Is it fair to lump people together just because they don’t fit a white/black binary? How about if they both have small penises? In either case, it’s probably not fair, but for the purpose of some unifying characteristic to combine two fairly brief blog posts, I’m going to do it. Call it racism, or size-ism if you want — I’m simply calling it laziness.
29. The Prince
My roommate joined Tinder for fun around the height of my dating spree, and we’d occasionally lie on the couch at the end of a long day, swiping, giggling, comparing screens. I’m only a year older than her, but I noticed that her matches seemed awfully young. “What are your age settings?” “24 – 50” I was incredulous: “Twenty-four? What are you going to do with a 24-year-old?!? They’re idiots.” She looked at me for a moment with a raised eyebrow, then suggested that I lower my age settings to see what happened. On a whim, I did. This lasted about a week and resulted in two matches — The Prince was one.
My go-to word when I think of The Prince is “adorable.” I know that guys don’t want to be seen as adorable, but he just was. Sweet face, handsome actually, in great shape. And he drove 45 minutes late at night to pay me a visit. Yes, it was that kind of date. The Prince was Indian, and my biggest takeaways from matching with him were:
- I wasn’t sure if this was true before, but after being with him, I feel conviction when I say trite things like, “It’s not the size of the boat. It’s the motion of the ocean.” He was good-natured and realistic about his size, even cracking a self-deprecating (yet somehow not self-pitying) joke about it.
- Younger guys, just like anyone, have their pros and cons. With The Prince, the pros included his openness to talk about sexual preferences, history, and current activity levels in a pragmatic way that didn’t involve insecurity and hurt feelings. Another pro is libido (and the energy to back it up), though I think I remembered this being the case from the days when My Ex was 25. Cons include a certain expectation about my availability. I don’t know many folks in their mid-30’s who can manage impromptu booty calls any night of the week. I certainly can’t.
30. The Leaguer
The Leaguer’s name comes from the dating app I met him on. He was my one and only match on a frustratingly strange app called The League. I’ve since deleted the app, which was supposedly designed to cater to an elite clientele, offering quality over quantity, and they got part of that right: the quantity definitely wasn’t there. Three to five profiles appeared each day at 5pm. Most days, I left swiped all of them. One day, though, I took a chance on The Leaguer, which is ironic because I’d seen his profile on two other sites before this one and had swiped left both times. I guess scarcity led to desperation led to The Leaguer showing up at my place one evening.
He had a lovely, unidentifiable accent that I learned was Sri Lankan, and he was obsessed with my body. In our initial conversation after matching, he made it clear that if I were skinny, there was really no point in continuing. I assured him that I was far from skinny, and I must have really delivered on that promise. The Leaguer’s open admiration of my not-typically-appreciated-by-American-beauty-standards body was refreshing. As it turned out, his body was also rather rebellious when it came to standards of attractiveness, and he shared The Prince’s endowment woes. In his case, however, the motion of the ocean failed to rock the boat in a sufficiently pleasurable way. He’s kept in regular contact, asked repeatedly to see me again, and though I do appreciate being appreciated, the sex just wasn’t that good, and he wasn’t interesting enough to do dinner with.