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Tinder Strikes Back

Posted on by jimense86

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To be a dog. Live like 10 years and only worry about eating, pissing, shitting and getting your rocks off. Think about it, no bills, no lies, no financial arguments or bitter divorces. Even the homeless dogs I’ve come across seem happy, poor and malnourished but happy with their counterpart nonetheless. Had to be what Dr. Monroe had in mind when he was building that island. This got me thinking what if dating and meeting people was that easy? You know, just walk down the street, stop for piss, bark and go up and sniff somebody’s ass without the threat of Pink Eye in your mind. After a few awkward seconds of courtship they sniff your ass back and boom you’ve got a match, waaaay simpler than downloading Bumble, Tinder, Grinder or Match. No terrible conversation, meaningless moments or emotional letdowns and the best part? Even if you don’t get a sniff back there’s another pug or pit bull half a block away for you try again. No harm, no foul just sniffing away.

I’m on this rant partially because I recently adopted a wiener dog with no worries in the world and partially because the dating pool I keep going  back to now shows signs of drying up. Drake might be in the club, going up on a Tuesday while some of us are sitting across from a person with a squirrel tattoo, a drug problem and more father issues than I care to write about. But hey, she’s pro Bernie, believes all lives matter, drinks Pabst and wants to discuss the disillusion of the American Dream while we smoke Organic Cigarettes. Not marijuana but cigarettes not infected by Corporate America. Her name was Winter. Of course she had actually been birthed and christened Amanda but a Game of Thrones addiction and  her need to rebel against some system led to the name change(Real Life Winter, if you read this, I’m sorry.) Living in the Hipster Capital of Sacramento has privileged me to meet these characters on a regular basis. Most often we only nod in passing, acknowledge the other’s dog or sweet bike and keep moving. Every so often though the people who are “too cool” to care what others think get tired of drinking discount wine and talking about theories with each other. Apparently even they have their limit to how many times it’s acceptable to debate the impact of French culture on American cinema. Eventually they need a connection, one that makes the other feels as if they truly matter in the big scheme of things. The funny thing is we’re all nothing but spark in the night. See what I did there?  Apparently we have a problem these days where everybody wants to be Hough Grant in “Love Actually” but nobody wants to actually be the known as the guy  with the prostitution colored elephant in the room. So how did we meet? Tinder of all places. Like there’s anywhere else to meet these days. Yeah, you can get out but it always pulls you back in.

We’d both been actively swiping for some time now and had made a match over a year ago. Wow, as I write this I’m realizing I’ve been doing this way too long. After series of picture exchanges, late night messages and the review of each other’s social media accounts we finally broke. Now normally I’d recommend my bar The Virgin Sturgeon but she was anti animal abuse and Sturgeon being caught for their eggs fall into this category. Very serious stuff people. Catch and release guys, all lives matter. We settled on LowBrau, a local hipster hotspot filled with bright shorts and people with shoes but no socks. Think about it as the Pokemon Hotspot where all the smartphones go to find the elusive Jiggly Puff but instead of lost gamers it’s Hipsters and craft beer. The kind of place where they have Motown Mondays but nobody in there knows about David Ruffin and associates “Ain’t No Mountain High Enough” with Julia Roberts in “The Step Mom”. Speaking of Pokemon, I do tip my hat to the app. I’ve never seen so many people out walking and enjoying the streets of Sacramento before. It even managed to change my swiping habits from right to up and to the left. Only lasted a few days before I relapsed back to my perversions but it was nice break while it lasted. Anyhow back to Winter and our current situation. Tonight she went all out and really owned the part. Winter wore a big ol floppy Breakfast at Tiffany’s hat, a floral/seagull covered long shirt and plum colored leggings. She smoked a mean cigarette and had Fran Dressure type of laugh. Maybe it was all those GMO free smokes were staining her voice?

As these things go, drinks began to flow and Bernie’s dying campaign was discussed and dissected. She didn’t appreciate my pro Hilary stance much but we agreed anything was better than Trump. Seriously, anything is better than Trump. Prop up Lenin’s frozen corpse, John not Valdimir’s just in case you were wondering. Three Pabst, a few American Spirts, something about the problem with the media later and I’m not paying attention anymore. Not that I didn’t enjoy her company, believe me, I’ve been in situations much worse than this. It was the damn tattoo that threw me off and peaked my curiosity. See Winter had a curious squirrel drawn behind her left shoulder with nose slightly poking over, taking a casual sniff if you will. I first noticed it when she excused herself for a restroom break. The thought of that tattoo started gnawing at me.  The shit that gets the juices going, I tell you human sexuality is a dangerous thing. Right when one thinks they’ve experienced it all there’s a new fetish that seeps into the wrinkles of your mind. Further  pushing you down the rabbit hole. One min I’m contemplating a fake family emergency like “I’m so sorry my brother’s parakeet just died. I’ve got to go. I’ll call you.” the next minute I’m full blown “I need to see this squirrel. What kind of person tattoos a squirrel on themselves? What other tattoos does she have? Is she pierced? Maybe there’s a monkey knife fight happening somewhere on her body? What’s wrong with me? I need to see this!” Spoiler alert, there was no Monkey  knife happening but with any luck I’d be doing my best Hmong impression and trapping some stew meat. I had to give this date my all.

