A Tinder Tale

My boyfriend and I broke up because of a difference of opinion: that opinion being whether or not we belonged together. I handled the breakup like any sane, mature lady would, that’s right, booze, banter, and boys. I didn’t have much faith in men. My one relationship had been a dud, but I did know they were great for one thing: making out. So I drank a bottle of Prosecco, gracefully chugged a few shots of vodka, downloaded Tinder, and hit the town ready to make things happen.

I woke up the next morning with an immense hangover and the discovery that I had sent an exorbitant amount of messages on Tinder. In fact, it seemed as if I had swiped right for any man with a beard or slight resemblance to Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson. I sent one guy: “Iss cooll if steal your putppy?” What? He had a cute puppy in his picture. Can you blame me?

Through the assortment of regretful messages, one caught my attention. It simply listed the name of a bar and an event that I had attended. I realized that he was asking if we had met there.With a second more sober look at his photos, I discovered that he was, in fact, a man that I had met a few weeks prior on a night out. Nothing happened that night: we spoke amicably, he bought me a drink, and we shook hands goodbye (it was a rather formal event.)

Only once we began chatting did I realize that this man was quite possibly one of the funniest guys I had met in a long time.  Even my friends commented that our banter was superb. It seemed as if I had met my match.

That weekend I told him to meet us on our night out. He had me laughing all day, and my expectations were high. Once together I anticipated we’d laugh, drink, and he’d get along extremely well with my friends. And you know what happened? None of that. It was awful. Quite possibly one of the worst dates I have ever been on.

Not only did he not get along with my friends, he didn’t even get along with me. We had absolutely nothing to talk about. That’s not an exaggeration. We sat in silence on a couch in a bar. We didn’t even look at each other. It was so uncomfortable. We headed to a louder bar with a dj after that in hopes it would be easier to pretend like this was somehow enjoyable. My friends, thinking I needed time alone, left us on the dance floor. I discovered that the only thing he was worse at than talking was dancing. I was simply embarrassed- for him, for myself, for the entire institution.

Luckily, the bar closed. Thank God. I don’t think I’ve ever been so happy for 2am to roll around. I thought he was being a gentleman walking me to my door. We shuffled in silence to my flat, and he went in for what I thought was a polite hug. It was NOT a polite hug. Next thing I know, we are kissing. At first I was extremely confused- how the hell did he think this had gone well?

I said goodbye and walked inside, quite bemused. What’s worse is that he texted me right after saying that he should’ve invited me over for “cuddles.” Sir, you are a grown man. Do not, under any circumstances, invite me over for “cuddles.”

Needless to say, I am still single. Still a virgin. But you know what, thank god for good and bad dates- they help us discover what we do and do not like, and now I definitely have a clearer idea of what I do not want.

Week 2: Slutty Skypes and Sashays of Shame

Hi, World. Still a virgin. What’s the topic of the week? Slutty Skypes and Sashays of Shame.

You know when you’re walking down the street, heels caught in the damn cobblestone? Your cheeky dress from the night before seems a little too hoochy now that it’s daylight and you’re surrounded by young families, yet you pull at the hem trying to pass off the “I’m totally wearing this to church” look.

Or maybe your bowtie is hung loosely around your neck, your hair disheveled, and you’re thinking: There’s no way in hell anyone’s going to believe I’m headed to a meeting right now.

Some of you relate all too well. Others like me (are you even out there?) have only heard horror stories of the famous “Walk of Shame.” (*unless you count this one time at 4am that I ran away from a guy that I was making out with because he pulled out his umm, and I was unprepared.)

How come society has decided to classify a successful night out as hooking up with someone, yet if you get caught on the way home, you’re ridiculed? What do you want from us, world?!

Last weekend I had one of my first wild nights out in a while. I normally work on the weekends. But not last weekend. Subsequently we were taking advice from our good friend M.I.A. and planning on “[Living] fast and [dying] young” since “bad girls do it well.”

We spent hours getting ready. You know the routine: You take a shower, shave, emerging naked and hairless as the day you were born. (Have any of you ever gotten a Brazilian wax? They won’t miss any spots, but they hurt like a bitch.)

You put on makeup, do your hair, and model about five different outfits for your friends before settling on the first one you had on (though you dabble with the idea of nudity at some point because nothing seems to be working.)

After nine tequila shots I was doing pretty well (I’d even managed to not fall down, which is huge considering I have this thing with coordination where… I don’t have any.) So presumably adding alcohol to the mix would destroy any chances of me balancing. Essentially, I was thriving.

However, the shots did not bode so well with some of my friends, so I rallied the troops and took the tequila stricken victims home.

Once back in my dorm I decided that I was sober enough to Skype my boyfriend back home. (I was not sober enough to Skype my boyfriend back home.)

