RENT taught us to measure our lives in love, but I’ll always measure my childhood in Harry Potter books.
I grew up eagerly anticipating each book, standing in long lines with my friends sipping approximated Butterbeer only to race the treasured tome home and spend the night taking turns reading aloud. We fell asleep curled around each other like puppies, dreaming of Quidditch pitches, house elves, and horcruxes. It gave us new building blocks for our weird imaginings, and like so many kids our age, an outlet for our weirdness, our frustrations, our yearning for a world in which at least some things were black and white, where evil could be clearly branded with dark marks and be battled face to face or smashed into smithereens with magical swords.
Harry’s face though. Just look at that face.
So when a guy on Tinder used a cheesy Harry Potter themed pickup line on me tonight, I was like a kid in Weasley Wizard Wheezes or Hermione with a Kindle fire.
Guy: Did you survive the avada kedavra curse?
Guy: Because you’re drop dead gorgeous
Present day me went “well, not exactly original, but still pretty awesome.”
14-year-old me is like this:
“LET ME HUG YOU WITH ALL THE POWER OF HAGRID AND THE JOY OF CONFUSINGLY ASSIGNED HOUSE POINTS.”
Do I think we’re super compatible? No. Do I still want to hug or at least high five Harry Potter man simply because of the nerd factor? Um, is the Hogwarts motto Draco dormiens nunquam titillandus? (Hint: Yes. Yes it is.)
What I thought would be a pleasant, if generic conversation with a Tinder fellow to distract me from my aches and exhaustion (thanks two day adventure with food poisoning!) derailed into a tediousness that could only be countered by sarcasm.
Guy: Hey ya
Me: Hey
Guy: What’s up
Me: I’m sick. It’s lame. How are you?
Guy: Good. What’s wrong
Me: Food poisoning. My whole family has it
Guy: are u on fb?
Me: Yes
Guy: How do I find ya
Me: Why might you need to find me?
Guy: Yeah I will add ya
Me: That didn’t answer my question
Guy: Who is thisb
Me: My name is Aubree. We met on tinder.
Guy: Ok
Me: Do you just text people in your phone and have no idea who they are?
Guy: Never mind. U have any recent pics
Me: Yes, many.
Guy: Can u send some
At which point I sent him this stunning array, all recent images either taken by or saved to my phone from random sources of internet hilarity that I now can’t find again:
Han got me like WHOA. I’ve had a crush on Harrison Ford for the past 12 years, and I happen to be pretty proud of it.If you don’t use the Oxford comma, you can’t sit with us.
Let’s ignore the whole “Do you just text people in your phone and have no idea who they are?” “Never mind” thing for the moment. That’s just insane.
Instead, let’s just look at the many, many yes or no, painfully generic questions that constitute this guy’s conversation attempts.
I worked in sales for a while. Sales taught me to hate yes or no questions in conversation, namely because they’re counter intuitive to the very purpose of conversation. They shut down the possibility of a back and forth. You’re expecting an answer of a two to three letter word. Not even a four letter word, which offer so many more colorful opportunities in a response.
Cher in Moonstruck is sheer perfection.These Tinder questions, and real life questions, are the equivalent of the “so do you have a phone number?” or “do you have an email address” or “so do you have a last name?” (the last of which I admittedly appreciate, because for all they know maybe I’m pulling a Madonna or a Cher and rocking the single moniker).
The people who ask such questions hope and in some cases expect you take the passive aggressive bait and divulge whatever information might be relevant to the yes or no question they asked. Sometimes they’re trying to get you to spin a conversation out of thin air all by yourself, even if they were the one who started talking to you. They’re leading you to their own desired action with questions, rather than doing you the courtesy of actually asking for what they want directly.
For instance, this guy was trying to goad me into saying “oh yes, let’s be facebook friends!” or “oh, yes, here are lots of pictures of me!” or “Here, let me humor you and make you feel special by giving you more access to my life even though you clearly aren’t someone I want to know more about me, because I am that desperate for attention!”
And that’s some bullshit right there.
I’m not a vending machine. You put in a quarter, you get a quarter back. If you only give me a quarter, I don’t spit out Bugles (though God knows I love me some salty pretend witch finger nails). You get what you give. And if you’re too shy to press the buttons to get whatever chocolate covered pretzels or sugar-watery beverage you want, then that’s your problem, not mine. If you can’t manage to have a real conversation with me, you sure as hell don’t get to see more photos of me than those that are on Tinder.
If I want to have a conversation with myself, I’ll go play Gollum, my precious.
So here’s the deal: let’s not waste time with people who won’t hold up their end of a conversation, who leave us vaguely annoyed at humanity at large and at ourselves for ever responding. No amount of distraction from nausea is worth enduring boring conversation.
Conversation should never be endured. It, unlike the One Ring, is truly precious and something to be celebrated. Plus never will you be able to drop a bad conversation into Mount Doom and then be saved by giant eagles.
We have to save ourselves.