When she returned the two Pabst in front of had already transformed into Eye of the Pig, Diablo Piss or whatever other craft beer you fancy. The conversation about her dabbing in expressive poetry as a way to protest troops in the Middle East was that much more meaningful. I made sure to keep eye contact, nod, say things like”Yeah? How so? Tell me more” making sure to indulge her takes on things that didn’t matter to me in the least bit. Before you make me out to be a bag of shit let me remind you that I’m not out here breaking up happy homes or praying on the recently divorced. Nobody’s here to split the atom so calm down. We both were on a smut site and I just wanted to see that rodent on her back. We talked, we laughed, we drank. 10:30 turned to 1am and the eventual  walk back home. I would need to be sure that my brother wasn’t asleep on the couch and that the parokeet was nowhere in sight. Easily accomplished via a text. Then a Snapchat when the text goes unresponsive and finally a phone call when the bastard doesn’t know how to take a hint. Try leaving a voicemail about needing to taste a rodent while in a drunken stupor. Trust me, the next day will leave you reaching for the penicillin.

You and Winter know exactly where this went, no need to share the worst of the details.  Just know that eventually I stared that squirrel in it’s cold dead eye and the tattoo’s owner made some unusual requests involving spit and choking and called me a bitch. My brother? He stayed on the couch having ignored all previous requests to do otherwise. Demanding the next day that I not invade his living space again, being that he pays rent an all it seems like a fair request. Come to think about it why did I need to explore this tattoo? There’s a 165 pound raccoon on my couch already. What did I learn from all this? I can write some grandiose exposition about the quality of people we meet and break down the multiple layers of human attraction but the truth is not too many people are comfortable with those conversations. So, I’ll keep it simple and say Hipsters are real people, real people have their own unique fetishes and more importantly, you’re more comfortable hunting Pikachu in dark alleys with strangers than admitting you swipe right on what really gets your rocks off. If only we could just go around sniffing asses freely. If it could all really be that simple. Swipe safely friends.

 

Life Statements

Posted on by jimense86

“The last 223 days have basically been a PSY video.”

 

So yeah, it’s been awhile since we’ve talked. I apologize for the absence. May you guys forgive me for falling off. To those that supported “Confessions of a Tinderholic” I appreciate you more than words can describe. See I love writing about life. Maybe it’s therapeutic and maybe I’m just a really good at bullshitting. Who knows. What follows is me getting the cobwebs out with some life talk. God, I think I’ve been listening to too much Life of Pablo these days. Here’s my stab at something different. If you like it great, if you don’t well that’s perfectly fine. I would never ask anyone to compromise their vision so gracias por su opinión. As always feedback is encouraged and welcomed. P.S I’m still swiping and don’t worry there’s stories to tell.

“Life Statements”

Sitting alone. Wide awake. Thoughts running. Memories flashing. Fledgling podcast. Failing body. Bleeding accounts. Feeling 30. Addicted swiper. Has been? Never was? That’s fear. Bitter memories. Mom tried. Dad left. Grandma died. Trailer living. Welfare survival. Kmart clearance. Knockoff Shaqs. Regional transit. Mother breaking. Pops playing. Side family. He had. Trailer Trash. Anthony said. Senseless violence. Always fighting. Mom’s violent. Sergio’s drunk. Yet again. Shelter brother. Eviction notice. Mom left. Needed time. Dad tried. 90 days. Still failed. Fucking guy. Empty cabinets. Beer stocked. Priorities right?

Fast forward. September 99. The 56. Post Colorado. Ask why? Don’t know. Attention seeker? Practical joke? Terrible decision. Letters wrote. Apologized, profusely. No forgiveness. Blackballed family. Like LEOPARD. Mercury News. Front page. “Basket case”. “Psychotic break”. Countless labels. Broken youth. Chippy shoulders. Glass jaw. Lovely combo. Mixes well. That’s sarcasm. Flash forward. New father. Solid dude. New brother. New life. Same demons. Picket fences. Suburban living. Graduation stage. Friends walking. Not me. Summer diploma. Hello partying. Summer 04. Fresh 18. Endless nights. Blackout life. Death Mobile. Friendships growing. New brothers. Life’s good.

Woah 2006. Hello pregnancy. Teen Dad? Not quiet. Panic setting. Aborting thoughts. Forgive me. Life lessons. Checkup appointment. Ultrasound screen. Doctor said. “See that?”. “Not really?”. “Exactly Dad.” Life hit. No penis. He’s she. Everything pink. May 4th. Stadium Arcadia. “Hey Oh”. Song blaring. Hi Lilly. 7 pounds. Fucking aye. Instant love. Better half. No failing. We tried. No luck. Broken family. Probably best. Different people. We became. No worries. You’re Dad. Be him. Don’t repeat. Past mistakes.

Time leap. March 2010. Darkest hours. Stolen friend. Kindest man. Real person. Cutdown prematurely. Dark times. Self medication. Alleged Alcoholic. Slippery slope. Fading fast. Snap back. To reality. Stolen line. I know. Failed once. Failed twice. 18 months. 10,000 reasons. Lesson learned. Be Dad. Stop bullshitting. Finally promoted. Left home. Left daughter. Career first. Life error. Family first. Learned that. Failed relationships. Still grew. Learned lessons. Sorry You. Drifted randomly. That’s life.

Welcome 2016. 30 now. Daughter blossoming. Smiles brought. Headaches earned. Growing up. That’s me. Learning life. Me Patriarch? Go figure. Proud Father. Humbled Man. Never leaving. Beautifully broken. Ever evolving. Mistake maker. It’s cool. I know. We slip. We crack. We fight. We relapse. Always learn. Keep moving. Keep living. Not surviving. That’s life. I’m me. Lilly’s Dad. Erma’s Son. Sergio’s Bastard. Chris’s nightmare. Cassandra’s brother. Sammanda’s twin. Diego’s leader. That’s family. Never forget. I’m done. Thank you. I’m back.