Because, well… I’m inexperienced, but tequila made me want to be sexy. The only problem was that I didn’t know how to be sexy. I kept my clothes on because I am a classy lady that will not partake in virtual nudity, nor will I frown upon it (for anyone that is into that, you do you.)

However, at one point I licked my lips… I don’t remember why- they were probably chapped or something. But my boyfriend found this alluring, so I continued doing it.

He said that he wanted to do terrible things to me. Isn’t that hot?

For someone that has very limited experience, that’s super hot.

Anyway, I blue balls-ed him, went to bed, and woke up with really chapped lips and the realization that this Skype experience was not just a figment of my imagination.

I was embarrassed. I mean, there were probably so many better/sexier/more exciting things I could’ve done.

My embarrassment faded when I talked to my best friend. She was about to enter her Cab-of-Shame from an upscale hotel back to town.

She claims that judgment oozed from the families on holiday as she teetered into the lobby in last nights heels and wrinkled dress. They were probably jealous, right?

Her lesson of the night was that friends need to watch out for friends because drunken 7’s make sober 2’s.

We both wallowed in embarrassment and ate large quantities of Chinese food to ease our feelings. There’s really nothing to be embarrassed about. We’ve all made extremely shameful drunk decisions. Some of us have faceplanted on the dance floor of a busy club. (I’ve done this.) Some of us have had dropped an entire pizza on a busy street and proceeded to eat the entire thing. (I’ve done this.) Some of us have gotten with DJs before realizing they were twenty years our senior. (No comment.) Most of us have regretted these things later.

Whether you slept with somebody, fell down and acquired an array of bruises, or tried to virtually satiate your long-distance man, you will inevitably wake up the next day with the vodka shits and regret.

But it’s college. So we must explore. Obviously, some of us have explored more than others… but I’m getting there.

So wipe the fallen makeup from under your eye, hold your head up high, and sashay (with moderate/mild) shame!

Xx the vestal virgin 

Week 1: Dildos and Daydreams

Hey, guys. I have a little secret. I’m a virgin.

I’m not exactly waiting for marriage or avoiding it. Then again, I don’t sport a shirt that says “Open for Business” with an arrow pointing downward. (Do they make those? If not, ™)

Virginity. It’s just kind of a thing that’s there until it’s not anymore, like our memory… or our integrity.

It used to be that virgins were pure, wonderful goddesses, worthy of sacrifice. Now I’m some sort of prude tease that “spends too much time on YouTube” and “wastes too much money on Doritos.” Whatever.

Maybe I’m waiting for a knight in shining armor to sweep me off my feet. (*Knight, or duke, or prince, or king, or breathing human being… I’m not one to discriminate). Maybe I would like a romantic picnic on the beach followed by canoodling. Or maybe, just maybe, I’d like the drunk fourth year that’s been grinding on me to offer to pay for my 2 pound cheesy chips before inviting me back to his grimy flat.

The point is, he hasn’t come (in every sense of the word… too far?)

For those of you that are yawning at this point, don’t worry; there will be lots of sexploitation in these diaries. Because despite all odds… I have a few friends. (Not many, but a few.) These friends have lives, and boyfriends, and tinder-fellas, and vibrators… but most importantly, you guessed it: sex.

So if I can’t tell you about the wild man rustling my bedsprings, the least I can do it post anonymously about their sexual conquests, right?

I think that’s enough of an introduction. Now onto my topic of the week: Dildos and Daydreams. We all have them. Uh… daydreams, that is.

I actually don’t have a dildo. Too many color and size options… too much stress. I think I should maybe invest in one because sometimes (frequently) I worry that I’ll actually find myself in a sexual situation and literally have no idea what to do. I mean, there’s a difference in understanding how everything operates and actually knowing what to do.

My parents never gave me the “sex talk,” and I had the flu on the one day that my lower school showed “the birds and the bees” video. So my education has pretty much been left to myself. In fact, when my mom first handed me a tampon, I think my reaction was: “You want me to put that WHERE?!” (Full Disclosure: still don’t use them)

I do think we all have daydreams… or sexual fantasies. But alas, Jared Leto has yet to passionately push me up against a car and make-out with me. Nor has Prince Harry purchased me a drink before whisking me away to the VIP area of a club (I still don’t see why not.)

So, you know, with these thoughts tormenting our minds… it’s only natural to want a dildo or vibrator. Just remember that dorm/apartment walls are pretty thin, and I’m pretty sure that you aren’t blasting your music at random intervals of the night just for the hell of it. (Your roommates will know too.)

Own it because according to YikYak (and I haven’t verified this statistic) 98 percent of us are extremely sexually frustrated.

Daydream to your heart’s desire.

Xx the thirsty virgin