Page 3

Two

Go on Tinder, they said.

Go on a date, they said.

You’ll find love, they said.

Lies. Lies. Lies. All of it. Complete and utter bullshit. And at my age, I don’t have time for bullshit. What I need is for someone to clean my pipes, if you catch my drift. I need to be fucked like the world is ending. I need to be fucked as if it’s the very last time I’m ever going to be fucked. But do you think my two best friends, Oakley and Holland, can understand that? No. They’re both riding the Find Love Express, and while Oakley has, in fact, found her person, Holland is looking really, really hard in all the wrong places. Now that Oakley is off the market, the unspoken pressure for Holland and I to get our asses off the meat market is ever-present. Not that I understand it. I’m just going with what most women my age are doing — trying to find love online in a city on a small island teeming with people. Because that just makes so much sense.

I fiddle with my napkin and flick my hair over my shoulder. My date, DeliciousDave_33, is late, and the more time passes, the more it feels like I’ve been stood up.

I pull my phone out of my purse and bypass the texts from Oakley and Holland. They’re two bars over, waiting for my SOS, and I refuse to tell them I’ve been stood up just yet. I find a text from Dave, and my gut falls to my feet.

I glare at the screen. What the hell? Who does this guy think he is? He was the one who said we should go out on a date. I would have been happy for him to show up at my new apartment and help me break in the bed. But no. He said he’s a gentleman. Well, he lied. He’s an asshole. I text backand then flag down the waitress. I order a Dirty Martini and when I’ve downed it, I text Oakley.

We didn’t exactly establish the protocol for what should happen if I get stood up, but getting well and truly pissed seems like a solid plan. Oakley sends me a reply, and I order my second Dirty Martini. By the time it arrives, Oakley, Holland, and I are sitting in a booth at The Up & Up.

“I can’t believe he said that to you,” Oakley says, sipping her Cosmopolitan. “I mean, he seemed so nice, you know? And he was the one who asked you out.”

“Please, keep reminding me, Oak, I’m having a hard time remembering what just happened,” I reply, my tone dripping with sarcasm.

“It’s not the end of the world,” Holland adds, taking a sip from her Vodka Tonic. “You’ve swiped right on a lot of guys, you’ll get another date.”

“This is the problem,” I whine. “Tinder finger is a thing. Your thumbs start to cramp after a while, whether you swipe left or right. And there’s no fucking formula either, you can swipe right on a complete asshole, and left on your future husband. No one fucking knows.”

“I don’t think you should give up,” Oakley says. “Your person is out there, you just have to keep looking.”

I give her a look. “It’s so much easier to give dating advice when you’re part of a we. You didn’t even have to date, you just got a fucking Uber.” Which is the truth. Oakley met her soulmate on a cross-country road trip to Napa Valley over New Year. He was her supposed driver, and after one too many mishaps, they fell into bed together and kind of forgot to fall out. Oakley and Sebastian are constantly lip-locked, and if I didn’t like him, it would totally make me gag. But Oakley is happy, which means I’m happy for her. First rule of Best Friend Club: If your bestie has met her person, and is truly happy, you support her. No matter what. But here’s my truth: I’m a little envious, which is why I’m fucking around on an app like Tinder to begin with. Desperate times and all that.

“Okay, fine,” Oakley relents. “I admit that meeting Sebastian the way I did was some weird cosmic,” she waves her hand in the air, “juju, but if I can meet him on fucking Uber, imagine the possibilities on an actual app that’s meant for dating.”

“Have you tried Tinder?” I shoot back. “Because if you have, you’d know that ninety percent of the guys are only DTF, and the other ten percent are bald and looking for a ‘meaningful’ connection, which is actually code for ‘have my dick sucked in my car before my wife comes home.’ Those odds sure as hell are not in my favor.”

“DTF?” Holland asks, looking confused. Bless her. We might be the same age, but there are some things she’s oblivious to. And maybe that’s not a bad thing in this case.

“Down To Fuck,” Oakley and I recite at the same time. Poor Holland’s eyes bulge out of her head. “Basically, it's a hump-and-dump kind of situation.”

“So are unsolicited dick pics,” Oakley adds.

“Guys actually do that?” Holland asks. She sounds worried. She obviously hasn’t reached Tinder-level desperation yet like I have.

“Yes, Holland,” I reply, exasperated and utterly frustrated. “They do. If I had to open the Tinder app right now and show you just how many penises I have in the various chats, you’d never want to see another dick in your life. And you’ll also be convinced that there is no such thing as a pretty dick.”

Oakley coughs and wipes her mouth. “This conversation went south very quickly. I’m not sure I feel comfortable talking about other guys’ dicks; I have one waiting for me at home.”

I groan. “Please remind your single friends that you’re getting the D on the regular, we had no idea.” It’s not Oakley’s fault I’m feeling salty after being stood up.

“You just haven’t met the right guy,” Oakley says, too gracious a friend to call me on my shit right this second. “You have to be patient and trust that Mr. Right For You is out there.”

“But on Tinder?” I ask. “It’s a cesspool of fuck-boys and really old men going through a mid-life crisis. It’s like there’s no in-between. Maybe I should just deactivate my account.”

“I don’t know.” Oakley shrugs. “Maybe you need to change your tactic, or maybe your bio is too revealing?”

“Or,” Holland perks up, “You could always get one of those dating professionals to do it for you. I hear they’re pretty good at that kind of thing.”

Personally, I don’t think there’s anything wrong with my bio — I’d rather be an honest bitch, than a fake bitch. And my profile is pretty clear. I’m not on Tinder for shits and giggles, I want to find my person. But no one told me just how many frogs I’d have to date to find someone who’s at least semi-decent, and who isn’t still living in their mother’s basement. Hell, even Oakley’s boyfriend, Sebastian, tried to set me up with one of his uppity New York Society friends, and all the guy could talk about was his sports car and how much his ex-girlfriend hated it. It was a hard pass for me, but at that stage, I was still hopeful and thought Tinder could be a real solution. I’d read up enough about couples who met on the app, started dating, and eventually got the dream — a ginormous wedding, a house in the ‘burbs, and 2.5 kids. But, that’s changed. Now, it’s the stomping ground for boys who pose with Daddy’s sports car, or boys who still live with Mommy because they’re saving on rent and developing the next big app. And don’t get me started on the idiots who do, in fact, send me unsolicited dick pics, or ask me to send them pictures of my boobs. Those are always fun. Not.

Oakley’s phone interrupts my inner reflection of the shitshow that is my dating life, and her goofy smile tells me who it is. Nowadays, there’s only one person who makes her eyes light up like the fucking Fourth of July. And it’s not one of her custom made wedding gowns. Not yet, at least.