Chapter 9
You’ve matched with Sam!
Finally, after swiping right on at least seventeen men who, on face value, looked the least likely to turn me into a skin lampshade, I get a result.
Just one. Seriously, what the hell is wrong with my face?
Perhaps the fact that it doesn’t belong to a twenty-five-year-old, which seems to be the preferred starting age range for men over forty on here.
It’s also a very real possibility that I look like someone who might key your car when you piss me off but I’m not dwelling on that.
Neither mine nor Sam’s Tinder bios are particularly detailed, unlike some which read like a dissertation with footnotes and Harvard-style referencing. It seems we both preferred to keep ours brief.
My bio simply says, ‘I can’t believe I’m doing this sober.’
Sam’s reads, ‘Really want a girlfriend so I have someone to sing the female parts in songs instead of me trying to hit the high notes like a total loser.’
Sam, forty-one, London, looks like Adam Driver, if Adam Driver had blond hair and ear gauges.
I’m not particularly a fan of gaping earlobes but I’ll need somewhere to hook my hanging baskets in summer, so I’ll overlook it.
Fighting against my instinct to nitpick isn’t easy but I need to keep an open mind.
He made me laugh so that’s a good place to start.
He quickly sends me a message, which saves me from having to dig deep to come up with something intelligent and witty, like ‘Hi!’. I click on the message.
Hi.
I see that Sam dug deep too.
Cards on the table, this is the first and last dating site I’ll ever use. In fact, I was going to delete my account until I came across your profile.
I smile. I like a straightforward man. A man who isn’t horrified by my photos is also a bonus.
This is my first app, too! No success so far then? Maybe you should have signed up for more than one? I assume that most men do.
Lol, no. I cannot multitask. Anyway, I have a question for you if you’re up for it? I think it’s a good way of discovering any red flags early on. If you were stuck on a desert island, what three things would you bring?
I ever so slightly roll my eyes. This is the kind of pointless shit they ask in team bonding sessions or group job interviews. I’ve never understood what it reveals about a person, other than their desire to bring their iPhone to a chargeless environment.
I reply.
A volleyball.
A dentist.
Salvageable Fed-Ex packages.
He responds with a preprepared answer.
A boat.
A boat captain.
I like your answer better.
Six messages later and Sam gives me his phone number, which I appreciate. I have no desire to hand out my phone number to random men who might drunk dial me at 3 a.m. thinking it’s flattering. Interrupting my sleep is grounds for histrionic rage, vengeance and inevitable blocking.
So Tinder seems hopeful. Maybe I was too quick to judge.
I’ve gone from zero possibilities to one potential, in the space of an afternoon.
However, if I’ve been successful on one app, maybe I’ll be even more so on another.
My curiosity gets the better of me and I sign up for Flirt First, somewhat concerned that Eddie has now dismissed his ethical dilemma and decided to chat up his client base.
Instead of first names, you’re asked to choose a username, thus keeping the mystery alive until you decide you want to take things any further.
Photos can only be shared as you progress through the chat, removing the instant dismissive ‘not a chance in hell’ that can happen on other sites.
Along with your age and location you provide a quote from one of your favourite songs or movies.
Sadly, despite my recommendations, Eddie Bailey has chosen not to let users specify an age range.
Apparently, love doesn’t care about age.
Thank God you have to be over eighteen to use the app or I’d be side-eyeing Eddie every time we were in the same room.
Choosing a username isn’t as easy as I thought it would be. Nothing too boring like WomanInLondon but nothing too cringeworthy either like lookingforlove and absolutely nothing desperate like ohgodwhyamistillalone? or lastchancesaloon.
Something funny. Something which reflects my personality.
Legend, 45, London. ‘There’s no crying in baseball.’
Instant brownie points if they know that’s a quote from the film A League of Their Own.
This produces more results straight away, and most are quite telling.
Terrahawks, 38, Stratford. ‘My precious.’
Eighties kids’ television sci-fi show. The Lord of the Rings reference. Complete geek.
LivinginLondon, 73, Battersea. ‘I see dead people.’
At your age, I’m sure you do.
JB, 29, Croydon. ‘I feel the need – the need for speed.’
I know this is from Top Gun, but it could also imply that he’s a fan of amphetamines.
HH, 31, Lambeth. ‘You had me at hello.’
Maybe this line from Jerry Maguire makes some women swoon. It does nothing for me. ‘The human head weighs eight pounds’ is far better.
At last I find one that piques my interest.
Dr Loomis, 49, London. ‘It’s showtime.’
Halloween name and Beetlejuice quote. He obviously likes horror movies. Is this a red flag? I don’t mind horror films and I’m relatively normal, so maybe not. I decide to message him anyway. If he’s a weirdo, I’m logging off.
I click on send message and receive a notice that reminds me I have to flirt first.
Get ready with your smoothest lines.
While I’m amazing at some things, flirting probably isn’t one of them.
What the hell do I say? I have no idea how to be cool or suave.
I once bought a guy a drink in Ibiza and made a joke about the sunburn on his face.
Turns out he had a port-wine stain birthmark and wasn’t amused.
Even at university, my attempts to flirt with Charlie Fox always fell flat and went unnoticed.
My giggling and glancing skills were on point, though.
I wrack my brain, trying to think of some funny pick-up lines I’ve heard over the years.
Did you just come out of the oven? Because you’re red hot.
Are you a bank loan? Because you’ve got my interest.
There’s a fashion sale in my bedroom. Clothes are 100 per cent off.
I shudder. I cannot do this. I couldn’t live with myself if I used any of these lines, I’d be forced to find a cave of shame and live there. However, I know I’m supposed to say yes to the things I wouldn’t normally, so I take a deep breath and start typing.
Well, here I am. What are your other two wishes?
I hate you, Alex Steward.
I’m surprised when a reply comes through within seconds.
Oh no! Now I have to come up with a line of equal hilarity.
I wait a couple of minutes before a notification appears again.
Kiss me if I’m wrong but dodos still exist, right? I AM SO SORRY.
I laugh. Second time today, it’s a miracle.
He messages again.
Cards on the table, this is the first and last dating site I’ll ever use. In fact, I was going to delete my account until I came across your profile.
I read it again and sigh. It’s Sam from Tinder, obviously using the same lines on every dating site. His username suddenly makes sense. Dr Loomis’s full name is Samuel Loomis. Also, on Tinder he’s forty-one, here he is forty-nine.
If you were stuck on a desert island, what three things would you bring?
I would bring the same three items I told you about an hour ago on Tinder. By the way, you’ve aged eight years in two hours.
He doesn’t reply.