Last Friday night, I was bored and horny at my apartment, swiping aggressively on Tinder but having no luck. I needed a drink. And then I had a crazy ideaβwhy not just walk out into the actual world and see if a real-life human being wants to have sex with me?
It seemed so novel and retro. So I put on my knee-high suede boots and my new contour stick and was feeling very powerful. Little did I know the horror I was about to put myself through. Most obviously, I like that you can stalk your prey from the comfort of your bed.
I also love that apps have given new life to the old-school date. For Tinder dates I dress up, I meet the guy for a drink at like p. And I like that. But back to my IRL sex mission. Annoyingly, everyone there was either in a group of friends or already on a date. Still, I ordered myself a martini and started smiling at random hot people. Then for a while I circled around groups of men, all of whom ignored me. I felt like a mosquito. It felt very testosterone-heavy, which I took as a good sign.
I downed a martini. Eventually, I was drunk enough to just grab someone by the arm and pull him toward me surprisingly effective. He was a 30ish guy in a suit and thick-rimmed glasses, who reminded me of a young Elliott Gould.
He bought me a drink and told me he flew planes as a hobby. He put his hand up my skirt a bit, and invited me to go with him and his friends to a bar downtown. Twenty minutes later he was back, now wearing a deep V-neck T-shirt, giant gold sneakers, and aviator lenses.
