By: Anastasia Roche, Ariel Ryann, Charlie Westrick, Connor Andersen
I’m studying in Barcelona and have a Tinder date scheduled for 10 p.m., but us both having adapted to the Spanish habit of lateness means we push it back to 11 p.m. I get there at 11:20 p.m. and he’s not around—mind you, this is one of the city’s less safe areas, with a lot of back-alleys, and I’m waiting here alone on a Friday night. So I leave, text him better luck next time, and make my way down Barcelona’s grimy old city to the club I was at last night to recover the keys I lost there. (A kind, drunken soul returned them to lost & found after stealing my bottle-opener key chain. God bless.)
It’s half past midnight now, I’m walking up Las Ramblas and my friends are texting me about another club they’re going to, so I redirect towards Gracia. At the same time, another Tinder dude texts me as I’m on my way home. He’s bored at home and I’m not that into the techno club I’m going to anyways, so we agree to hang out. It’s now about half past on and we’re at a bar half a block from my place. He’s attractive, interesting, and charismatic—the conversation is great and we have lots of chemistry. We end up on an adventure looking for a neighbourhood bonfire event I knew was going down in one of the city’s half-hidden inner-block courtyards—we catch it when it’s already over, but hang out for a bit because we both dig the semi-apocalyptic, beer can-littered post-bonfire vibe. We finally head back to my place, where I open a bottle of €2 wine that we both have maybe three sips of before we start making out. He has a great sense of rhythm and we both know the music playing in the background really well so the whole thing feels choreographed, comfortable and organic.
Throughout my last few months in Spain, we periodically run into each other at this funk club that we both love, and never hook up again. Godspeed, Philip.
It was August. I had never smoked weed at the time. There was a boy in a town 39 miles away who said he would buy some and let me smoke. I took an almost $40 Uber to his place and then he drove me to an empty house his birth parents had left him at while they were off in Egypt.
We smoked a bowl, which he hogged. He got high. I didn’t. I asked him to take off his pants. He did. We made out, and then we went up to his room. He asked me to top him. I did. He promised he would top me after, but first he said that we had to go to Harris Teeter (the American equivalent of a Metro). He told me he would park in the parking lot and wait for me to pick up condoms. I did, but he didn’t stay. He left me in a Harris Teeter, 22 miles from home.
My Uber home was $50.
Looking back on it, Tinder has definitely brought me my fair share of ups and downs. My first Tinder date, however, could have easily been something out of a horror movie. For some reason I didn’t realize this until now.
It all started with me picking him up, that’s a normal start. He told me he had picked somewhere “interesting” for us to go, which should’ve been a red flag. Being naïve and adventurous, I obviously didn’t ask questions and I just drove, following his directions. That’s when we ended up at an abandoned house located in the middle of a forest.
Starting to get a little abnormal, right? Well, at the time I didn’t feel like this so we went ahead and ventured inside. Nothing too strange happened so we continued on. That’s when he proposed we go for a walk … through a dark forest, in an area I’d never been. I agreed.
As we strolled through this forest we’re confronted with awkward small-talk and weird physical advances that were not mutual, making things even more awkward and uncomfortable. That’s when my phone began to ring—my mother was calling with an emergency, so I had to abruptly leave this man in the forest, run to my car and drive home. All I can say is thank you, mom. You may have saved me from being murdered, and all because of a series of cramps caused by trapped gas (a real emergency).
I matched with someone that should’ve been completely out of my league: a tall, fit, handsome aspiring lawyer that could sing like an angel. I asked him out for coffee and ice skating at Nathan Phillips Square and he said yeah, and also that he used to be an ice skater too (of course, because he’s that flawless).
We met up at 6 p.m. and despite my nervousness, we hit it off great and talked nonstop. Around 9 p.m., he suddenly treated me to a fancy-schmancy Korean dinner downtown (his idea). By 11 p.m., we were walking aimlessly downtown together, still talking and not wanting to go home. I ended up taking him uptown to the the newspaper office after hours to chill. Yeah. Being an editor here has its perks.
You gotta understand, we at the newspaper pride ourselves in being more like a lounge than an office, and my date and I took full advantage of that. We put on some vinyls, played darts, drank leftover wine from last night’s meeting and continued talking endlessly until we ultimately told each other our entire life stories. We were kindred spirits; it was unfathomable how similar we were. A few hours later, we had a heated debate about Star Wars and Star Trek, and to shut me up he kissed me for the first time all night. Y’all, I was swooning hard.
At 8 a.m. we finally left the office and stepped into the relentlessly sobering sunlight. Our first date lasted 14 full waking hours, and despite neither of us getting any, we both did our own sort of walk of shame home. But there’s a happy (?) ending!
We actually ended up dating for a few more months. It wasn’t serious at all, but that didn’t stop him from spoiling me to the point of me detesting him for it. Every date was steak dinners, spontaneous nights at hotels, dropping $2,000 at the Eaton Centre—I’d finally found his flaw. He was way, way too materialistic for me, and I was ready to get out.
Anyway, he lied to me about being busy on Valentine’s Day and went clubbing instead. I found out, and at midnight, he (unapologetically) hit me up, and I answered him from a frat house where I was already hooking up with a new dude I’d also just met on Tinder. I haven’t seen either boy since, but I wish ’em both the best.
This article was originally published on our old website at https://thenewspaper.ca/the-inside/tnpps-tinder-tales/.