It’s been a year of Tindering for me in this fair city. A year since my hunting ground changed forever and I’d like to pay homage. To tip my hat to all the boys…who were destroyed by over-swiping, starving blue-ball naked. I saw the best fucks of my generation trawling through forty-three matching profiles, with not a single conversation or date to show for it. who whammed and bammed and thank you ma’ammed. who posed for profile shots with boxing gloves and teddy bears cradled against man boobs, with tender hopeful smiles, like puppies in the headlights. who posed slumped unhappily in office chairs, tiny puppet-like hands clutching the base of monstrous erections as large as a crusty baguette, crying out for the woman with the right vagina to show herself, seeking a spirit guide to the mystic world of full penetration. who come out date after date but still hesitate to push their trembling chins in for the first kiss, and when they do are easily outmaneuvered and left puckering up to air. Sorry, boys: kiss like you mean it or not at all. who star in a bathroom mirror selfies with sucked-in six(ish) packs and wisps of pubic hair peeking coquettishly out of carefully unzipped trouser flies. who, upon realizing there isn’t going be a callback, throw caution to the wind and fuck like the demented rabbits from Watership Down, with teeth bared and noses screwed up in pink-eyed bunny determination.
>> who ignore your callback, leaving you with nothing but sweet memories of twisted, sweat-soaked sheets and angry neighbours banging on the roof, the floor and the trembling walls. who offer up their tentative dreams of handcuffs and whips and horny humiliation, crawling through your imagination on all fours with ball gags and blissful eyes. who had never gone down. who wouldn’t go down. who went down and stayed down. who went down in flames. whose minds went blank before the funny flappy mystery of the pussy, eyes screwed shut and tongues flailing wildly, every girl-on-girl porn film they had every watched lying forgotten and de-glamourized at the bottom of their consciousness. who instigated a hundred cuddle-struggles under hotly contested sheets and duvets. Hip rocking and dry humping into the wee rejected hours of the morning.
But most of all, to the ones who went down and lapped like cats. And those who stared back in dazed pleasure, red-eyed and dehydrated and gasping for air at 5 am. To those who collapsed on pillows with happy smiles to sleep the sleep of the dead for an hour before alarm clocks dragged us into early morning reality.
A nod of thanks to all you wonderful Tinderers out there. May 2015 be full of crazy sexy times. May you not find your brother, mother, father or sister on Tinder. May you skip from swipe to chat to date on easy, wing-tipped charm. May we all end 2015 with more delicious stories than when we started. Happy 2015!