Numbers game

Women who sleep with my boyfriend, then have the cheek to comment on my sexual history will be verbally decimated.

There is nothing that will get a woman more angry than finding out she’s being cheated on.

Oh wait, how about his side chick calling her promiscuous.

“He thought that because you’ve slept with so many more people than him that you wouldn’t be happy with him. He was always worried.”

Yeah, that happened.

A married ‘Christian’ woman who had been looking for Jesus in my ex’s boxers, was using my sexual history to justify  her arseholery.

I should have pointed out the irony, but why confuse her further with fancy words?

I’d love to say it was the first time my sexual activity has been commented on. But, as an asian woman I am used to people commenting on my dating life. Jokes have been made about my revolving door dating system. My parents stopped bothering asking if I will settle down. And I have learned to shrug off the questions fishing for confirmation of how many people I have slept with.

Not enough I say.

I am used to friends taking the piss about my dating life. It’s part and parcel of sharing it so openly on social media. It’s funny. I have no problems with it. So why should anyone else?

But, oh they do. And rather than accept that it’s their issue, their insecurity and their choices, they want to make it my issue, my insecurity and about my choices. All of a sudden it’s all about numbers.

The more open minded people I meet seem to have no problem with how many people I have slept with. They also tend to have slept with significantly more people than I have. So why would they care?

As long as you’re the lower number you’re fine.

Funnily enough, I have seen the same nonchalance disappear when it’s turned out I’ve slept with more people than they have. Then they spit out their Starbucks, awkwardly mumble something about doing what you want with your body, before quickly leaving.

Probably to call a group of women together for an orgy to get their numbers up.

It’s a strange phenomena. It doesn’t make me regret a thing. Just taught me to never share numbers, or waste too much time on people who seem obsessed with mine. The issue is clearly their own.

Nothing good comes from sharing numbers.

Unless they’re phone numbers for hot guys you’re going to unashamedly bang.

A Suitable Boy

I give up. Let someone else pick the next dysfunctional man I date.  Just don’t let that someone be my parents.

After a conversation on the dire state of my love life, my friend Jess suggested letting my friends introduce me to nice single men they knew.

Now, coming from an Indian family I am no stranger to the idea of relationship introductions. My Dad showed me a picture of my future husband when I was 11.

The image of a fat boy ramming an ice-cream into his mouth, as if it was the cure for ugly, made me burst into tears. As it turned out, he wasn’t my betrothed, but some random child who had wandered into the shot.

The arranged marriage ‘gag’ had been born. It would plague me all the way to adulthood.

Initially, there were some golden opportunities for a laugh. Like when my Dad signed me up to Shaadibride.com, an Indian dating website. We would sift through the applicants, who neither cared that I was an agnostic, nor that I drank and smoked.

“They’re desperate!” My dad would cry, laughing. Cheers, Dad.

But the fun would always be short lived. My dad’s thinly veiled desire to see me married to a nice, Indian boy always came out when an eligible candidate appeared. In this case it was a doctor, offering to fly me out to Frankfurt for a date. Then all I’d hear was:

“Why do you hate your people? Give him a chance!”

The doctors always made him crack.

Things haven’t changed. Only last month my Dad was waxing lyrical about the neighbourhood watch officer who had come to give him property stickers. Before him, it was the Olympian flautist he’d met at a wedding back home (playing fast and loose with the word Olympian there, Dad).

Occasionally, my mum will take over and dish out dating advice straight from the 30s.

No, I can’t keep quiet until the wedding day, mum. I don’t want to be a secretary and try to marry my boss. I will not learn to ‘talk nicely’ with ‘boys’. Thanks anyway.

They’re more bothered by me being single than I am.

I can only imagine that the sound of my biological clock ticking away like The Tell-tale Heart, is driving them to madness.

This is probably why I avoid any kind of spinstervention. Historically, they have ended in disappointment. My dad remains optimistic though.  He still insists I don’t stand directly in front of the microwave in case I fry my eggs.

Hope never dies.

 

 

 

Match

Liking the same breakfast cereal isn’t compatibility

Every now and then I see a profile on Tinder that perfectly matches mine.

It mirrors my likes and dislikes, and line for line appears to be  directly responding to my own profile.

It’s uncanny.

A smile will spread across my face and I will think to myself ” Did this fucker rewrite his profile to mirror mine, then superlike me?”

OK a bit arrogant, but come on. It’s too much coincidence. And I’m not the lucky kind.

A shared love of tequila and sarcasm? A dislike of drugged wildcats and sexually menacing texts? That’s not compatibility. That’s common sense. I don’t put any of my genuine interests on a Tinder profile.

I’m wary of anyone who I’ve got a lot in common with. In the age of all access information all it takes to find out what makes a person tick is a shrewd analysis of their social media.

Despite being a cynic, I am a romantic. Just not your garden variety. While other little girls dreamt of getting married, I was normally crawling around in dirt, pretending I was living in a post Apocalyptic society. Foraging for berries to survive on. Building a time machine out of twigs and paper.