I’ve spent too much time having conversations with Tinder fellows and even just people in general in hopes that they would prove themselves better conversationalists or less asinine or sexist or mean than I initially thought. 1 out of 10 times it happens. Why do I prioritize giving people the benefit of the doubt that they could eventually be a worthwhile addition to my life in some capacity, even if it wastes my time in the process? Do I want to have faith in humanity more than I want to have faith in my own judgment? Uh oh spaghettios.
What’s even better/worse: he already friended me on facebook ages ago (he was the first person to ever match me on Tinder), and I friended him back out of sheer novelty and almost immediately unfriended him because he made me feel uncomfortable and he’s way too into himself. And he didn’t recall that any of this had happened.
I’ve even deleted his number a couple of times, but he’s frighteningly persistent for someone who apparently has no idea who I am. Recently someone taught me that you can block numbers on iPhone (I’ve only had one for two years, so I suppose it’s time I learned such things). Clearly it’s time I took advantage of this feature and channel what is actually the most recent image saved to my phone:
When I started Tinder Buttons, I would have told you that the idea of it having a meaningful impact was totally inconceivable.
Apparently that word does not mean what I think it means. Apparently that my words can help people is within the realm of possibility. To those of you who have written me and told me that you found comfort, that this articulated things that you couldn’t find words for, that you feel inspired or challenged or the better in some small way for reading: thank you. I am eternally grateful for your confidence in me, and for your taking the time to share your own words and your own stories.
Beyond my loyal cohort of readers, a number of gentlemen I’ve met on Tinder follow Tinder Buttons. It’s been interesting having some of my most vulnerable and ridiculous moments exposed for all to see, but especially to those to whom I typically try to show my best self. But what I’m realizing is that perhaps my best self is the vulnerable me. If someone can look at me, broken and bruised, utterly bizarre, brutally earnest me and still want to hold my hand while we sip coffee or teach me to meditate or wander an art gallery, then I’ve done pretty well for myself. I’ve done something right. (Don’t worry, I won’t let it go to my head.)
Several of the Tinder fellows have absolutely floored, reaching out with words of support, concern, and compassion in light of my last post. I had one generous fellow describe me as a warrior tonight and tell me he would gladly be my knight. Between that, a number of generous comments, and few absolutely heart-touching conversations with people in light of The In Between Place, I realized this:
People want to fight my demons with me. Not for me, but with me. Being together, even if it’s only in spirit, even if most of our communion comes through the simple vehicle of words on a screen, makes it all not that bad. I don’t have to contend with the R.O.U.S.s alone. The Cliffs of Despair may hover ahead, but I have hands to help pull me up, and people to do the same for as well. Every fight we engage in means we’re one step closer to fulfilling our dreams, to our six-fingered-man. We’ll survive together, and we’ll reach our as-happy-as-we-can-make-it ever afters together.
Even in those darkest hours, when the bed seems most empty, when the shower walls seem to close in around us, when the tears or the anger have no end in sight, when the shrieking eels draw nigh, we are not alone. And the more we look into each other’s eyes and remind each other that we are and will gladly continue to be each other’s champions, the more stories like this will find outlets, and the more people will feel comfortable putting into words the moments they find most difficult.
Thank you, thank you, thank you for your outpouring of love. For your stories. For your time.
It turns out this isn’t just a kissing story. It’s not a story of dating, or of romance, though those are certainly parts of the plot. It’s a story of so much more.
You’ve shown me that there’s a place in this great wide internet for Tinder Buttons, and it’s got some important work to do. Who would’ve thought a silly little blog about app based dating could take on such a role? Not I. But some of you did. So here’s to you!
Let’s do this.
To those of you who’ve asked for more and urged me to keep writing, you’re on. To the Fire Swamp we go, my friends, and onwards like never before.
**Trigger warning** This contains descriptions of sexual assault and post traumatic stress disorder. If you’ve been effected by these issues, please read with caution and protect your heart and mind as you see fit.
Stay with me on this one if you can.
Sometimes I sleep with people, and every time I do, this lingers in the back of my mind. Sometimes I tell them some of this beforehand, sometimes I don’t. I was raped years ago, long before Tinder was even a twinkle in somebody’s eye. In fact, the few Tinder guys I’ve been involved with have all been very invested in the idea of consent. But not everyone in the world is.
With Tinder, I’m finding sharing this information about myself is something I’m increasingly debating with myself. Is it better to not freak someone out before hand and run the risk a negative experience, or is it better to tell someone and deal with the awkwardness of the amount of emotion embedded in this issue?
Thank you. All of you. I owe you more than I can begin to say. In lieu of words, here’s a perfect and oh so relevant Gene Kelly gif.
The one Tinder gent I’ve told responded admirably, with a quick and earnest “I wish you told me before” and “if you ever want to stop anything at any point, just tell me. You can sit, we can cuddle, we can talk, whatever you want or need.” It was so encouraging and so edifying. I felt heard. I felt like this knowledge, these words were useful and fruitful, even for all their darkness. And that, combined with some feedback from some dear friends, gave me the courage to let go of this in the hope of helping others.
