Date #1: Leeeeeerrrrrroyyyy Loverrrrrrrr

yuckPertinent stats: Well I joined Bumble like 76 hours ago and my enthusiasm for it lasted about thirty minutes. First guy I gave my number to asked for titty pics. Second guy asked me out and when I said I had plans with a girlfriend, asked me if she was DTF. You guys, I mean. Alright. New theory is that men on Bumble are more aggressive because they assume that if a woman messages you, she’s looking to be gifted by your dick. Please sir, can I have some more cock?

That is nothing about this dude. This dude is 35, attentive and responsive on the app, attractive enough, kind of a silver fox thing happening, and is originally from New Orleans which may have everything to do with me messaging him first. Works in IT. Which seems to be like every dude I’ve ever dated.

I just don’t know about this Bumble thing. But what else am I doing?

Beardliness: beard iconbeard icon

Two, let’s say two. I’m getting more flexible about this. I’m nearly 28, according to my mother my eggs are dying and I can no longer afford to be picky about things like “physical attraction” or “not a pedophile.”

Date itinerary: I ask him out to grab a drink because I want to be the Beyonce of this Bumble brouhaha, and he’s definitely down but scheduling is a bit of an issue–he keeps waiting for me to pick, which, that’s cool I guess, it’s pretty hypocritical of me to complain about a dude not wanting to pick where to go grab a drink when I started this paragraph by saying that I want to be Beyonce (#StrongBlackWoman #CulturalAppropriationToTheMax #JesusI’mTheProblem) and then complain about him not making it easy on me. You guyyyyys life’s hard and shit! Jesus I’m the worst!

We go to grab margaritas at Las Perlas downtown.

First impression: Well he looks like his photos, which is great because I found his photos attractive. I meet him and I think, you graduated high school when I was in fourth grade. But then I don’t really care and we go grab some drinks. How bad can any date be when margaritas are involved? She asked herself, in a blatant attempt at ironic foreshadowing.

Recap and highlights

So let’s see. Right off the bat he’s bitching about his day, as in, I see him and say, “[Name redacted]? Nice to meet you! How’s it going?” NR: “Terrible but I guess better than my day yesterday. My boss is a fucking idiot.” Oh shit, okay, let’s get honest real quick. He proceeds to call his boss “such a woman” (you BET that went over well with me, FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU), all of this before we’ve even stepped into the bar. Margaritas, I’m going to need you, stay strong for me, sisters.

Why am I not the kind of woman who would just say, “Hey, you seem….lovely but I’ve gotta go”? Why am I not that woman? (Part of it is this damn blog, I want to ride things out for a good story.)

He complains some more about his work and I can only sympathetically coo about how hard it must be to be a well-compensated white man for like 3/4 of a margarita (which is officially how I mark time now, I guess). He’s not asking me any questions, like any at all and he’s eye-fucking the hell out of our bartender (she’s super cute, petite, dark hair, lots of tattoos, pretty much the physical opposite of me) to the point where I say something to him about it, hey bro, wanna invite her on the date? He laughs it off but doesn’t stop scoping her out.

Oh fuck you.

I keep the conversation afloat (because apparently I am those damn musicians on board the Titanic, playing until the bitter end when I float under an iceberg for all eternity GOODBYEEE CRUEL WORLDDDD) by asking him what he likes to do for fun.

Me: “What do you like to do for fun?” (See! I wasn’t lying to you, I really did ask him that!)

NR: “I play World of Warcraft.”

Me: [Internally: Jesus Christ.] “Literally the only thing I know about that game is the Leroy Jenkins video, are you a fan?”

NR: “Yeah, I’ve jerked off to that video.”

I mean, I did laugh so I guess it wasn’t a total loss on his part? What was the best case scenario there? “Me too! Circle jerk?!”

Price tag: $18 plus tip for each of us. I’ll bet he left a tip of something for that bartender.

Grade: D.

Bottom line: Fuck you. He follows up with a text that tells me how nice I am to hug. I immediately stick my phone in the microwave and decide to loosen all my bonds to the outside world.



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