I’ve tried every online dating app, and all I’ve gotten is Thrush – Liam Sharma
I’m a single aficionado, I’m the sovereign singleton, I’m perpetually single – and ruthlessly proud. I like to measure it up to my disdain for most human beings, unwaveringly high standards, my ghost-like abilities, the gutwrenching ‘ick’ that crawls up the back of my throat like hungover acid reflux and is set off by the most effortless traits. Like when someone chews with their mouth fucking open or doesn’t text me back in under five seconds. I ghost people who are toys on Instagram because I already am a toy on Instagram, so I don’t need to date a reflection of myself. If a man doesn’t wash his face, I’m not coming around for a sleepover again. If a man has shaven his entire body to emulate that of a baby dolphin, I’m out. I’m still looking for the other half of my heart, you know, what the poetry books’ spew out in beautifully worded haikus. I’m still looking for that soul that’s supposed to complete me, god, spare me (rolls both eyes so far back into my brain they get lodged). I just think I haven’t found anyone who’s desperate enough to put up with me or who loves me more than myself! And you know what all of this self-deprecating behaviour has equalled? I’m an unintentional master at being unapologetically single.
It’s the 21st century, TikTok pasta is going to send me into an early grave, and sometime soon, some 18-year-old beauty prince is going to knock me off my blocks. And rightly so! I deserve it! He’s going to be better at me at everything I consider myself relatively okay at. I’m just waiting for the burgeoning adults to eat me alive. I’ve seen them in the distance coming for my bag; they’re all fresh, brands will adore them, baby faces, plumped up lips. I’ll soon be the washed-up, wrinkly old prune.
However, I will always have one thing on them, experience. I’ve dabbled in my fair share of walks of shame. I’ve taken uncountable boys for a spin, I’ve slept around, I’ve not slept. I’ve played tricks, and I’ve been tricked. I’ve got a 3.2 star Uber Rating for all my booty call endeavours. I’m twenty-fucking-five, and I’m sexually active. Some might slander me as promiscuous, and I just like to think I’m free. I was talking to one of my friends the other day about COVID-19, and, you know what really shits me about the whole thing (apart from the obvious morbid facts) is that it’s robbing me of my glory years. I am literally never going to look this hot again, I am never going to be in this shape, age is going to come for my snatched skin, time is slowly, but surely, going to take me to the cleaners. So I’m making the most of it. And by it, I mean me, I’m making the most of me.
Now, we all have dabbled in an online dating app or at least thought about joining one at one point in time. Well, I’ve joined them all. I’ve got all my fingers in these STD pies. At one point in time, I’ve been on Tinder, Bumble, Hinge, Grinder, Seeking Arrangements, Scruff and Raya. I’m a dating app connoisseur. I know what people are looking for, I know what angles people want of me or what my bio should be on each site. I like to keep it simple. One hot photo of me with my mouth resembling that of a cat’s bumhole as the header, then I’ll slot in a body shot from that one time I was super skinny after not eating anything but booze for five days at RNV, and done. Voilà. In a matter of minutes, I’ve created a piece of internet art. I never write a bio. I leave it blank; it keeps my audience wondering, wanting more in the hopes they will strike a chat.
Tinder guys are crazy. I swear. Tinder homes all sorts of creatures. That app pulls people from the depths of New Zealand and lets them shine. Tinder guys will bring their cats on a leash on dates. I can’t. I do, however, feel like Tinder has the largest number of queer people on its app. And maybe because it’s the O.G. dating app. Tinder was how it all begun, and now I just feel like it’s dead in the water. It’s a colossal cesspit of men who will make you split the bill (screams). I hate the super like feature. I used to always accidentally super like people while swiping left for sometimes three minutes straight, and then I’d have to block them, so much admin, omg.
Bumble is so serious. You better come behaved on a Bumble link-up. Bumble boys are ready to lock you down. The problem with Bumble boys is that they will wine and dine you and expect some reciprocal value. All the men have the same bio, “coffee, wine, let’s see where it goes”. Well. I know where it goes. It goes straight into being into a fully-fledged relationship. The incessant morning and night texts. The corner store flowers. I get scared when people treat me too nice, it freaks me out. I need people to put me in the freezer. Toy with my emotions, gaslight me, ghost me, I’ll love you forever and stalk your Instagram on my burner account until the day I am finally in the ground. I always match with someone I know on Bumble, it’s so Auckland centric, and I feel like I’ve been on the app long enough to tell you everyone I know that’s on it right now. I’ll swipe right for like one minute on Bumble, then it notifies me with something like, “congratulations, there are no new people in your area!!!” and at that very moment, I am reminded how truly, deeply alone I really am.
Hinge is not an app I’ve dabbled in that much. Tbh, the only reason I am on it is that every time someone likes me on the app, Hinge sends me an email to my work email, and, well, I like receiving those emails. It always perks me up. “JACK LIKES YOU” pops up on my laptop when I am in the middle of a meeting, and it’s such a timely pick me up during my day. I never reply, but it’s nice to have.
Ugh. Grinder. I don’t want to talk that much about Grinder. But, I will say, the guys on Grinder are the hottest – sexed, crazed animals. The guys on Grinder will be oh so willing to pick me up, head first, from whatever dive-bar I’ve gotten myself lost in at 4 AM and waltz me home. I got thrush once after a Grinder rendezvous. Yep, guys get thrush, too. This was a few years ago in New York. I cried for five days straight and bought a flight to LA to air it out in the humidity. I travelled six hours across a country because I had thrush, which was a real high moment I still think fondly of.
There is absolutely no way I’m talking about seeking arrangements until someone gives me a six-digit book deal or gets me tequila tipsy, then I’ll spill. I didn’t even know what scruff was until I searched dating apps on my phone and found my profile; I was unpleasantly surprised I had signed up for a dating profile and forgotten about it entirely. I didn’t delete it though, it’s become sentimental. I’m on RAYA. I’d be breaking RAYA’s T&C’s if I spoke about who’s on it that I’ve seen or even what it’s really like, so I’ll let you do some homework.
In my relentless pursuit for my other half, love of my life, soul mate, in a quest that’s left me alone and all thrushed up – I’ve still had fun. Because I might bash online dating apps and dudes who I’ve ditched in the middle of the night because I’m worried they will cook me breakfast in the morning or their pet cat will eat me alive (I don’t know what’s worse), I’ve still had fun exploring myself. I promised myself (well, I like to think it’s by choice) that I’d stay single for as long as possible. I think something is freeing about having no strings attached. I think social media has concocted this unrealistic ideal that we’re all supposed to have a villa in Grey Lynn, pet pug and be unequivocally committed to someone by our late twenties. I can barely choose a dating app to pursue, let alone share my life with someone right now. And that’s okay, too.
