After nearly half a year abroad on this crazy journey we call “getting laid in foreign locales,” it was time for a break. But while I broke my streak of visiting at least one new country a month, I didn’t stop the Tinder travelogue. My erotic travels abroad had introduced me to a foot fetishist, a guy in a diaper, and even some boring old ex-pats, but nothing truly compares to having boots on the ground for some swiping action in the freest land of them all. Welcome to Tinder across America.
December and part of January took me from sea to shining sea, essentially. I touched down in San Francisco, visited my dad in Southern California, headed home to New Orleans, and harassed my colleagues in New York. In between, I actually went on two stellar dates and found a romance deeper than my dalliances in Chiang Mai with “can I touch your boob” man.
One date took place on Christmas night, and I can now tell you what a hot buttered rum hangover feels like. This marks the second time the gingham-shirted wonder of a man I made out with was mentioned in a random dating column. That he’s a comedian means it’s a level playing field, so I eagerly await the “journo burned me with a cigarette and led me to a random man’s house” jokes debuting on a New Orleans stage quite soon. Tip your bartender, and for the love of god, watch where you ash.
There’s nothing quite like a real romance in America, either. As much as I adored the awkward Chiang Mai man, our fleeting tryst had as much staying power as every tuk tuk driver who told me to walk instead of taking me to my damn apartment. I have the romantic foresight of a stoner at a dollar store, and apparently so does my real deal romantic partner, whom I lucked into acquiring before leaving the country again. We’ve been friends for years, and if you’re one of the many people who screamed the word “finally” to my face or via text, I probably owe you a drink or five.
Throughout that whole falling-in-love thing, I still managed to fail in lust with my fellow online daters. Strap your dog to your car roof à la Mitt Romney and let’s ride this straight talk expressway into pound town.
I ventured through the dating cesspool of my home state with the enthusiasm of a small child finding out her father isn’t making sweet skateboard “decks” for a living but powerpoint slideshows for his shitty startup. Particular highlights of my ineptitude include choosing mini-golf over getting laid and drunkenly texting one of my travel trysts “insert jack-off motion here.” How was the swipe scene in the Golden State? Glad you asked. Here’s a top theree from San Francisco straight down to San Diego.
I remember being in middle school and pooling my scant bus money to buy the most thought-provoking frozen treat in the cafeteria, the Choco Taco. As it segmented off my ego, id, and superego like the waffle cone containing both chocolate and ice cream, I felt the void within my frozen Mexican self. Just kidding. George’s Tinder profile gave me acid flashbacks.
Whereas George is the acid flashback, James is, in fact, the acid. This Photoshop-happy gentleman’s two favorite activities include the type of shit raccoons fuck with on the daily and daydreaming of burritos and beers with butterfly wings. The small iterations of himself lead me to believe this is some type of Smurfs scenario, but I could just still be tripping.
This is the city that I love, where I’ll return, and where I left the guy I’m horribly attracted to in a Waffle House coma after we both decided to get our hash browns all the way in some type of mutually assured stomach-destruction ritual. Tinder was its typical terrible self, though the comedian dates were pretty solid, and I finally got to achieve my dreams of making out in the most awkward spot at a bar by luring him next to a doorway and a busted vending machine. My shoes are probably still dusty and reek of Hennessy, so, um, thanks, filthy bar. Here are NOLA’s finest.
Ignorance, thy actual name is Darrin. Combine the ultimate wedding dance move and a dad joke and you’ve got perhaps the tamest New Orleans Tinder profile I saw all month. This fodder would prove invaluable when I headed to New York and found out the Big Apple has channeled none of its frenetic energy into the crafting of a quality online dating presence.
How the fuck do you breathe, Seymour? What kind of pizza gills have you developed to respirate with a fat slice shoved straight up your zippered mouth hole? Are those small nose openings stuffed with ketchup packets? Like picking which unfortunate pizza chain will disappoint you with a botched delivery order, Seymour yields so many questions and concerns.
Of all the gimmicky profiles I’ve seen in my sad months of Tindering, John’s is the most committed to the bit. I ended up super-liking the rad Octodad, because apparently a man posing as a wary sea creature entices me more than real-life humans. He never broke kayfabe.
New York was wholly disappointing whether I turned my thirst radius up to 20 miles from the office whose bagel supply I raided or shrunk it down to stumbling distance. It’s the most haplessly horny city within which I’ve ever fired up Tinder. Within a day I was fielding offers to put in “cuddle applications” and accompany me to a DJ set I was way too high for anyway. The most action I got was the realization that NYC doesn’t even deserve a top three, because it is just too damn boring for words when it comes to Tinder. Oh, and I had a bitchin’ pot brownie. That was sexual as hell.
Jared gave me southern nostalgia, which is actually kind of cool. He appears to be as much a seafaring Lothario as he is a CDC concern for the likelihood of salmonella incurred by chomping on a deadass fish.
God. Damn. It. The print industry and my lady boner dead in one fell swoop.
Illustration by Jason Reed