La Actavista: When You Get Tindered by a Protester

Posted on by jimense86

Because this makes you take me seriously

Because this makes you take me seriously

As it always goes with Tinder we met while swiping in boredom. La Actavista wore a safe but seductive smile, cat eyes, dimples and curly hair. Not kinky curly but those big loopy curls you see when women put extra effort into the occasion. Her profile was decorated with pictures of marches for “lives that matter” and “Migrant Workers Rights”. There was even a selfie with Dolores Huerta, this was a very thoughtful and insightful woman by all accounts. She contrast those profile photos with beer pong, red cups and some racy Vegas memories. So obviously there was a wild side to her. We had swiped right on each other months prior and exchanged information yet never managed to set a date. She was too busy with social meetings and shutting down freeway onramps while I was too busy working or developing an affection for a local card room/coffee shop. Aside: The things you see in a Vietnamese coffee shop on a Wednesday night are a cross between Tijuana, Vegas and episode of Taxi Cab Confessions. They are also unpublishable. Just know they involve buckets of Hennessy and Heineken, “Performance Dancers”collecting crumpled dollar bills and cigarette smoking indoors. It was during one of these Wednesday nights that I would receive a text to meet at a local Buffalo Wild for a beer and some wings. The struggle to decide if I wanted to donate to Chastity, Nikki or whatever she called herself’s college fund or attempt a connection with a Tinderella was a real one. On one hand I could sit here with a mutual grouping of degenerates and be assured a memorable evening where filth was encouraged. On the other hand I could spray myself with Axe body spray, pop a tic tac and drive towards triumph or failure. The former would offer me an expensive tease with an end result I could not and would pay for, while the latter would at least assure me a shot of a connection and potentially a walk of shame. Plus if all else failed I could drown my struggles in wings and beer during a reverse happy hour. My decision was made. I picked up my picketing signs and set off for a mutual protest against loneliness and celibacy.

As I arrived the fear of failure had been pushed out by the thoughts of drinks, conversation, casual sex and chicken wings. Maybe not in that order but they were definitely in my thought process. The parking lot was packed and full of “Bro’s”(Douchebags with biceps bigger than my head). I had forgot that it was discount Wednesday and this particular Buffalo Wild was located in the suburb of Natomas. Natomas once was a thriving portion of Sacramento, originally a community on the outskirts with a quiet local feel. In the years since (pre housing crash) it had turned into a expanding development of track homes, get rich quick Dotcommers, low income housing and both a Walmart and a Target. Real exciting stuff. Unfortunately for us, the bubble popped, development stopped and we were left with the skeleton of what should have been. All this leads me to Buffalo Wild being the single most popular place to be on a Wednesday night, full of a who’s who of the community. That’s sarcasm if you didn’t pick it up. After circling the parking lot for a spot that fit my Taurus I finally made my way inside.  A quick scan of the bar and there she was. La Activista had already started her drinking and had apparently made a new friend. Sitting next to her and engaging in what seemed like overly friendly conversation was Chuy(pronounced chewy). A younger Hispanic male, wore a lady killer smile, spoke fluent Spanish and had deep pockets. How did I know, well the Black Card was out on the bar in full display. Nice move kid, I tip my hat to you for the effort. It was becoming clear to me that my date was being stolen before I even had the opportunity to say an awkward hello.

Now what I wanted to do was go over to them and go Pan’s Labyrinth on him with a wine bottle and take my pride back. What I did do was nowhere near as drastic and somewhat submissive.  What can I say, I was still learning how to be me. I approached the happy couple and created every bit of awkward tension I could.  Introduced myself as Sergio…from Tinder and apologized for my delay. Chuy realizing the situation but not wanting to fall back swiftly apologized for any misinterpretation and offered to purchase us a round. Before I could shoot it down La Activista cashed in and seemed way to eager about it. Was there something going on that I didn’t know? This little Tinderonie was taking full advantage of what was quickly becoming a group date and abusing it to the max. So be it. Three rounds, a few stories of how we met, her latest crusade and what our new friend Chuy was doing alone at the bar later…we were allowed to start our date.

Chuy finally took a hint, gave her a half hug and wished a both a “beautiful night” and left with a smile and a shaking of his head. Finally. What the fuck had just happened? More importantly, where were my chicken wings? La Activist apologized for the situation but admitted that she wasn’t really sure about meeting or getting to know me. That’s where Chuy had come into play. See Chuy was an ex coworker of hers and they had just “randomly” run into each other tonight. He had kept her company and was advising her on this situation, providing a man’s perspective. Sounded like a bunch of malarkey to me. Chuy obviously was trying to get some butt love and cuddle time in, I’m not that naive to not notice the play. Who did she think she was talking to? So back to why I was not really that desirable. I was made aware that it was “different” talking to a man who had a child, worked a corporate job and spoke broken Spanish. So “Shooting Blanks” Chuy had less bagage , flashed a Black Card, had a degree in Ethnic Studies and owned his own home down the street was more desirable? Did I mention he was younger? She continued to explain that the kid was just fun and was nothing more than company. Hmmm, “fun”, that’s a dangerous word to decribe a person of the opposite sex. Whatever though, my wings arrived, Mango Habanero, how’s that for Ethnic Studies? We continued drinking and discussing deep topics like Social impacts of race and blah blah blah blah. By the time we both had finished our buffet of fried wings and no name tequila(Cuervo, again trying to up my Mexican for her) we both realized driving would be a mistake. “Split an Uber?” I casually tossed out. That seductive smile reared its head and agreed. “Yeah, I’m down the street. What time do you work tomorrow?” Had this night just turned in my favor? Thank the Retail Scheduling Gods that I was off.