To date, this is hands down the most important and the most difficult thing I’ve ever written. We never know who in our lives has experienced sexual assault, who finds themselves constantly wary of triggers. Even standing by someone who has dealt with this can utterly rock our worlds and leave us reeling. If you find this powerful and think this might help people in your life-whether you know they’re survivors or not-please don’t hesitate to share this via any form of social media or directly to someone as you deem fit. There are handy buttons at the bottom of the post for your convenience should this be something you want to do.
“If you truly pour your heart into what you believe in, even if it makes you vulnerable, amazing things can and will happen.” Here’s hoping Emma Watson is right. (All hail the queen.)
I am absolutely terrified to put this out on the internet, but I have this odd feeling that the more people who see this, the better. Someone out there needs this more than I need to hold on to it. I don’t want anyone to feel like they’re crazy or alone in this, as I did for a long time. And I want people to have a sense, at least in some small way, of the lasting effects of rape.
So, without further ado, this is The In Between Place.
You feel betrayed by your body.
It’s not fair. It’s not fair that you either have to warn every new partner you have about your trigger, or you have to play it fast and loose and hope it doesn’t happen. And sometimes, even the most well-meaning and well-informed of partners will still accidentally curve their hand around your wrist, and it’s over.
You’re gone, suddenly suspended between two times, two rooms, two moments, two sets of sensations. No matter how kind or loving the person you’re currently with is, no matter how much you know you’re safe, there’s a part of your brain hiding, screaming, back in that room, back in that bed where it happened. Your skin crawls.
Invisible hands pin your wrists to an unseen bed, even as kind arms hold you. A remembered whisper tells you to “stop resisting, you know you want it” even as you lock your thighs together.
Your eyes go blank, unable to focus on anything because the past is suddenly too real, too present, too overlapped for anything in your immediate present to hold you there.
A part of your brain reaches desperately for something concrete to hold onto as you feel yourself slipping away. You grip the sheets, you pull your hair, you tear at the offending skin on your arms, trying to find a sensation to ground you in the here-and-now, still finding only the there-and-then. The real world isn’t there anymore. This is supposed to be the new world, the new and beautiful and bright one with someone who doesn’t want to rape you “for your own good.” No one is saying “it’ll make you feel better” even as you curl up in a ball, even as you resist, even as you turn your head from proffered kisses and clamp your lips against snaking tongues. And yet you’re back there once again.
In the now you hear “where are you?” and “are you ok?” from a gentle, worried voice even as you can’t manage to respond. The voice sounds so far away, as if you were underwater and he above. His hand strokes your cheek, and for one crystal clear moment you see him, you feel him, you try desperately to hold onto him and to that feeling, only to fade back into oblivion. You feel guilty that you can’t tell him what your brain is doing, but you don’t even know what your brain is doing. There aren’t words for it, not now, not in this moment. There aren’t words anymore. Only fear and sorrow and rage and guilt exist. Your lips are frozen together as you try to keep the remembered screams and your present rage quiet. You’re mortified. You’ve never been so embarrassed, so ashamed, even as you know it’s not your fault, even as you can’t stop it, even as even as even as your brain circles again and again into terror.
In the present, someone touches your arm. “It’s going to be okay.” Your mind spins at the statement. False. No. No it’s not okay; it’s never going to be okay. It wasn’t okay then, and it’s not okay now because they have marked you, marked you deeper than just the skin they touched without permission, marked you deeper than the force they used as they slipped inside you, all of which they branded as some perverse kind of “love.” You, stupid and naïve, hopeful and hopelessly in love, let them tell you this was love. Over and over again, day after day, night after night, even as you couldn’t figure out what was wrong. Even as you hid in plain sight, avoiding their touch for fear it would once again end with you on the bed, confused and scared. It was your normal. It was your perfect relationship. It was your fairy tale made real. This was what it meant to be loved.
Years later, your skin is still not yours, your present is not yours. They didn’t just rape you, they robbed you. They stole this moment, and they turned your body and mind traitor. They’re gone, and supposedly you won, realizing the damage done, recognizing the monsters for what they were, walking away victorious, escaping, and still you sit here lost in the memory of moments you never wanted and cannot escape.
Everything moves slower. You can feel yourself scaring the person you’re with, who finds himself wracked with guilt that his touch has turned you, you his bright eyed exuberant bedmate, into this catatonic creature so far beyond his reach. Even in your fog the panic and concern in his eyes register with you, and it hurts, adding a whole new layer of pain. You feel guilty that he would feel guilty, coupled with the guilt that you have brought this into his bed, his bed that had been a joyous place until this moment, and the guilt that this has clung to your skin ever since those dark nights back then. You feel guilty that you’ve scared him so badly even as you desperately attempt to pry yourself from this waking nightmare and claw your way back to the real world, back to him. This is not your fault, you want to say, this is not our fault. Blame rests with the monsters of your past who tonight felt the need to hide not under your bed but in your very own skin. But the words won’t come, can’t come to tell him that, to reassure him, to reassure yourself.