My romance was never about that part of a fairy tale. I liked boys. They were fun and liked to do fun stuff. But I didn’t want to wear a bedsheet for one, not when I could be fighting a robot. I wanted the kinship. A friend. A partner in crime.

I grew up watching my parents disagree on everything, which had a profound impact on me. Their only common ground was a point of origin. They’d argue over something as arbitrary as a potato.lobster

Getting along and common ground mattered to me. A bit too much perhaps.

After watching The Lobster, I got to thinking about all the whimsical common ground that I drew on to keep relationships going. Any eclectic similarity would do. He wears glasses. He does a good Terrence Stamp impression. He too knows the disappointment of never getting a Mr Frosty.

I would let that tiny bit of common ground be the focal point that I meditated towards through every argument, disagreement and stumbling block.

Until I fucking hated Terence Stamp and Mr Frosty.

Common ground is just a foot in the door. Maybe I’ll try the window this time.

Situationships

Every now and then a guy will resurface on my whatsapp, or chat, that I’d completely forgotten about.

You know ‘dem ones.’

The mandatory maintenance text that outwardly says ‘sup’ but means ‘I haven’t forgot you. We could still hook up.’

The situationship.

These monosyllabic reminders of the fuck ton of bad choices I once made keep me real. They taught me to discern the fuckboys from the sexual opportunists. I can tell a waste of my time in under 10 characters now. It’s like being able to find my way home drunk. Second nature to me.

After oh so many mini relationships that went no where, booty calls who I’d catch feelings for, and average sex I could live without, I decided to stop wasting my time.

These people were not making me happy. I wish them the best, but they got all the time out of me that they were going to. If I was going to spend my time frivolously, I’d rather waste 20 pokeballs trying to catch an angry Seadra, than maintaining sporadic contact through a series of boring whatsapps.

I stopped getting in touch. Not because I was bitter, or mad at them. It was the sanest thing to do.

Yet, much like the elusive bus that only appears when you light a fag, the minute you stop bothering with some guys they step up their text game.sex-love-life-2014-10-text-from-ex-main

Why get in touch with someone you aren’t interested in?  Why assume some type of emotional vigil is being held for you? If you want to get all nostalgic have a wank over your mum’s Mary Kay catalogue, or watch The Goonies.

I don’t get guys who flip their shit because I won’t assist them in the delusion that they were my best pal and would put my life on hold, until they got their shit together.

Case in point: Colombian fuckboy.

It started with ‘Hey’
Seriously dude, get a thesaurus. What followed was monosyllabic inane small talk and questions about my love life, which culminated in him asking when I would be coming to see him in Colombia.

I haven’t seen this guy in 2 years. The only response I could think of that was both honest and appropriate was LOL.

He did not take this well and told me I obviously didn’t care and to forget he’d said anything.

1412194655565_wps_57_image001_pngtexts_from_yo.jpgHey buddy, chill. You text me. Remember? I was happily eating Jaffa cakes in a dick free zone when you felt lonely.

A month later my pal text me again to tell me he’d moved to Mexico and to ask whether there was a chance I’d be moving back there. Or was I still mad at him?

Say what now?

Nothing makes me find block and delete quicker than a guy who doesn’t have a clue. I get that he thinks he made a mistake. I didn’t though. Maybe he can use this story to hit on new chicas.

What he won’t be doing is interrupting biscuit time again.

 

D-sensitised

I think I am 95% desensitised to penis.

When I was younger and I used to worry that my enjoyment of uber violent films meant that I could find myself in a Die Hard style scenario, and would simply sellotape a pen knife to my back and throw myself into the mix without batting an eyelid.

It was a theory that was somewhat proven when I got held up at gunpoint a few years back.

I refused to give the gunman my bag without some kind of negotiation. My companions had either cleverly shoved their mobile phones into their knickers, or peremptorily handed over their bags, while I rued the day I decided to wear a dress and no underwear, whilst clutching onto my shopping.

The gunman told me not to be an idiot. But why change the habit of a lifetime?

“Because he could have shot you.” The police officer sternly informed me, surprisingly unimpressed by the fact I managed to save my purchases.

I was pretty sure the gun was fake. I’d seen plenty of guns. On screen. The officer kindly unholstered his gun and asked me if it had looked like that. Hmm, his looked fake too.

Whoops.

Penis has become guns for me.

And it’s all thanks to online flashers.

The threat of the 80s flasher, accessorised in a  filthy mac, bumbling his way towards you, then whipping open his coat and waggling his willy at you, has now been brought into the digital age.

The sexual ambush that I have been subjected to on dating apps though amusing, is also quite disturbing. When did it become acceptable to send someone an unsolicited picture of your genitals? Or even worse, a video of you vigorously abusing said genitals?

The idea that you have ‘earned’ viewing rights to the horniness you unwittingly inspired is not as flattering as the sender thinks it is.

If someone tried to flash you in public it would be considered indecent to most.  But social media functions like a blanket of anonymity  for flashers to disappear into once someone hits report, block and delete.