We arrived at her condo, hit the fridge for a glass of wine and plopped on the couch. Next step was the Netflix. After a few minutes of deliberation there we were indulging in “The Wonder Years” and the episode where Kevin falls for his French teacher. We didn’t really pay attention but I recall looking up and making eye contact with Kevin’s Father as it seemed like he was judging both Kevin and I for our mistakes that evening. As if on cue I would be pushed off as La Activista bolted for the bathroom. Yup, that was happening. I sat on the couch, the Tony Romo bobble head staring at me and Joe Crocker singing The Wonder Years theme song over her LA Actavista’s gushes of vomit. Naked, afraid, drunk and fearing her pulling a choke job a la Tony Romo I did the gentlemanly thing. Put on my clothes, requested an Uber and checked on my date. She had casually walked out looked me in the eyes and asked if I was ready to get back to what we had started. Now I’ve made worse mistakes in my life and have hit further bottoms plus she had agreed to brush her teeth. Ride canceled. In the distance Tony Romo Bobble Head stared at both of us, judging with shame and disgust.

So what became of us? Absolutely nothing would become of us. We would hang out once more and repeat the scenario without the puking this time then we would drift away. There would be no responses to text messages or weekend Snap Chats. La Actavista would vanish and I would be left with a memory and the realization of what had happened. The missed connection would bother me but not hinder my spirits. Fuck it, it was a hell of an experience and not a bad Wednesday, all things considered. What would bother me and throw a curveball into the entire situation was a month or so later. I would be out with a friend of mine at Dive Bar( Swanky place that wanted to be LA but was stuck in Sacramento) the same bar with the Mermaid in it. It was there that I would run into La Activista, her roommates and boyfriend of three years. How was this verified? Facebook and Instagram post celebrating their anniversary with quotes like “Through everything you’ve held me down” and shit like that. Yup, I had been used on Tinder and was simply a dick during a time where “she was going through a lot, a lot of dick.” I wonder if there were others out there that she had taken down just like me? Was there a support group for this kind of situation or an establishment that would help me protest this kind of behavior? No, no there wasn’t at all. On top of this the real kicker? The boyfriend, well his name was Chuy. Yes that Chuy.

Suddenly Sergio: My Father, The Original Swiper?

Posted on by jimense86

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That’s what a weekend of free drinks will do..

“It’s a positive thing to talk about terrible things and make people laugh about them.”

-Louis C. K.

I’m bored and on lunch. It’s one of those unusually hot days for Sacramento and it’s October. I’m not a man built for this climate, I’m a man designed to last the winter (spare tire/Love-Handles) so naturally I’m not in the best of moods. I don’t much appreciate needing to invest in baby powder when I’m in between checks. While on my lunch I’ve chosen to set my lineup for this week’s Fantasy Football match against “The Great Hambino”. Hambino and I go back several years and in fact is a good friend of mine but for this week my sole mission is to split his belly and rob him of his manhood, safely securing the Top Dog position in our League. Life ambitions, I know. Nothing sexier than a man that dedicates his time to being an “owner”, wheeling and dealing like he’s actually you know employed by Roger Goodell and the Nation Football League. Early today, while doing my daily morning swipes(I do my best work on the toilet) Hambino had messaged me and continued our thread of shit talking leading up to this match. These attempts to get in each other’s head in order to create an advantage (at the time of this publication he’s somewhere between John Kerry and Tanya Harding) were becoming barbaric and downright disgusting. I can’t publish anything in those threads but think Reddit and the AMA entries(Ask Me Anything) to gain some understanding. Something about Fantasy Football just makes everything that much more personal. I’m going bury this man on the field, never mind the multi million dollar athletes that are playing the game tomorrow, they have no barring on this outcome. It was at that moment that I realized my Dad time (those brief hours not dedicated to work or the attempt not to ruin your seed’s childhood and preserve the legacy of your last name) had become Tinder, Fantasy Football, Scotch and writing about Tinder. Where the hell has my life gone? When did I turn into the bizaro 2015 version of the orginal “Thief of Hearts and Lady Parts”, my father?

He was a Sergio as well, I say was because we’ve had no contact other than an interlude while I was vacationing in the Motherland last year. That encounter ended with drunk phone calls, him trying to party like it was 1999 and the always entertain public argument. Cheers to vacations gone wrong! Back to our suddenly similar lifestyle though. As I write this I recall his fondness for a good beer but for the life of me I can’t tell you what his version of the Sturgeon was? I would like to imagine he had his own miniature Mexican version of Mark there to advise and humor him. There had to be some combo of Banda (Mexican Country), Lisa Lisa and Stevie B blaring in the background as well. This would be Paisa bar would be delightfully seedy and full of questionable women named Xochitl (pronounced “SOH-cheel”) that looked as rough as their name sounded. When I would get older I would go through a similar phase. Even purchased me some Levi’s, a Ranchero Hat and knock off pointy boots. The look didn’t work particularly well nor did it serve as a good profile pic for online dating. Sergio had vices just as I do. He swiped right with extreme prejudice but in the 90s and in real life! This is proven by the fact that I have brothers and sisters spread out across the coast of Mexico and possibly elsewhere in Merrica. Hola famila! Como te va? If you’re reading this I thank you for the support and it solves the question of who in Mexico took the time to translate this. I will not be able to pay you any future royalties though so don’t even think about it.

I can only thank God that man didn’t have a Smartphone back then. Can you imagine a darker, more perverted version of me that spoke fluent Spanish? With that kind of access to women? Who knows the damage he could have done. Come to think of it, he might actually own a Smartphone now, he is on Facebook and posts pictures of dogs, beer and shrimp from time to time. That means he has the internet, which means he might in fact be in Tinder?  What if the Old Man is somewhere in Mexico doing Tinder in Español? What if he started reading this blog and has been living vicariously through me and now Tinders in Mexico and my thoughts as a blueprint? Fuck, I may be responsible for a señoritas heartbreak, pregnancy and eventual rath. Talk about the Butterfly Effect. What could even be even worse is that he may have started swiping before I even decided to cross over to the dark side. That makes him Darth Vader to my a Middle Management version of Luke but with my hand firmly in tact. I don’t know what I would do without my right hand. I’ve never swiped with my left, that seems wrong and like a stranger or something. So what does this rant mean? Some may say that I’m out of line for this entry and some may be able to relate. I would say I’ve come to peace with that portion of my life and forgive the guy for his faults. It’s not easy to become a father at 18 with limitations in education, work and problem management. He tried, he did damage but he tried. I think we turned out just fine. What does scare me is that I may have become a carbon copy just with better resources, stronger abilities and knack to communicate through writing. Could this prove that history does in fact repeat itself? Please tell me it doesn’t. Does this mean I’ll eventually have a bunch of mini me’s running around speaking Spanish and rocking giant belt buckles with a love F150s? That’s way too much child support for me to handle. That’s all for now, my minds been blown wide right and I’m feeling the need to listen to some Marco Antonio Solis. Time to swipe and figure out my Saturday Night.

