James.
That night I went on a Tinder date. I’d just moved into a flat in Dalston and didn’t like spending time there. I lived with a girl and a boy. The girl used to track me down while I watched TV and chat incessantly at me. The boy was rarely home and when he was he shut himself in his room. The only evidence we had of his existence was the musty teenage boy smell that hung around the flat and a laundry basket in the bathroom stuffed full of crusty underwear and faded T-Shirts.
So, when my friends were busy and couldn’t go for a drink with me, I would go on Tinder.
While I waited in the jury room I’d matched with a man called James. He was 28 and had curly brown hair and blue eyes. He had a decent amount of stubble on his slightly round face and a weak mouth. His pics on Tinder were of him playing football, in a club with his mates and shirtless by a waterfall somewhere in Southeast Asia.
We met at the Duke of Wellington on Balls Pond Road. He arrived first and had already got me a glass of wine when I walked in. If I was apprehensive, he was shitting himself. He wore a plain grey t-shirt, light blue jeans and converse. If he’d been wearing Vans I would probably have fancied him, but there’s something about Converse on a man that screams ‘melt.’
“This is the first Tinder date I’ve ever been on,” he stammered as he stood and gave me a kiss on the cheek. He nudged the table as he sat down and his pint sloshed on to the beer mat.
“Lucky you,” I said. “You’ve probably avoided a lot of weirdos. When was the last time you went on a first date?”
As he talked he relaxed. He told me about a few awkward dates he’d had, expertly avoiding any ex-chat which I appreciated. Not for any reason other than date etiquette. Ex-chat is third date chat and every fully socialised person in London knows it.
“…and then my cigarettes fell out my pocket. She looked at me like I’d just murdered her family!”
I laughed, it wasn’t a bad story. It was easy to talk to him, the date was fine. I could see from his perspective though that this date was excellent. He felt at ease and he fancied me. From his perspective it was going bloody well.
By the third round of drinks we’d entered phase 2 of the date. We’d got to know each other and at some point along the line someone had touched someone’s arm and physical contact was in full swing. We had private jokes about other people in the bar. That man in the corner with the greasy hair and his wife who’s face looked like a battered piece of leather. It’s easy when you’re on a first date to make fun of those around you – to create some kind of partnership, something that joins you both together. And it’s not all complete bullshit – in those moments you do feel like you get along, that you have a connection.
By drink 4 I knew all about his friends from home. “It doesn’t matter how long he lives in Australia,” James said, “Tommy and me we’ll always be best mates. Whenever we see each other it’s like we haven’t been apart for more than five minutes.”
And his relationship with his parents. “I’m a bit of a mummy’s boy to be honest,” taking a sip of his pint. “I love my dad but there’s always been a bit of a barrier between us, we don’t really talk and when we do it’s just surface stuff.”
And his dog “Boy! His name is Boy. He’s 17 now, I don’t know how much longer he has but I just love that dog so much.”
It wasn’t all one-sided. I too had shared information. He knew all about Tottenham Hotsnatch, the PR agency, that cock of an account manager and how I’d almost got called up for a murder at jury service.
“Aww you should’ve taken it!”
Last orders. It was 11pm. We had work/jury service the following morning. We were both drunk. He held the door open for me and we were under the street lights. I sat on one of the picnic benches outside and lit a roll-up. He sat next to me, decided it was time, lifted my chin mid-drag and kissed me. I had to hold my breathe so as not to exhale the smoke directly into his mouth. The kiss was fine, no problems there. You can tell after a kiss how good or shit the sex will be. I knew after that kiss it would be a solid 6/10 first bang.
I was right. It lasted a decent amount of time and scratched an itch. Everything worked as it should with no embarrassments. The cupboards loomed overhead in the darkness, empty and stoic. I could never have enough stuff to fill all those cupboards.
My alarm went off at 7am. Without waking him I grabbed my towel and jumped in the shower, relieved neither of my flatmates were in the bathroom. As I washed off the night before I relished regaining my personal space, going back to being alone – back to the version of me that walked into the pub last night.
He’d dressed while I was in the shower – he had to get to work. “I hope no one notices I’m wearing the same thing as yesterday,” He laughed. I opened the door to let him out and he kissed me, long and passionately. It was gross.
“I’ll see you soon?” He said, his eyes alight with joy; how wonderful this app called Tinder is. “Absolutely,” I said, and I closed the door behind him.
