First there was Skyler, an indie hipster techie with a handlebar mustache living with his (allegedly) ex-girlfriend. They’re not really “together, but he couldn’t call me after 5 pm because that’s when he gets home to their apartment, and they still haven’t exactly worked out the kinks of, you know, not being in a relationship together anymore and what that means in terms of talking to other people on the phone. Oh, but he can’t call before 5pm because he has a hard time taking time away from work. His company is at a point of “huge transitions and, naturally, this forces him to be constantly in and out of meetings. And well, texting is a great way to stay in touch between 4:47 and 5:03, the time frame during which he can feasibly drive home and around the block just enough times not to make his ex-girlfriend suspicious¦ or worried. But not in the “we’re broken up she just doesn’t know it sense¦ just in the “she needs some time to transition out of it sense. He felt it was important that potential partners be “non-judgmental about his lifestyle.
Then there was Keith, a waiter/burgeoning musician. He was dreamy with unkempt hair and small, wrinkly hands. Like the way that hands look after they’ve been in latex gloves too long. We sat on my loveseat and he watched my lips move intently before he interrupted me (mid-sentence) to tell me how gorgeous I was. This was following his having flaked the night before and the subsequent pseudo-yelling that ensued on my part, followed by a swift hang-up. He texted, “I don’t want to lose you! I will come over right now even though I am drunk and I have to work tomorrow. I will drink coffee for you. Thank you, Keith, for offering to drink coffee for me and admitting that you were drunk because you were out with a friend at a friend-of-a-friend’s party where there was tequila and you couldn’t leave because your friend was driving you because “ of course “ your car was stolen last weekend.
Does this shit sound familiar to you? Yes? This can only mean one of two things: (a) you date men on the regular and this is all par for the dick treasure hunt or (b) you too have forayed into the dysfunctional world of OkCupid. I mean, what the fuck is OkCupid? Am I supposed to find my soul mate or my next cock bender on this thing? And how did I get on it in the first place?
Funny you should ask.
So, I was at this fat girl clothing swap in lower Haight or upper Haight of Hayes Valley or TenderSoMa or whatever, and I ran into a friend (or more aptly a person with whom I had been developing a fairly serious friendship last year, but the development of which was arrested by some international traveling or something else on my part. She introduced me to John Waters’ Female Trouble, and I felt that marked her as a good potential bestie.). She had a fabulous belt with a gold lion on it and I was, needless to say, impressed and thrilled to see her and the belt. Well, we got to talking, and she told me that she met an adorable little white boy sub, and he was great and he gave great head and great massages and (the clincher) that she got to shove tampons in his ass when they fucked. And I was like, “I want a little white boy sub who lets ME put tampons up his ass! “Wherever did you find this gem? I asked. OkCupid she said. And this is how this whole fucking mess began.
I was unclear from the start what OkCupid really was. And this was FuckUp #1. I mean, before attempting to navigate new e-terrain, you always want to grasp what this terrain is at its core. Are we talking rain forest, prairie, desert? Are we talking marriage, collarings or poly fuckfests here? Having been a recent transplant from CraigsList land, I had been used to frank, curt requests for this or that lascivious rendevouz. Men would write what they wanted: anal, oral, threesome, phone sex, dinner, or all of the above. The casual sex havers are a simple breed. I enjoyed this thoroughly. So why fix it if it’s broken, you say. Well, it had been a while since I’d tried to date someone. I couldn’t even remember what dating felt like. Maybe it would be fun!
After just a few days on OkCupid, I felt my politic begin to regress. I’m a progressive. I would even say I’m a radical. I’m not a subscriber to the Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus school of thought. I used to believe that hetero men were grunting animals led around by their cocks. We and they have been sold that line and they adopt it with the same vigor (and terror of repercussion) that we buy the line that women are somehow essentially less sexual or bad at the maths. But nowadays I tend to think of men’s sexualities (I’m referring to cisgender heterosexual men’s sexualities here) as nuanced and deliciously complex. OkCupid has ransacked all my yummy politics and set me back about 10 years, back to the days when I felt I had to protect my pussy from the forces of confusion, innuendo and hegemonic masculinity.
Every day my mailbox was fairly flush with interested parties. A pattern began to emerge. Men would write to me regaling me with compliments about my cleverness and my cleavage. They would ask if we could text or talk on the phone. We’d do that and that would go on for a while. Then it would either fizzle before I even caught a whiff of dick or the dick would show up at my house, romance me and then never call me again without even attempting the intercourse. I was confused. I’d forgotten that this was what dating is like. This perpetual confusion. This inability to decipher whether these dudes are in it for the pussy or just the chance to fuck with your head until they’re bored.