Shameless Sheri Part 2: Why You NEVER Swipe Right on an Ex

Posted on by jimense86

Bang Bang. She shot me down.

Disclaimer: This is the second half of my date with an ex I found on Tinder. Feel free to read the prior entry or take this as a standalone piece.

We sat there emotionless and sharing awkward conversations. Sheri was two and a half Long Islands in to my half a beer. This girl wasn’t playing tonight. Whoever had brought out the resting bitch face in her must have been important. The Ex maybe? I wasn’t about to ask and open that box of crazy, her texting war was doing more than an ample job.  Sheri was always a laid-back and easy-going woman, at least from what I recalled. Never one to ignore company or allow her emotions to burst from her pores like tonight, something was off. We exchanged some more small talk and caught up on one and others lives. She was still slaving away at a dead-end office. Her traveling goals had stopped at Vegas, Cancun and Los Angeles. She had attempted to purchase a home but her ex sold her on the idea of moving in to his flat in Midtown Sacramento. It’ll be fun he said, they would share their lives together and begin building towards the future. What he had failed to mention was that he had earned himself a 523 FICO and was in debit from DUI one and two. Never mind the gambling habit. None of that had stopped her though, he loved her and they’d find a way to make it work. Fast forward past some broken dreams and empty promises later and here we were. Thanks Guy, you really set me up for success! Lucky me. Waitress please pour me another drink.  This was going south fast.

After exchanging some pleasantries and fond memories, fond for me at least, we began to dig little deeper into our respected past.  She was surprised to find that I had been single and on Tinder. I delivered a white lie and explained that I was relatively new to it and was just trying to meet new people. My mouth must have smelled like a septic tank because we both knew there was some serious bullshit flowing. Sheri stated she had chosen to try Tinder after finding out Mr. Hot Shot was using it as a way to play Big Spoon with some Tinderellas. She was broken and admitted to feeling lost and depressed. She had given this man some of her prime years, lost friends and dented family relationships and it was all for nothing.  Like an ice cream cone withering in the sun she was feeling the pressure of that biological clock. The ticking would grow louder by the day. Now I by no means find myself old at 30 but it’s obvious to me that the line of thinking isn’t a two-way street. I’ve never understood the desire to meet, enter into a legal contract and reproduce. What happens when things go sideways? How is it fair for a man or woman to fork over 50% of what they’ve earned because their partner negated on the contract? Maybe this is why i’m still single. But I digress.

She was really opening up and venting.  She admitted to me about their final fight. Yes she had still taken him back after multiple indiscretions and wanted to work things out. “I just thought that he could change. I wanted to fix him.” Ladies, there’s no fixing us. Please don’t repeat my friend’s mistakes and have some self-respect. During the afore-mentioned final fight Mr. Hot Shot admitted to also seeing the “Mother of his Son” and wanted to work things out with her. Like that Shameful Sheri was being cast aside and put out to pasture. One smashed windshield and a bleach bath to his closet later she was packing and on her way out. Perfectly said response right? Initially lost and depressed she would learn to crawl and walk again. Sheri had explained to me that she had joined the Tinder Nation as a way of getting back at Mr. Hot Shot. She wanted to experience casual and meaningless sex. She wanted to see how this could be better than waking up next to her and her morning breath each day. In a sick way she was living his sexual fantasy to fulfill a void. I could see the tears begin to form as the memories were rushing back. How had I become Dr. Phil? This was Hindenburg all over again. She would excuse herself to restroom and I would continue to eat alone and order another Sake Bomb. Somewhere out there my Guardian Angel was slacking, guy must have been on the couch smoking some dust.

Sheri had been gone at least 10 minutes and was either passing a massive stool or was projectile vomiting all over the stall. Please tell me it was the former. Five more minutes passed, had this chick snuck out on me? That’s exactly what I needed for my ego. Some wandering thoughts later Sheri reappeared, a different woman this time. She was extremely chatting, wide-eyed and going 100 miles a min. From Debbie Downer to Charlie Sheen in one bathroom trip? Had my date just railed two lines of Starbucks Espresso Black? I wasn’t about to make any accusations and took the date as it was. We continued to drink and stepped out for a smoke. It took a few aggressive sniffles for me to understand what was going on. This woman was clearly “walking on the moon” right now. Of course this would happen, of course I would be spending my night at dinner with a junky. I’m not one to judge, we all have our vices and nobody’s perfect but come on now. Was it really that bad that you had to shove a rock up your nose in order to get through dinner and conversation with me? At least that explained why she hadn’t touched her meal. I had to remind myself to get that boxed up for tomorrow. Couldn’t let the chef’s work go to waste. We would go back to our table and attempt to communicate once more. I would ask some probing questions about what she was looking for and why we were out tonight. She would side step the questions and begin to rant about how much she hated her Ex and I would nod and agree. This would be my Friday night. This is why Exes are Exes. Sensing the train wreck and trying to throw a Hail Mary I suggested we pay the tab and head out back to my place or another bar for some drinks. She immediately shot me down and proceeded to chastise me for even suggesting. I’d had it with this shit and was ready to give this slut muffin the cold truth she deserved. Who was this Blow Head to judge me? Never the one to hold back I would ask if she realized who she’d become. I casually addressed that nobody really takes a party girl seriously and that it wouldn’t be the best idea to be a 30 plus year old woman with a consistent sinus infection. Like an agitated father I would express my disdain and disgust for who she was currently. Tears. Mucus. A quick glass of water to my face later and that would be our evening. I should have swiped left on this one. I should have left the ghost in the past. I made eye contact with our waitress. She put on her Hurt Locker suit, brought the check and helped me get this ticking time bomb out.

