Day 55 of 100 Indian Tinder Tales
P from Delhi sends a really funny tale.
“I’d been on a string of Tinder hook-up dates and was throroughly enjoying myself meeting nice men who didn’t want anything relationship-y. Then I met Shorts Guy (because that’s pretty much what attracted me to his profile, his hairy legs in shorts. And there was a cute dog he was being nice to). We decided to meet at a pub close by so I could see that he wasn’t a rapist/ serial killer.
We met, he was a nice ‘chikna’ looking guy with a mischievous smile. I was instantly attracted to him in a very ‘rip his clothes off’ kind of way.
And he rattles off: “Hey, you checking me out? Are you checking me out? Don’t worry you can check me out. Should I turn around?” He was really hyper and had a more than healthy self-esteem. He was, he told me, a restauranteur, a model, a dancer and (but of course) an actor.
“Wow how do you have time for all these things?”
“I make it work baby, I make it work.”
Ok, so he has to get back to his restaurant and I go back home. We decide to meet later that night.
At 10pm he calls me from outside my house “Yaar I can’t find a parking spot. Can you come down and move your car so I can park in its place?”
I’m like: “Fuck NO! Go figure it out.” He takes another 20 minutes to find parking. Then he comes up to my door.
From the second we meet, we’re grabbing at each other. And then, he takes two things out from his bag: A bottle of mulled wine and a hugeass box of condoms. I mean, this is the jumbo pack. I’m worried, what the fuck is this man expecting?
Anyway, we get down to business and he’s all tricks and macho-prowess and “Yea yea yea baby, do this baby, now do that baby. Ok baby, now sing the French national anthem.” (Ok, the last part isn’t true but you know what I mean.)
Then, right in the middle of it all he says: “Man, this is so great, this is so wow, this is so yea baby, this is like you remind me of my machines at the gym.”
WHAT? Like, WHAT? Hold. The. Phone.
It’s all so absurd that I start laughing. Hard. And suddenly he’s deflated (metaphorically and literally) – “I’m not going to make it.” he says.
I tell him it’s ok, and I tell him that it doesn’t look like he’s having much fun. The performance has been great, I really appreciated some of the choreography but “you’re absent.” I tell him.
And then he flops down on my bed, shuts his eyes and says: “I’m so tired. I haven’t slept in days.”
“Then why in God’s name are you here???” I ask him.
He doesn’t answer. Just gets up, picks up his underwear and leather jacket and exits the door. He returns. He’s forgotten his jumbo pack. And then, crestfallen, he leaves my home.
“Hey, I feel bad,” I say, “At least take back your mulled wine.”
“Keep it.” he says.
I never see or hear from him again and I avoid his restaurant like the plague. As for the mulled wine? My next Tinder date and I share it on a cold January day. (That guy, I think, might be gay.)”