You lean into him, grateful he’s there, letting his arms wrap around you as he desperately tries to hold you in the present, even as the invisible hands won’t stop as they coat your body in unbidden memories. You cannot shake them off, no matter how you reason with your mind and plead with your body. You are stuck in an unending loop, desperate to escape, to explain, to return. And all you can do is wait.
With as much time as I’ve spent on Tinder feeling wary about my body and worried people won’t like it, I’ve also discovered a number of guys who feel similarly. In fact, a number have thought I was a spambot just because they thought a girl who looks like me wouldn’t be into guys that look like them. It turns out convincing people you’re not spam is kind of difficult.
So when I came across a fat shaming post on BetchesLoveThis.com insulting the new trend of women adoring the “dad body,” specifically referring to men who are less buff and more fluff (and which also is limiting in terms of the way we conceive of the bodies of fathers) and I found myself outraged, I knew male body image was something I needed to address ASAP. Admittedly, some of Betches Love This is tongue-in-cheek, simultaneously mocking and celebrating the superficial and narcissistic habits of some women. However, I’m opposed to anything that takes body shaming and runs with it as a joke. Bodies aren’t jokes. Mental and physical health aren’t jokes.
There are two major issues with this article. It’s (A) insulting men who have the “dad body” and (B) insulting the men and women who are into men who have the “dad body.” (There are also some other issues at work with the “dad bod”/”dad body,” namely its giving more acceptable options for male bodies while still limiting women to conventional hot bodies in media, which Time addresses here, but I’m going to focus on the problems with this blog post rather than with the trope itself.)
Firstly, insulting someone’s body type can have serious ramifications on his or her mental health and in turn their physical health. I have known and loved too many men with eating disorders to overlook the fact that guys struggle with body image, too. While it’s not plastered about Men’s Health as much as it pops up in Cosmo, it’s a fairly prevalent thing among men, and just as heartbreaking as when women struggle with it. Watching someone you adore waste away because they simply can’t bring themselves to eat is honestly one of the hardest things I’ve ever witnessed.
Even American Dad has brought up issues of male body image. It’s time to fight the stigma against men and eating disorders. Though not with a gun and maybe not with pink legwarmers.
Gents out there, you get to have the body you have. You get to love the body you have. And if someone has the gall to tell you to hit the gym more, or that your hard-on should touch a woman before your tummy does, then they’re just some mean people, and do the best you can to brush your shoulders off and remember that you get to enjoy your body the way it is. That’s not to say that you and your health care professional can’t come up with a plan to make your body healthier and stronger, but as far as aesthetics go, you get to rock what you’ve got.
If you’re reading this and you feel you have a problematic relationship with the man in the mirror or with food, please know that you’re not alone and that there is help out there for you. Even if you just have days when you don’t feel very confident, please know you’re not an anomaly and that this isn’t just an issue for women. Please know that I’m sitting here sending you good thoughts of hope and health and self-love. And, because let’s be honest my positive thoughts need some real world grounding, there are some amazing resources out there. You can call the national hotline at 1-800-931-2237 or check out their very thorough and wonderfully body-positive website.
Eating disorders find some of their greatest success through shame and secrecy. The more we remind the world and each other that we will stand by each other through our struggles and the more we fight secrecy and stigmatization, the better place it will be for all of us.
Hello, Matt Bomer. You’re pretty. Also, GLASSES. *fans herself*
My second problem with this issue comes from the disrespect to the people who prefer the “dad body,” After all, we all have different tastes. It took me a long time to realize that I like broad shouldered, bearded guys who wear glasses. I’m just now starting to recognize that I’m partial to older men as well (though I do like guys my age, too). It just does good things for me, though honestly I’m far more invested in who someone is as a person than how they look or how old they are. Aesthetics are just icing on the cake in my opinion, and when I care about someone, then they’re beautiful to me whether they fit with my particular leanings or not. But that’s another post for another day.
This resistance to acknowledging that people have different preferences isn’t a new issue. It’s been around literally 2000 years. Don’t believe me? Obviously, we’re going to do what anybody would do: we’re going to discuss this issue using ancient Roman philosophic poetry!
Ancient poetry can make you laugh as much as women weeping while Oprah joyously releases swarms of bees upon them makes you laugh! How BEE-utiful!
That’s right, we’re turning to Lucretius’ 1st Century B.C.E. text On The Nature of Things. I’m a giant nerd, so it’s my jam. There’s a lot of cool stuff about perception, which I find fascinating, but even more importantly, it’s HILARIOUS. Like Amy Schumer meets that gif of Oprah with the bees hilarious.