The problem with online dating, I surmise, is that it’s the worst of all possible worlds: you can’t ask for dick lest you be deemed un-dateable and so you just have to flounder around in tacit negotiation armed only with innuendo and inference all the while knowing that he’s comparing you to every other girl who took a misleadingly flattering photo of herself. Sometimes I can’t even get a guy off OkCupid to make the big move from text to voice calls. This is apparently too much of a commitment. On text, he can romance a few women simultaneously all while watching X-Files reruns. If he calls then that seriously limits his abilities to multi-task. There are simply too many other potentially interested parties. And this is my biggest problem with OkCupid: in casual encounters I am in control. In the world flush with cock, the pussy-haver is queen. OkCupid, however, mirrors the straight world, where men have the power. Men have the power because in this e-world romance is the end goal, and men know they can leverage the promise of loving affirmation (which we ladies have been taught to do anything to receive) to do whatever they want. So, sex becomes this weird game: no explicit understandings and falling into habits I was taught by my grandma. I sit there calculating whether I could introduce him to my parents. He sits there calculating how he can manipulate me into giving him head in the car.
The final OkCupid straw, the straw that really broke this size queen’s back, was Darren, a high school teacher who dabbled in real estate. He is about 5’3”, a detail he failed to mention. I like men of all sizes, however, so that wasn’t a deal breaker. Though, again, this is where the unfamiliar OKCupid terrain comes in: I suppose I was supposed to do a detailed comb of his profile to find out these vital stats. But in CraigsList land I’m used to men excitedly serving these kinds of details up so as not to in any way surprise you. Surprises can lead to aggregate pussy loss (APL), something they really don’t want. There are few things worse than taking a shower for nothing when you show up at someone’s house and they’re not into short dudes. So, Darren. We got together on a Sunday morning last week. We talked way longer than was necessary about the exact intersection at which we would meet: “You have a bike, Darren. I think you can handle a 2-block perimeter of uncertainty. Just look for the girl with the biggest boobs you can find. That’s me.
I have to be honest “ and risk your judgment “ when I say that I met up with Darren after having fucked a Scotsmen the night before. I didn’t feel like showering before my date with Darren (unusual for me, actually). The Scotsman’s semen was still on my thighs as I sat and chatted with Darren in the dunes of Ocean Beach. Darren is old-school. He was utterly scandalized that I mentioned there were public masturbators near the edge of Golden Gate Park who beat it while watching the joggers. He asked me to swing over to his place later and watch some Netflix. Niiice. I got there, and it smelled like it used to when I would date guys from Berkeley: nag champa. It would be cute if it held the old promise of perma-erection and a full-on bona fide 20-something fuckathon with a Cal athlete. And though he has youthful habits (like getting high every night and listening to electronica courtesy of Pandora), I’m not really feeling it.
We sit down at his kitchen table and he begins to nervously regale me with the way that I had given him an enormous erection on his bike ride home and that he’d even almost cum. I asked matter-of-factly whether this could have been from the vibration of his balls on his bicycle seat. Then he admits that he contemplated the courtesy pre-date jack-off session but decided to forego it. If you don’t know about this, listen here: Yes, men will often masturbate before they go on a date because they know if they’re backed up they’re going to say or do something really fucken dumb. It’s because sperm is a neurotoxin; blue balls have been the downfall of homes, nations and first dates throughout history. Darren thought (or more importantly, Darren’s sperm thought) that maybe, just maaaaaaybe I would let him titfuck me since I seemed like such a liberal girl.
Do I look like the fucken Santa Clause of titties to you, Darren? Liberal does not pro-bono, outta-the-goodness-of-my-heart tit-fuck make, Darren! I smiled and told him I don’t really do titty fucking but that I’d be happy to let him eat my pussy instead. The night was really like watching a disastrous hockey game or something unfold. He would gain points by doing things like peeling cucumbers and sprinkling lime and salt and chili powder on them serving them to me on a platter, but then he would lose all the points by spontaneously taking his shorts off and asking me to jack him off. I found this kind of cute to be honest, but cute is not what gets my she-dick hard, ya know?
Once the movie’s over, I stand up and since I’m taller than he is I’m able to out-maneuver him and get out the door quickly. Fast forward a bunch of days: Darren still hasn’t masturbated in hopes that I will come over and he’ll have the orgasm of his life. Yes, the sperm in his balls has made him text, call, beg, threaten to delete my number, beg some more. It was pretty excruciating.
After Darren, I decided that I had to delete my account. I still wanted a submissive boy who would let me stick a tampon in his ass. But I realized that I had to admit that I’d outgrown these kinds of men and their stupid shit. Maybe they’re single for a reason. I decided to stick with being a slut. Maybe this sounds weird but getting to have my orgasm and keep my bed all to myself too seems like a pretty hot deal to me.