What would become of Sheri? I hear she doesn’t go out as much. I also hear she’s met Mr.  Right and they’re planning on moving in together. I also saw that they made it to Europe and China. Congratulations to the both of them and I wish them both the best. What did I learn? Never go out with an Ex on Tinder that has a fondness for the Devil’s Dandruff and a drinking problem. Seriously though, we meet people and for a moment in time everything makes sense. We grow and better ourselves. Some of us grow together and others grow apart. There’s nothing wrong with either, it’s one of those fun facts of life. In the end we must learn from our time together as we are only afforded so much of it. We must use that knowledge to enjoy and respect future relationships we may entertain. The problem comes when we refuse to acknowledge a toxic situation and attempt to salvage or revisit. Always good in theory but terrible in practice. Remember they’re exes for a reason. Happy swiping and remember nobody likes a resting bitch face at dinner.

Shameful Sheri: Why You NEVER Swipe Right on an Ex Part 1

Posted on by jimense86

tempFileForShare_2015-10-02-15-46-06 “How do women still go out with guys? When you consider the fact that there is no greater threat to women than men. We’re the number one threat to women, globally and historically, we’re the number one cause of injury and mayhem to women. We’re the worst thing that ever happens to them. You know what our number one threat is? Heart disease.”

-Louis C.K.

Her name was Sheri, she was recently single and on the wrong side of 25. We had met through a mutual friend years prior while at a Birthday party for somebody I didn’t really know and don’t hang out with any longer. It was winter time and she dressed as women do in the winter, leggings, boots, a long buttoned sweater, flannel shirt under (flannel was in then). She carried herself with confidence but not cockiness, was consistently smiling and engaging in conversation. We found ourselves circling around a cheese and buffalo wing plate and regardless of how sexy those wings were I knew an effort had to be made to get to know this stranger. It would help that we both had allowed our inhibitions to drown in Hennessy and Coke. When introduced, I managed to fumble my red cup and spill onto my shirt. Jackass move Sergio. In an attempt to divert attention from the mishap I made a joke involving public urination and how she should be happy I didn’t throw it on her. Crickets. She wasn’t laughing. In between the small talk there was subtle flirting, nothing out of the ordinary and certainly nothing to brag about however there was a connection. 

Back then, when I first knew her, she was a bubbly girl full of life, ambition and was deaf to the realities of life. She spoke of traveling the world, owning multiple homes and following through with her graduate program. As I sat there across from her years later, I couldn’t help but wonder where had that person gone? This woman before me now was jaded, emotionally unavailable, broken and harboring a substance abuse problem. Then, just as now, she was single and not particularly looking for anyone, but rolled with it, a real “free spirit” to put it kindly. I on the other hand was the polar opposite, quiet, dry and in a darker part of my life. I had experienced the loss of a friend and was cold cocked with the truth of how wrong this world could be. Not knowing how to process everything and looking for some sort of human attachment I latched onto her. It was the eyes, her reassuring voice and always positive outlook that sealed it for me. This was the person I could never be but knew I needed. It took me several weeks of persistence to gain enough of her trust but I would finally break through. We had our first date and shared good awkward first-date types of conversations. We ended up sharing more than a cab that night and when it ended we were both left satisfied and wanting a little more. We’d text, call and just hangout with each other. It would be a short time before we’d begin exclusively dating; meeting each other’s friends and family as things organically grew more and more serious. What would our next steps be? As far as we were concerned the future was a blank canvass and we had nothing but our imagination to fill the void. What we ignored were all the hairline cracks in the picture we carelessly painted. Slowly but surely our faults would come to the surface. Starting as small irritations and eventually leading to full fledge disputes. This was nothing like the romantic comedy that we had signed up for and it was apparent that time was being wasted. Neither of us was particularly at fault. You could blame my lack of compassion or her failure to communicate the disappointment that what was on her mind. Either way you sliced it we were fucked. This union had eroded and all that was left was the compost of what once was alive and thriving. It took time but I would eventually admit to my contribution in the breakup. I know now that I shouldn’t have entered into that relationship when I was both emotionally and mentally unavailable. I would make several ill advised attempts to recapture the lightning in the bottle we shared but would never succeed. Once she drifted into another 48 month repeat of our story (with another guy) we lost all contact. She’d wander the dating scene being strung along by some Hotshot that was slightly older, a little edgier and always one step ahead. They would live together, party together and eventually ruin each other. It would be a chance encounter while swiping that would bring us back together for this evening and we both knew this was no ordinary Tinder date. Sheri and I were rolling the dice on a re-match. Historically these things never worked out but fuck it why not here, why not now? I was up for some drinks and a challenge. I was on Cloud Nine, had a solid day of work, some fresh money in my pocket and a revived wardrobe to celebrate a new job title. I was an older, wiser and slightly more experienced version of myself not like the guy she remembered from the last time we had last shared a conversation. What led us here to this fateful night? Let’s call it a Tree Smacker( a terrible cocktail concoction named after the late Sonny Bono), a bag of bad swiping habits, persistence and more than anything our need to connect with a live being. When she arrived there was obvious irritation in her voice. She took less than three minutes to order her first drink. That drink lasted maybe 30 seconds. What was I getting myself into? I would soon learn there was no climbing Everest.