At one point Lucretius insults the way other men describe their girlfriends. He maintains that they’re using these terms to excuse and overlook their ladies’ imperfections. In the process, he ignores that these men may find these “imperfections” to be sexy and appealing qualities. He pays no mind to our particular preferences, let alone our fetishes.
Plus he comes from a place of cleverness rather than utter rudeness, so while it’s still problematic, I don’t feel bad getting the giggles. And now you can brag to all your friends that you read classical philosophy this morning, and oh gee wasn’t it a hoot and a half!
The black girl is brown sugar. A slob that doesn’t bathe or clean
Is a Natural Beauty; Athena if her eyes are grey-ish green.
A stringy bean-pole’s a gazelle. A midget is a sprite, Cute as a button. She’s a knockout if she’s giant’s height.
The speech-impaired has a charming lithp; if she can’t talk at all
She’s shy. The sharp-tongued shrew is spunky, a little fireball.
If she’s too skin-and-bones to live, she’s a slip of a girl, if she
Is sickly, she’s just delicate, though half dead from TB.
Obese, with massive breasts? – a goddess of fertility!
Snub-nosed is pert, fat lips are pouts begging to be kissed –
And other delusions of this kind are too numinous to list.
-Book IV: The Senses, lines 1160-1170 (Stallings translation)
Why on earth is finding someone’s body alluring a delusion? Let’s think…oh wait…it’s not. EVER. Whatever terms someone uses to celebrate your beauty/handsomeness/general awesomeness, accept them! Enjoy them! If someone has swiped right on you, trust them that they know what they’re doing and they know what they want. Trust that you are their brown sugar natural beauty, their delicate beanpole, their goddess-esque sprite! Their handsome, “dad bodied” catch!
So when it comes to our friends who are into the “dad body,” or whatever our friends may be into, trust that other people know what they want. Don’t question their choices in terms of their partners’ bodies. Just celebrate that they’ve found happiness right along with them.
And so does your significant other.
All my love,
Your favorite spunky fireball goddess
(And again, if you are a lady or gentleman struggling with disordered eating or with body image please don’t hesitate to reach out to the people in your life or to access some of the amazing resources out there! Having trouble finding said resources? Shoot me an email at tinderbuttonsblog@gmail.com and I will gladly send some resources your way!)
Mom: “You met his cats?! You went to his house? How do you know he’s not a white slaver?!”
Me: “Mom, I’m pretty sure that the white slave trade isn’t exactly flourishing in Midtown.”
For the record, the cats were absolutely fantastic.
That said, let’s talk safety. I’ve had a number of people ask me about ways to approach this crazy adventure that is online dating safely. Here are my personal rules, which continue to evolve as I explore the world of Tinder.
1. If someone makes you uncomfortable just chatting with them, trust that feeling. Sometimes that’s just being disconcerted or a bit wary or even bored. When you feel that odd little twist of a feeling that says “maybe you don’t want to do this,” listen to it. Be safe. Be happy.
When in doubt, channel Liz Lemon.
You don’t owe someone your time just because you’ve talked to them and they were nice to you. Nice people can still make you uncomfortable. And that’s okay. Just because someone is nice doesn’t mean that’s someone with whom you want to spend time in person and go on a date. You don’t have to risk your happiness and comfort just to humor someone else.
The times I haven’t trusted that feeling I found myself stuck listening to a lot of masturbatory self-commendation and then got asked for a handjob in a parking lot. Um…let me think about that…no.
2. Always meet in public places at first. Always. I don’t care how hot his picture is or how nice she seems. There are plenty of hot, nice batshit crazy people out there (note: Why is guano particularly crazy? Is it for its super power fertilizing abilities?).
If the person you’re seeing can’t wait until you’ve had a cup of coffee somewhere to get you alone then you should be seeing red flags everywhere. If they’re insistent on meeting somewhere privately, take it as even more red flags, or you can whip out my favorite line, “but how do I know you’re not an axe murderer? :D” If they don’t back down or realize and respect that you have standards for ensuring your own safety, back away quickly. Seriously though, the smiley face has magical powers. It makes it less creepy, more funny. Trust the power of the smiley. Not the potential axe murderer.
Not the best way to end a date. Given the choice between a first kiss versus it puts the lotion on its skin? I’ll go with first kiss. Every. Single. Time.
Plus, there are plenty of awesome public places to go. Get creative, and think outside the box. I’ve been to drag shows, to eat my first oysters (it’s totally just an excuse to eat saltine crackers and hot sauce, and I am ALL ABOUT THAT), to hear amazing bands in very cool bars, to beloved local coffee shops. Private locations can wait until you’ve built some trust and feel confident you’re not going to wake up in a pit reenacting Silence of the Lambs.
