was just as simple. I don’t recall exactly what it said but it was something along the lines of ‘I know how these online things tend to go, but I’m just passing through and you seem like a cool chick to hang out with. I’m gonna be at a so and so bar later tonight; come hang out if you want’.

At first my womanhood got all ‘panties up in a bunch’ and stuff and was all like “oh so you’re trying to just pass through this vagina?” Then I took a chill pill and assessed the situation. This guy wasn’t pushy. He was very as-a-matter-of-fact about it all. Like… hey, this is where I’m gonna be so if you wanna hang out, don’t get any wrong ideas and just come through.

So guess what? That’s exactly what I did. I ubered my ass over there about an hour later than when I said I would (because you know, I’m still a lady and I’m all fashionably late to things and stuff). We spent the night drinking whiskey, bonding with a ‘Family Guy’ producer (or contributor, or writer, or something) we just happened to meet at the same bar, followed by riding his scooter to the next bar without a helmet. Oh yeah, he lent me his helmet to ride 7 blocks, because he’s a gentleman. The cops still pulled us over about 2.5 blocks in and ignoring the fact that we were both under the influence advised us that one of us had to walk the remaining blocks. Guess who walked? Guess who didn’t give a fk? Yup! Yours truly.

Yours truly also invited the long haired, scooter-owning stranger back to her house (he didn’t have a place to stay; how convenient) where he proceeded to blow raspberries on mah belleh and tell me stories about his world travels in a broken volkswagon, or something…

And now, almost a year later as I’m writing this, I’m realizing that all in all it was a pretty okay way to break my Tinder cherry. It was neither dangerous nor forever damaging. In fact, it was interesting… Thank you, my Tinder Cherry Popper whose name I don’t even remember but whose presence (unlike face) I will never forget.

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