Recovering Trish Part 2: Relapse, Momma Coog and The Cub

Posted on by jimense86

“I am a woman in my forties that the younger guys have a tendency to be attracted to,” she explained. “I’m like, as long as I can breast-feed ’em, cool.”

-Vivica A. Fox

Disclaimer- This is the second half of a two part entry. Please see Recovering Trish Part 1 if you need the background or to have a full understanding of this entry.

It was another slow Wednesday night at the Sturge. Mark was back from his two days off and was pouring the Jameson with only a splash of ginger.  We had spent the better part of the dinner rush debating the Giants playoff run, parlays and early season favorites for the Super Bowl. In between our sports talk were a flurry of messages between Golden Girl Trish and my increasingly inebriated self. With each swig of Jameson the messages had manipulated from small talk to innuendo and now direct demands. Trish was a woman of limited vocabulary but she more than knew how to make T & A work in a sentence. I needed a cigarette to slow my roll but fought the urge in order to avoid reeking like a Vietnamese Card Room. According to my text message alerts it was half past 9. Almost time for me to meet the ageless wonder.

A few weeks back I had chosen to swallow my pride and reinstalled Tinder. Poof, like a black light in motion every match and mistake was brought back to the surface. I had done some deep diving and discovered that just because I had trashed the app it didn’t mean I had deleted my account. I was in a comatose state, a veggie swiper if you will, still connected and able to be viewed but not responsive. A few messages came through, one of those messages being from Trish. She was 39 but appeared a passable 35. Trish listed herself as “fun, independent, up for adventure, currently reinventing myself, full time mommy and student. I’m Looking for Mr. Right, not Mr. Right Now. Swipe left if you’re looking for a hook up”. I don’t think Trish understood the meaning of Tinder, but far be it from me to burst her bubble. Best to be the gentleman and play the game. Her profile consisted of the obligatory selfie, yet another Raider Nation tailgate shot but with real eyebrows and no Dickies or Cortezes this time. Trish felt the need to class up the profile and go artsy with the “Toaster” filter from Instagram to make her “glancing at the horizon while in deep thought” shot seem vintage and unique. I’m all for creative expression, but dolling up a picture of you waiting for the light rail was just a bit too much. Aside from this there was the classic “look at me taking a picture in the mirror at the gym” selfie. I truly appreciated her foundation and lipstick in that one,  very presentable and not the least bit sweaty. More alarming and what should have been a red flag was the curious choice of her celebrating what appeared to be a cat’s birthday. It was the perfect portrait of crazy and an unnatural attachment to an animal. I don’t mean to be harsh, but I doubt Peanut Butter(the cat’s name) woke up that day juiced to celebrate his birth and pose for pictures with a lavender cone strapped to his head. Well done Trish. You’re fit, not a chola and a philosopher. Have a love for felines as if they’re your children and have a flair for the arts. Definitely NOT a woman in a crisis by any means. No need to judge her as a person that had reached a point where Tinder counted as a legitimate attempt to connect with a soul mate. It was that or she was a closet horn-dog that subscribed to the motto “Get em young, get em sprung.” Before you judge me as superficial or a complete asshole I would like point out that Trish also set her search radius above 30 miles and as young as 25 years old. This woman was no Mother Teresa and had seen too much Desperate Housewives. Not to mention there was an obvious sickness for “cubs” in distress. You just knew she relished the opportunity to play Momma Bear. Who was I to deny her the opportunity to feel youth once more?

Through our multiple texts I learned Trish was from Yuba City, a small town about an hour north of Sacramento. Yuba is an agricultural based community that has a high population of cows, meth heads and owns one of the largest Sikh communities in America per Wikipedia. Don’t know how Trish could strike out with those stats but she did. She described the night life and dating scene as a cross between Deliverance and Fargo but in Spanish or Hmong. She’d tried dating, speed dating, online dating and swiping with locals to no avail. I was skeptical but between the racy pictures we shared, our mutual horror stories of dating and my curiosity of the older woman I had become somewhat sold on experiencing a Cougar. Years prior I had somewhat dated an older woman. She had been a passionate Salvadorian with a temper and multiple levels of control issues. Surprisingly she also had an unnatural affection for the felines. Let’s just say her story involves a dead cat on the box and tons of broken glass, but back to Trish. Her chief complaint and reason for being on Tinder was that men her age were either married and seeking an affair, or had failed in life and had one too many kids and ex wives. Lately she’d experimenting with younger men, “Keeps me on my toes” she said.

Trish had done her homework and looked me up on Thedirty.com as well as stalked my Instagram and Facebook page. The former being a website where people post the dirty laundry and sexual disfunction of their exes. Lots of small penis talk mixed with what STD the person is responsible for producing. It basically doubles as a digital cock block to avoid getting stink in the pink. “Can’t have a repeat of last time.” I took it that she had to take an unplanned trip to Planned Parenthood because of these dates, leading to her crazy levels and lack of trust. It was refreshing to know I wasn’t being bashed on sister sites, I recomend you check them out sometime. Anyhow, I was still leery “The Indian” was up to his old tricks. Adding to this, Trish had consistently dodged my attempts to FaceTime or Tango me, providing no video proof of her identity. What was worse than a practical joke? What if I was being set up to get drugged, raped, robbed and left in a van down by the river? Far fetched but I had seen enough To Catch a Predator to know when I was being baited. In this case Chris Hansen was disguising himself as a 40 year old Momma Coog on the prowl. I could see the headline now, “29 year old Sacramento man forcibly entered, Tinder to blame”. Against my better judgment I busted out the pepper spray and rolled the dice on a meet up for tonight. Figured if anything went sideways I’d at least have Mark and his trusted Louisville Slugger to protect my man cakes. This time I chose not to dress up, cut my hair or do anything out of the ordinary. Figured she was after me and would have to accept me as I was. This was made easier because I was in those awkward days between paychecks so investing in this date was out of the question. At the last second Trish decided to switch the game up again and requested we meet at my place. Time to roll the dice. I paid Mark and let him know where I’d be, just in case I ended up missing. A disapproving glance and a Mark approved tip later I was on my way.