3. Always have a point of contact. I often have two. One is my best friend; the other is actually my mother. I’ve recently decided I want to start using GPS on my phone to drop my mom a pin so she knows exactly where I am, and she always has an ETA of when I’ll be home, or I text if the plans change (I live with my parents. But that’s a story for another day). Even when I’ve been out with a guy before, and even if I feel perfectly safe, I’d always rather take the extra 30 seconds and do this. I’m absurdly naive at times, and I’m quick to give people the benefit of the doubt, even strangers. It’s a blessing and a curse. I continually have to remind myself that you don’t really know who a person is until their true colors start showing, and for some less earnest people, or simply shy people, that can take a really long time.
You don’t get brownie points in life for blindly trusting people. That’s not being nice to yourself. That’s simply not prioritizing yourself and your safety, and it’s being nice to someone else before you’re nice to you. And you deserve that much from you.
The feeling I get when I don’t have to worry about not being able to call someone (or call a cab/get an Uber) in the event of an emergency makes me do this dance!
4. Have your cellphone charger with you. My phone dies all the time. It’s been known to jump from 40% battery to 1% in a matter of seconds. Make sure you have a means of contact, and that even if your technology is randomly on the fritz you can still pull an E.T. and phone home.
5. Don’t have sex with someone unless you can comfortably talk about your birth control and your STI prevention plan beforehand. If you can’t feel comfortable asking someone when they last got tested, how can you possibly feel comfortable letting them take off your underwear with their teeth? If you can’t ask them to put on a condom, how can you ask them to put their finger in that spot that you really really like?
One of the most romantic things I’ve been asked is “are you on the pill?” Not even kidding. In my dream world, talking about birth control plans would make our hearts flutter and be seen as foreplay. Just imagine Marvin Gaye seductively singing “let’s get condoms” instead of “let’s get it on” when you go to get it on.
I’m all for having sex, but not the getting pregnant or the dying.
6. That said, if you’re interacting with people sexually, take the time to get tested. I need to take my own advice on this one. It’s been about two months for me, and that’s too damn long. Even if you’re feeling super confident, take the time to give yourself and your partner peace of mind.
No one wants to end up crazy like good old syphilitic French painter Toulouse-Lautrec. Think how much more sexy art he could have made had he just been able to pop down to the department of health services and find out he had an STI before it made him nutty and then dead!
So those are my rules. They’re ever evolving. Some were gleaned from not so great experiences, others from “thank goodness I did this!” type revelations. Sometimes I break them inadvertently (mostly the forgetting to text my contact people in a timely manner). But these are the best practice guidelines which have emerged from my time online dating, and the way I’d like to move forward. These may not work for everyone, and that’s okay. But as for me, this seems to be a good plan.
Got rules of your own or more ideas for making sure people stay safe when online dating? Feel free to share them in the comments, or get in touch with me using the new Tinder Buttons comment page or our email address at tinderbuttonsblog@gmail.com!
Last night I had someone I thought really cared about me as a person call my reaction to getting Friend-zoned a “meltdown,” all behind my back. I was livid. But beyond that, I was hurt. This was someone I’d sat with through all kinds of rants and rages, driven by Facebook, by jobs, by friends, by frienemies. This was someone I trusted not to speak ill of me behind my back. I was shocked.
Then I realized I don’t think he understands why getting Friend-zoned hurt so much this time. This man who considered my feelings an overreaction is beautiful. Stunning. So frighteningly handsome it hurts a little. I realized he just didn’t get it.
I grew up the fat kid. I went to all-girls school, where almost everyone played sports. I vividly remember being made fun of as we changed for ballet because I had to wear a bra in third grade. In retrospect, I think that’s why I quit dancing. The other girls were lithe and graceful, shopping at Delias and Limited Too, while I wore clothes from Cold Water Creek. P.E. was my nightmare because they were all faster than me and because my leg chubbies rubbed together in my gym shorts. I spent my life hiding behind my books, because in books it didn’t matter what size pants you wore. When you raised your hand to answer a question in class, nobody was thinking about how fat your arms were. So I voraciously learned, and I hid in plain sight.
I was convinced I was the elephant in the room.
I was convinced I was destined for that cute curvy best friend subplot-having life.
The few times I encountered boys (namely Bat Mitzvahs, school dances, and church), they never gave much notice to me, excepting for my personality. I became the fat friend. I felt destined to be somebody’s witty sidekick, their Sookie St. James, who only got to have tangential adventures and always had to be charming and funny and a lotta bit quirky. Even when I’m at my most workout intense and am the queen of salads, I’m still a plus-sized girl. It’s how my body is built, though my deep and abiding love of Southern cooking doesn’t help. And I’m okay with that. I have great self-esteem, especially thanks to how much time I spent looking at Titian, Rubens, and Renoir paintings that celebrated curvy female bodies (thanks art history for my self-esteem!). But what I’m starting to realize is that I’m still contending with how being fat controls and alters how I expect people to relate to me, especially in romantic and/or sexual situations.
LOOK! Handsome man is handsome.
Did you ever watch that weird ABC Family movie Beautiful Girl with Marissa Jaret Winokur? Basically, a plus sized woman competes on the beauty pageant circuit and challenges the norm. Also she wears a kick ass squirrel costume at one point. She was fat like me! And she got to be the protagonist! She got her own story! Maybe I could have my own story, too!
