Just hook up pictures of sexy women
) that we decide to meet up in 3-D, making plans to have drinks the following night.Because Tinder is purposely casual, rendering indistinguishable the boundaries between those looking to hang out, hook up, and get hitched, I'm not even sure, as I leave to meet Ashley, if I should think of this as a "date." Whatever it is, I wish I could report that it turns out to be life-changing, and that, as I write this sentence, Ashley is in the next room, reading the paper in a forearm stand, wearing nothing but lingerie and trusting that I'll accurately convey the glories that have bloomed between us.So what we mainly talk about is Tinder, rationalizing why we're "on it," trying to convey to the other that we're not really "Tinder types." Over a six-week period, most of my Tinder-to-reality experiences follow this narrative arc: the excitement of digitized potential fading the moment it's actualized. She sidles right up next to me and wraps her arm around my waist (good sign! But the moment Maya takes her shot, a friend materializes out of nowhere, grabbing her arm and yanking her into the crowd.I hang around, repeatedly texting her through Tinder ("Hey, were you real or an acid flashback?This is the digital equivalent of hitting on a woman at a bar while the woman you've been hitting on is in the bathroom, a tightrope walk the analog would never attempt. " The question doesn't seem to register with Michelle: "I want a guy that can make me cum...." she replies. political science – an appealing combo, since I've taken up yoga and pretend to be interested in politics; Lori, meanwhile, informs me that she has just graduated from LSU and, having "fallen in love with the Ebola virus," plans to attend medical school in a year.
She is indisputably sexy, but if I'm turned on, it's more the bizarre context of these exchanges than their lurid content.The effect is that instead of feeling like another lovelorn castaway handing the reins of your heart over to the algorithm of, say, Match.com, you have the sense that you're merely putting a minor addition to the same social network you already share with a billion people. " So reads the message that appears on my phone the next morning. There's Michelle, as well as -year-old Ashley, and Lori, a 22-year-old whom I felt vaguely creepy for liking in the first place.Indeed, a few minutes into the experiment and I've already forgotten how under ordinary circumstances, Tinder is exactly the sort of digital-age phenomenon that makes me want to move to a yurt and learn to spearfish. Thirty-four years old, newly single for the first time in years, I have dealt with the breakup by impulsively moving from New York to New Orleans, where I know next to no one. I am at one of those disorienting life junctures where you find yourself hunched over your phone entertaining the idea that maybe 50 years from now your grandchildren will gather around the holographic fire to hear the story about how you and Granny met on Tinder. While this is not as thrilling as catching a stranger returning your nervous smile from across a room, my ego swells at the thought of these women deeming me worthy of a rightward swipe.She enters my life like the dozen women who came before her and the hundreds who will follow: in the palm of my hand, flickering on the touchscreen of my phone. Being nearly a decade older, I find her youth a bit distressing. Further stoking my curiosity is the knowledge that Michelle is three miles from here, which has the effect of making her seem more real than the catalog resembles, blurring the line between fantasy and reality, pixel and potential.But mainly what I'm drawn to in Michelle is her looks: brown hair blown straight, white jeans that seem to have found their way onto her slender frame via skin graft, a face punctuated by the sort of vaguely suggestive grin made culturally ubiquitous by the selfie.