Day 68 of 100 Indian Tinder Tales
A from Delhi shares her tale
“I lost my virginity to a Tinder boy.
I’d been talking to a couple, but none attracted me as much as this one. Vastly intelligent and funny, and yet, not the slightest invite or overture. In a fit of gallantry I asked him why he wasn’t asking me out for a coffee. He said he was only looking for benefits, and in my future experiences, I have understood that it is the constant refrain of Tinderfellas.
We met, made out, he grabbed at my bosom. We arranged to meet again, this time for sex, I was fed up of being ‘unsullied’ and decided that only if there is a first, will there be a second, and went for it.
His excuse for not wanting anything more? ‘I was dating this girl for a couple of years, didn’t work out, don’t think I could take that again, I don’t believe in love anymore.’
I was sure I could be the one to make him believe again, so if sex was the way, so be it.
In one of his friends’ dingy basement, we made out. We stripped, I was waxed to within an inch of my life, not a single stray hair. And then… we tried. It was a complete bust. Even after trying myriad positions, it was largely awkward. I was copious, he was lean, I was giggly, he was matter of fact. I felt absolutely nothing. And in the end, we finished ourselves off. He hurried into the darkness and I left to meet a friend with a rug burn and queefs.
I made the folly of thinking that once presented with me, he would of course fall for me, and that trait has been my downfall.
The next Tinderatti, again amazing conversation. Met once, I saw him with that look. He left for another country. His excuse for not wanting anything more? ‘I was dating this girl for a couple of years, didn’t work out, don’t think I could take that again, I don’t believe in love anymore.’
We met again, we’re good friends, we did it too. Passionless, soullessly, for me at least. He hadn’t even had a bath.
The third, again, loved and lost, vowing to never love again. Admitted to like choking in bed, I came back home with bruises and broken nipples and of course, queefs and a rugburn.
All this weaving in and out of real world relationships, which I decided can only happen as you meet someone in real life, and yet I keep going back to Tinder. The ego boost that you get, when everyone swipes right on you, and you match with everyone you like, when all they want to do is get into your pants while the real world rejects you, that rush is heady.
After two years of a love and hate relationship with the app, I now have 24 contacts on my phone with last name Tinder. Some I met, some I never have. One boy who liked me, matched with my friend and they ended up sexting, her experience defined to me as him ‘attempting to jackhammer my cervix back into my uterus.’
I have one lovely young boy who I share my college notes with, I have one with serious mommy issues that I believe I helped placate, I have one who would repeatedly show up and exclaim upon the futility of life while hinting heavily on a session of tea (or coffee, he wasn’t picky) at my place.
I have a baby army of men I can call upon for various topics of interest, but you know what they all have in common? ‘I was dating this girl for a couple of years, didn’t work out, don’t think I could take that again, I don’t believe in love anymore.’
Took me a a friend to knock sense into me, he said ‘You realise they’re not interested in you right? This is how they blow you off and still get sex?’
*explosions in the background* *glass shattering*
Here I was, naively trying to make sure these men could love again.
And yet, here I am, still swiping left, swiping right.”