I remember watching that at age twelve and, beyond my surprise at seeing a plus-size heroine, just being in complete shock that she was engaged to a doting Mark Consuelos in the movie. A man that handsome, that extraordinary and Greek-god-esque, wanted a girl like her? Like me? And he was so supportive of her dreams! They talked about her hopes, her plans, her shortcomings, all within the pleasantly contrived super moralizing ABC Family movie format. Surely a relationship between such a beautiful man and a chubby jovial woman like this were the fictitious fluff that only ABC Family movies are made of!
Let’s be honest though: I would look AH-mazing in this outfit.
Just the idea that someone so good looking and smart as friend-zone guy wanted to go out with me made me feel, well, princess-y. I was fucking Marissa Jaret Winokur! And I didn’t even have to wear a squirrel costume!
It’s lame, it’s shallow, but it’s none-the-less true. Having a pretty person be, for one shining moment, a little bit into me enough to tell me I’m pretty, go out with me, kiss me on the top of my head…it felt magical. In contrast, realizing that yet again you’re not in the “girls I would want to makeout with” category but rather the “girls I can have a really great conversation with” category sucks. The guys that want to hookup with me often can’t hold their own on the conversation front, and rarely are they one of those absolutely beautiful people who make your mind go blank for a second. The guys that want to have great conversations with me rarely want to makeout with me, and often I don’t want to makeout with them either.
If life were a Venn diagram, I almost never get to be in that category in the middle. That’s what sucks the most. It’s not the loss of this particular guy, because let’s be honest, I haven’t lost him. He’s still my friend, and a pretty gosh darn excellent one at that. It’s that I’ve made this move so many times to the point that it feels like a pattern. It’s that I never get to be the girl in the middle.
Don’t get me wrong. I like my body. Would I like it to be stronger and faster and healthier? Yes. And I’m working on that. But I know even with all of my body’s curves that I’m beautiful; in fact, part of my beauty comes from said curves. Hell, I know the guy who friend-zoned me knows I’m beautiful; he reminded me of this mere hours ago. But having someone else whom you find stunningly attractive and intellectually stimulating and who treats you like an equal not only find you beautiful but find you alluring…that’s magical. That’s rare. To be perfectly honest, that has yet to happen in my life, even for a shining, singular moment.
And it’ll happen someday. It’s just that once again that someday wasn’t today.
And on top of my long sick day and a very strange week, that made today a very hard day.
It’s not surprising. He all but disappeared after our second date, doing that weird not responding to texts thing and falling off the face of the earth beyond periodic “likings” of my Facebook statuses. I got invited to one of his gigs, where I was without warning introduced to his very young and very dull girlfriend (in fairness, even he has acknowledged to me that she was boring) with whom I made absolutely agonizingly tedious small talk. At that point, I’d actually written him off, to the point that my brother, in all his fourteen-year-old articulateness, told me “fuck that guy. Stop talking to him.” And then, lo and behold, he appeared again, having broken up with young boring girlfriend, and becoming the stuff of my musings on conversation. To say I was confused was an understatement.
But he was fascinating. Brilliant. Ridiculously good looking to the point I found myself at a loss for words (and as you might guess, that is an extremely rare issue for me). One of those people who ask incredible questions. Self-reflective. Insightful. Creative. The rare sort of person who inspires you.
And I knew. In my heart of hearts, I knew we were firmly planted in the friend-zone.
He’s told me I’m sweet three times in the way you’d say it about a puppy. That is a friend-zone “sweet” right there. That is an arm’s length, never mind that I kissed you on the top of your head because I’m never going to do it again, let’s just forget how nice it was to have my arm around you “sweet” right there.
Apparently my sense of masochism took over, and I just had to go and say something that I knew would lead to clarification.
I’ve gotten friend-zoned a lot in my life. I’ve been left in liminal places eternally without responses. I’ve had guys suddenly deny having told me multiple times they liked me, meaning they either lied or they were fickle. Those things hurt far, far more than this knowing does. There’s a great blessing in actually knowing where you stand with someone. It feels a lot better, even as much as it hurts.
I’m pretty sure I could rock this look from She’s All That.
At the end of the day, I’m still the artsy girl in the glasses in a Freddy Prinze, Jr. movie who never got the makeover (not that I need a makeover. I happen to think I’m pretty awesome the way I am). I’m still going to lose out sometimes to boring women who have cute faces and giggle when you poke them, while I sit with my nose buried in the illustrated William Blake or a book about ideal museum label structure, or go play with a cat and chat with a slightly unhinged drug dealer in the corner of a concert. I am the girl in the strip club analyzing the subliminal messaging on the walls and chatting it up with the girls about how they take care of their feet after wearing those heels all day. I am the girl who unabashedly ran a porn club, who plays in the rain when she’s home by herself, and who drives a mini-van.
