It may disappoint you to know, I’ve deleted tinder. In fact, I’ve deleted all the dating apps. I’ve stopped texting men for the purposes of romance. I’ve stopped booking dates, dressing up and flirting. I’ve stripped this emotional forest back to twigs and soil. As far as any of you are concerned – the Bristol branch of ‘rent a fanny’ has gone into administration.
One thing that won’t disappoint you is I am going to tell you why.
There’s a tiny back story here that gives a clue as to why my bullshitometer was at absolute boiling point. I’d just broken up with a young man, who I’d been seeing a couple of months. He was a 32 year old alcoholic and stole his dinner from Asda. That isn’t even the start, that’s the reason I was thrust back onto the dating scene again.
The first straw:
Lets call him Bruce. He’s great looking in his pictures and we get on a storm over text. Turns out he makes a podcast and I find it very funny. He admits to me that he has recently shaved his head because he’s going bald… I ask to see a picture and agree to still go out with him even though balding men dry my vagina quicker than a dyson airblade.
He’s hinting he’s bored on a Friday night, so I invite him out. He’s a little weedy in person but we get on very well and I invite him back to mine for a drink. We have a snog and he gets an uber home.
The next morning he doesn’t text like usual. I wait and wait. Then I text and ask how his hangover is and he replies ‘I feel like I should be honest with you, I didn’t feel any chemistry, I’d love to be friends though’
So that’s why you came back to my house and kissed me and text me goodnight? I reply: ‘I’ve got enough friends’.
The second straw:
You know, sometimes it’s not meant to be and Bruce annoyed me but hope certainly wasn’t lost because as this was all happening, Carlton (not his real name because why the fuck would I text someone called Carlton) was also hammering me on the texts. Fuck, he was CALLING me. Calling me more than once a day for a chat. We laughed and clicked and as soon as he hung up he would text and say how funny I was.
We had a date arranged to walk our dogs (cute, I know) but after a weekend of hungover rejection from Bruce I fancied seeing someone who didn’t just want to play monopoly with me. I won’t put too finer point on this but, we decided to see each other sooner for a box set and spooning marathon. We clicked.
The next day he doesn’t text like normal. By this point I’ve usually had five texts. This dude was verging on harassing – or he would have been if I didn’t fancy him and if he didn’t have a very nice house. I crack and text first, he gives one word answers.
Me: “Are you ok? We had a really nice time yesterday and now you’re a bit quiet.”
Him: “Woah, I’m busy, don’t look into it.”
Am I in a shit teen movie? Did I just imagine that? What manner of smeg sends someone a message like that? I blocked him.
The third and final straw that made me turn into a postal, celibate, lobotomised nun:
I can’t stress to you how small of a nubbin my patience has been whittled to by the hands of the fuck boy gods right now. Let’s call this chump Mack. By the time mine and Mack’s date rolled around, I had forgotten I had even arranged it. I realised he hadn’t text me since it was booked in and I thought, you’re giving minimum effort and clearly not interested in my personality. Either that or you aren’t a great texter, in which case, sod off anyway because I bloody love a text. I message and tell him ‘Hi Mack, we haven’t spoken since we arranged our date and that’s not really enough communication to make me think this is worth a go. Good luck in your search’
In true hunter gatherer style, the rejection had tickled something in his hippocampus and his ballsack and he succeeded in convincing me that he’d had a busy weekend and then proceeded to text me daily in the run up to our meeting. We went on two dates, both of which he initiated. We had a great time and had a lot in common – then this:
YOU WHAT? YOU FUCKING WHAT? My blood is boiling. You time wasting piece of shit. I stared at the text in shock that this had happened again. I was considering not texting back. Ever.
But as I seethed, I realised, he thinks he’s washed his hands of this. I wrote a text and sent it before I could stop myself.
So, I’ve hit it. Absolute zero. If anyone asks, I’ve got a hymen made of steel and my hands have fallen off.