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 idea—why 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. In the space of one drink, my tweedy, intellectual Jew had transformed into a DJ from Ibiza. The evening ended with me literally sprinting away from V-neck, almost being hit by a cab in the process. When I finally made it back to my apartment, out of breath, all I could think was: How is it possible that people used to meet in bars?
