E-Male: A Guy's Honest Read on Tinder

Our resident guy tells us how he really feels about the weird world of Tinder, from creating the perfect apathetic profile to sending that first sweat-inducing pickup line.

A disclaimer: I am the Lorax, and I speak for the trees. And by trees, I mean the proud few who pride themselves on not sending dick pics to our hapless matches. We resist the primal urge to seduce potential mates with such classics as, “ay bb want sum fuq” or, “u want the d or nah??” In short, if you’re looking for perspective of the archetypal online dating gorilla, you’d be best served, well, going on Tinder and asking them. In between cock snaps, of course.

So how does the sensible male approach the abyss that is Tinder? We start with profile construction, just like our ovarian cousins. Now, the key here is to put as much effort as possible into making it look like you put in as little effort as possible. Everyone knows that he who genuinely gives a shit about finding a meaningful relationship is an unfuckable fedora-tipping neckbeard, so we spend hours boiling down all of our angst and sexual frustration into a two-sentence micro-thought.

The pictures follow a similar tenet. Shirtless selfies are a no-no, but shirtless pictures with all of your rich friends popping champagne and smiling like soulless GQ homunculi are the proverbial panty-dropper. Most of us find a happy middle ground of a portrait of us hanging out at the beach or at a party, dad bod artfully disguised behind a baggy sweatshirt or Dick Towel™. As for me, I apparently have a phobia of taking a normal picture; if you swipe and find yourself in front of a guffawing lunatic, you’ve found me.

It’s then that the real Sisyphean fun begins: the “matching.” Of course, for us (read: me) it’s not really matching, it’s desperately swiping right in search of physical acceptance where simply none exists. But once every manly-tear-stained blue moon, some Goddess of Mercy descends from on high and shows up as a match. Oh, what days those are! What days, when we sit staring slack-jawed at an empty message screen, wondering how to seem smart, yet funny, yet somehow mostly disinterested.

Finally, after whatever half-cocked joke or pickup line makes it past the mental censors and into our phones, the waiting begins, the hellish roller coaster that peaks at wildly premature wedding planning, only to bottom out at suicidal pessimism. On the off chance the intro line didn’t destroy Miss Right’s sex drive forever, small talk and light banter may be exchanged, and a date is planned, however reluctantly. But it’s not really a date, and this is why Tinder is such a massive failure to our generation.

Yeah, it’s a great way to coordinate semi-anonymous fornication with other smart phone users. But the meetups that are sandwiched between swipes and sex are so utterly devoid of personality and substance, they could be the subject of an AP English class. It’s all a thinly veiled opportunity to seek personal satisfaction, one desperate and often disappointing swipe at a time.

Feature photo by Yap Chin Kuan/ VIA Unsplash