I habitually communicate (read: sext) with a dude I matched with on Tinder, and we have never once met in person.
On some level that pretty much sums it up. And yet, there’s so much more to the story.
A year ago on a fateful sweatpants-and-wine evening, I took to the Tinder, as many often do on nights such as these. After many swipe-lefts and a few choice swipe-rights that yielded no results, I happened to match with a ruggedly handsome, bearded fellow named “Tom.” He was wearing plaid, his profile said he was 6’2, and he was admittedly “kind of an asshole.” He was exactly what New York women’s wet dreams are made of.
Still, he was a little TOO New York handsome; I should have known right away. But being the eternal optimist that I am in the constant drudgery that is New York City dating, I gave into his instantaneous messaging. The chemistry was, dare I say it, electric, sparkly, magnetic... and about 15 other metaphors that us single-and-looking-for-love Tinder users use when we match with someone who actually takes initiative. After messaging for a while we took the plunge and exchanged real numbers so as to sidestep Tinder’s annoying inability to exchange additional photos.