I’m more than just interesting or quirky. I’m capable, and I’m fun, and dammit I’m beautiful. Not pretty. Beautiful.
And I get it. I’m not going to fault someone for not feeling chemistry. I wouldn’t want someone to pretend to want me if he didn’t really. We want what we want. He gets to want what he wants. He’s entitled to that, and I can respect that. I’m grateful for his honesty and his forthrightness at long last. I’m pretty sure we have a long and lovely friendship ahead of us after I build a bridge and get over this.
But sometimes we just want to be wanted. And it is valid and just as important to let ourselves acknowledge and feel how much we want to be wanted. It hurts. But it will pass.
Because there are men out there who like us, who feel the chemistry, who find music in our laughter and joy in our eyes. These are the men who dream of us with flour smeared on our cheeks or curled up in library chairs, simply being ourselves. These are the men who text us before bed just to make sure we go to sleep with a smile on our lips, who respect when we say things are moving too fast, who just want to make us laugh-and then in that same breath-kiss us. We wait for these men.
Weird? Yes. Lovable? Definitely.
I will always be the weirdo. I am a Gonzo, a total oddball, surrounded by a sea of chickens, perfectly contented to throw myself into whatever may fascinate me. I will always be who I am. Sometimes, that means I don’t get the guy.
But I’d rather be the friend-zoned weirdo without the guy than be anyone besides myself.
And for tonight, that’s a little bit lonely. I’ll still take it.
I’m home in bed with an ear infection, curled up with my little sister (let’s call her Kit Kat, which is what I often call her) who’s home with a cold, too, and my mom who stayed home to take care of her today. Spending the day with these ladies and watching Shirley Temple movies has been lovely, even in my fog of grossness.
I forget about these lonely moments in which you crave real intimacy, in all its ugly glory. These moments when you want someone to come bring you a cup of tea, stick you in a warm bath, and remind you it’s time to take more medicine. Those moments when you just want someone to be warm, and snuggly, and near. Those moments where you’re so pathetic and vulnerable, and somebody still likes you anyways.
I just want someone to think I’m pretty even though I’m pale and tired and my hair is a mess.
Some of the Tinder fellows are great. Several of them I absolutely adore.
Yep, LDR knows. Excuse me while I hide from the world in my actual favorite sweater.
But right now I don’t want someone new and shiny. I want the comfy old sweater of love. I don’t want to impress anyone. I lack the capacity to be charming at the moment. I just want to be sick and pitiful and have someone read poetry to me while I interrupt them by involuntarily intermittently coughing and then fall asleep.
It’s easy to forget that you can’t skip to that. You have to try on the sweaters. You have to break them in. And some will be itchy. Some will be missing a button, or fit funny, or make you feel less than beautiful.
But when you find that sweater, the one that is just the right amount of warm, the one that stays soft, the one that makes you feel spectacular and safe in every way, the one that will encourage you to be yourself even as they challenge you and enable you to grow and blossom, the one where you want to do all those things for them, too, that’s your sweater.
Sweet sweater wherever you are, hello. Just know I’ve got the chills, and I’m thinking of you extra today.
Um what. In the moment, I couldn’t take that as anything beyond a joke, because there are just so many things wrong with that statement.
My things also include humor, awesomeness, earnestness, and Tinder. Also never having my hair look as magical as Jess’s on New Girl. Though admittedly this is less a rant and more just a LOL what let’s complicate and resist this understanding of human sexuality.
Easiness implies that you’re a project for someone else. It puts all the power with the other person. It gives them the agency over whether or not they can convince you to get down and dirty, rather than what’s actually happening in that it’s all your own choice. It makes sex an act of persuasion and a demonstration of power on their part rather than enthusiastic mutual enjoyment. What’s up, rape culture?
It also passes judgment on the person being declared “easy.” Somehow it’s deemed classier to resist having sex. That’s silly. What’s classy is doing what feels right to you and your body and respecting your own needs and desires. Whatsmore, this term is far more frequently applied to ladies, which just illustrates the problem of power dynamics and how much misogyny and resistance to female sexuality is embedded in our culture.
I happen to like sex (sorry for squidging you out mom, oh most loyal reader). I love having safe, responsible, mutual fun, especially with someone I really care about deeply. But I don’t like feeling judged or pressured, because no one should feel judged or pressured when it comes to sex. That’s not cool, and that’s not okay. That’s counter-intuitive to the magic and pleasure of human sexuality. Its a seduction fail, because that’s not seduction, and that’s a human being fail in general, because that’s simply unkind and awful.
I am not homework. I am not a project. I am not a Pinterest craft. I am not a Jeopardy question. I am not a weird facial cleansing product. I am not a class in school. I am not a piece of Ikea furniture. I am not a Sudoku puzzle, a level in Mario Brothers, or a boss in Kingdom Hearts. I am not a chocolate chip cookie recipe, a knitting pattern, or an assignment at work.
Those things can be easy. I am not easy, because no person is something for someone else to complete.
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