Unpopular opinion time: I don’t like online dating. And yet, despite my aversion to shirtless rock climbers and venture capitalists, I still have these world-traveler-by-day, beer-pong-pro-by-night f*ckboy apps on my phone. Why not? Dating apps are especially handy if I’m stuck in line waiting for coffee, and even better if I’m trying to (temporarily) forget about the nation’s impending doom. Something tells me I’m not the only one who does this.
I’m, as millennials might say, uninterested AF. Meeting random folks in my spare time isn’t my idea of fun (I interview people for work every day), and I’m not exactly what you’d call a risk-taker. Regardless, my profile is still hanging out somewhere in the depths of Tinderland on the off chance Mr. or Mrs. Right swipes right and also shares my weird obsession for Mick Jagger, intersectional feminism and Thai food. I mean, I don’t believe in ghosts, but that doesn’t mean they definitely don’t exist, right? Actually, yeah, it probably does.
My experience on social dating sites has been weird and misogynistic at worst and superb at killing time at best. As a queer, bisexual, not-exactly-femme-but-not-exactly-masculine-woman, the waters of OK Cupid and Tinder have been tumultuous. I signed up for OK Cupid on a whim—dating apps were fine, but a website? That seemed next-level dedicated. Alas, I gave it a try, and soon, my inbox started to fill up. “Are you voting for Trump?” No. “Will you help my wife explore her lesbian side?” No. “Wanna join us for Acroyoga?” No. No. No. And let’s not forget the real charmer, the guy who messaged me just to say that I was—and I’m paraphrasing—a gay bitch. So, OK Cupid didn’t work out for me, but Tinder would be different, right? Not exactly.
Recently, I switched my Tinder settings to “female-only” (it was previously set to men and women), but that just presented a different set of issues. “Femmes only.” “Lesbians only.” “No bi girls.” My head started to spin. For someone like me, who sports loafers one day and heels the next, I have no idea where I fit along someone else’s spectrum.
I’ve been asked to play “tour guide” more times than I can count, I’m not interested in someone who’s here for CES, AVN or MAGIC—and to the girl who sent my friend and me the same pickup line … yeah, we see you.
Okay, maybe Tinder isn’t so bad. After all, there’s something that always stops me from deleting it from my phone. Might I meet someone worthwhile? Sure. But let’s be real. I’m just here until I get my latte.