There are no real consequences, other than the reduced chances of offenders ever getting to communicate with that person beyond a screen.

I, for one, don’t want to be sent another surreptitious picture of a penis in an “Oh my gosh you’ll never guess what my dick did….’ fashion again.

If I ever see one in real life again, I’m only going to think it’s fake.

 

 

My So Called Life

Life, or something a lot like it

Last month on My Life: I got a job. I started a course. I downloaded Tinder. Again. I quit the job. I finished the course. I deleted Tinder. Again.

Despite the boring summary, I feel like things have changed. Albeit microscopically.

Instead of putting the same effort into a CV as I did into making pencil cases out of Pocky boxes, I chose to play narcissistic date roulette again and hone my use of the ‘How you doin?’ GIF.

Normally, this would distract me for at least a month before I got fed up of the superficiality of it all, and returned to binge drinking for entertainment.

Not this time: It lasted 16 days. And I’m not drunk right now.

It’s not because the internet is rife with sexual deviants who have decided to use their opposable thumbs to tug themselves off and video it simultaneously. Nor is it because it has become acceptable to ask a stranger for a blowjob based on the fact they liked your picture. Although, let’s face it, neither of those guys are doing men a favour in the dating stakes.

The reason is that for months my entire life has been conducted through screens.

I say it like it isn’t the norm. Update status, Snapchat your day, IG your food, Whatsapp your genitals. It’s modern life for many.

Much more of my time has been invested in a virtual reality. I work remotely and rarely have to speak to colleagues beyond emails and online chat. I date remotely and have ‘conversations’ via text. I don’t have to spend any ‘real time’ with people at all.

I miss real people.

I think a lot of pressure was taken off my awkward social skills in the advent of growing social media. I didn’t realise how distant it had made me. I’ve favoured Whatsapp chats over phone calls. My phone is always on silent. I express myself through sarcastic updates  and my last two relationships have been mainly conducted remotely over Skype.

This year has changed me though.

In the spirit of personal development, I told a guy I was texting that we should have a chat, get to know each other properly.

His response was to text me diary entries of his day until I asked him to kindly stop.

Maybe switching my phone off and going outside more is a better start.

Tinderlude

1655856_10153590962320552_5826856312381107258_n (1)When I first met my ex I told him he should go on Tinder. He’s a good looking guy and was single. I thought he would clean up. I hadn’t thought I’d be dating the guy. I was off to Mexico a month down the road. Plus he had seen another man’s penis on my phone.

Long story short: never show a married friend a dick pic. She will tell her husband. He will make you show it to everyone at breakfast when you are too hungover to quickly sit on your phone.

It’s a miracle our relationship ever got off the ground.

It shouldn’t have come as a surprise to me when he popped up on my Tinder feed after the break up. But I deleted the app off my phone all the same. It was like he could see me.

Dating has always been my go to move when things are going badly in my life. When I say dating I mean Tinder. I have no desire to get to know someone in the hopes of cultivating a relationship. Not when I’m heart broken. Shameless superficial hottie snap, and texts filled with innuendo is all I look for when moving on.
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I had signed up again because I thought I needed to move on swiftly. I needed to remember that other good looking men existed.

The shock of seeing his duck face staring back at me in various poses made me realise I wasn’t ready yet.

Cue Rio: a city where the word Sex is literally everywhere, and everyone is hot and semi-naked. It was a disappointment to find out that Sex- Dom was not a sensual version of the Crystal Maze, but the equivalent of Sat-Sun abbreviation. More of a disappointment was the fact I just wasn’t into anyone and would have had no use for a real sex dome unless I could charge my Kindle there.

My trainer acted like we’d conceded a goal when I told him I had just enjoyed the sights.

“What’s wrong with you?! Get laid woman!”

It had been 4 months. The ‘Get over it’ was coming in thick and heavy.

I decided to give it one last swipe.

tinder_wins_and_fails_06

Straight off the bat I gave a cute guy my number. Almost immediately his penis was on my phone, completely unsolicited.

The penis was a shock. But not as much as the fact the guy had been so quick to whip it out that he had forgotten to hide the bald patch he’d disguised in his pics.

He apologised for the penis, but couldn’t explain the hair. I no longer felt compelled to respond to his messages.

That’s when my Tinder game changed. How it happened I don’t know.

Instead of cuing me up some hot sex  I built a small support group for the texting wounded.

Now all my messages seem to be pasta recipes, or stories of dates gone wrong. It’s almost like having a stable of boyfriends, who every now and then suggest a meet up.

I’m finding it hard to say yes though.

I said to one guy it was timing and location. If he wasn’t where I was at the right time then it wasn’t happening.

I may yet go on a date. I leave it to GPS, alcohol and wifi connectivity. But It’s not my priority anymore.

I won’t be deleting the app this time.

How will I know how ‘Strap’ and sex dungeon boy are doing on their quest for love?

Anyway, Dario told me he’d send me a recipe for cannelloni that I want to try this weekend.

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Thanks to #TinderNightmares for this bounty. Mine were too explicit, or too boring to post.