I waited at the house for her arrival with my friend and roommate “The Mexican”. He was less than approving of the decision to have a complete stranger in his home. Granted he was humored at the idea of me potentially being catfished and murdered as well. I had done a fair amount of talking her up and shared several of our exchanges, douche bag move but come on ladies, you already know we can’t keep these secrets. I recommend you remember this the next time you choose to send the over the shoulder ass shot to a guy you met in your iphone. A text came through, she was here, the moment of truth was upon us. I opened the door and was slightly surprised, I’d been disappointed enough to no longer be truly surprised. She definitely wasn’t a product of “The Indian’s” prank, so there’s the positive, Trish however was closer to the Senior Menu at IHOP than her profile had led me to believe. She dressed “appropriate” for her age, leggings, an off the shoulder blouse and had the sweet scent of stripper and Elizabeth Taylor. Her eyes sparkled with hope that clutched to the crows feet beneath them. Her breast pushed up with a peak of leopard print beneath her shirt. For what she was lacking in youth she more than made up for in effort. We passed on sharing a drink before going out and took an Uber downtown to a local Irish Pub on L street. We ended up running into my roommate “The Mexican” along with five of his cousins who he had never met before. Although they came form more than 3,000 miles away, they knew a tinder date when they saw one. Her comfortable attire for that eve would prevent us from getting into MIX, a night club next door, so we decided to share a drink with the aforementioned group of spanish speaking muchachos. During her surgically steady drinking pace she started to become paranoid of the way these young latin men perceived our date, “do you think they know what we are doing?” she asked, “yes, my roommate said they told him they have tinder down in the mother land too.” With her fears confirmed, she hinted at going back to my place. The roommate offered up his car since he was going to show his cousins the “fanciest” parts of downtown Sacramento. When we arrived she said she would be right back since she had something to get, I thought it was a bottle…it was a bottle, but she also brought an overnight bag. We enjoyed a couple of drinks from her obviously broken-in 750ml bottle of Bacardi Lemon mixed with Dr.Thunder to complete the Rum and Coke recipe, only problem being is that Dr.Thunder was your Dollar Tree version of Dr.Pepper, which didn’t exactly comply with the proper flavor profile. We made the most of it though, and I could appreciate the gesture. I was enjoying my moment, feeling like 5 o’clock on a Friday and looking forward to getting the weekend. That night, David would fight Goliath, except that this time Goliath would win. She text me on her way home, “I feel stupid, I think your roommate saw me leave.” Text book walk of shame.

To be honest we would see each other a few additional times, with each time ending in a more awkward place and that always awkward conversation about what two people are doing. We humored those conversations where both parties know they’ve made the wrong purchase but stubbornly stand by the idea of the product. The inevitable result regardless if it’s after three weeks, three months or three years would come swiftly. We could continue to sugar coat the time we spent and take it for what it’s worth  or we could go out guns blazing and call it a ride and a run. We chose the latter, I started an argument, she responded with some cheap shots and I ended up stuck with leopard print, some shame plus half wasted bottle of Andre.

Recovering Trish Part 1: Reinvention and Addiction

Posted on by jimense86

“I got these cheeseburgers man”

-Menace 2 Society

Off she went, saddles blazing, middle finger and pride firmly hanging out the window for anyone but mostly myself to see. She’d left in a hurry, shamefully admitting her mistakes. Left behind was the leopard print pushup, one earring, half drank bottle flat bottle of Andre Champagne and broken pipe dream of us actually dating. She’d be okay I told myself, this wasn’t her first rodeo or last walk of shame. “I told you so” was all I could come up with. Internally I was conflicted with “I’m sorry” and “You deserve better.” I knew it was all hollow and only existed to make myself feel like less of an asshole. So how did we get here? Let’s rewind the story a little bit…

“We’re on a break.” “This isn’t working out.” “It’s not you, it’s me.” “We both deserve better.” These are all the statements we have used to serve walking papers to ex or two. We start with our best intentions but inevitably the relationship runs it’s course, whether it be due to the lack of sexual satisfaction or somebody finding too much if it with a secret lover. Hell maybe it just ended because you got tired of him being a deadweight that smoked too much and just wanted to Netflix and Chill instead of Sushi and Couples Paint. One way or another somebody failed to communicate efficiently and the other is left uttering those generic words in an attempt  to end the relationship. Those phrases also happened to be the same words I shamelessly uttered to my wingman/smartphone when I chose to delete Tinder. I had grown tired of randomly swiping and getting no results and I wasn’t about to put real effort into meeting somebody though an app in my phone. Following my date with Lil Joker I experience a dry spell with matches few and far between. The Tinder Gods had shunned me and placed me into a bizarro version of the late 80s-early 90s show “Love Connection” only with no Chuck Woolery and marginally better dates. Behind Door Number One was Arlene, a “good, no drama, old fashioned and down to earth Christian girl who’s waiting for sex until marriage”, suffice to say we shared a few paragraphs worth of messaging before fizzling out. We’ll just chalk it up as two people with opposite moral compasses. I couldn’t be the “Christian Soldier” she was seeking url cesspool. That misstep would lead me to Door Number 2, Val, a 29 year old mother of four, who described herself as “Silly, open and looking to meet Mr. Right.” First off Val needed to invest in Valtrax. The mole hill on her upper lip was unbecoming of such a classy lady. Most importantly though, I didn’t see a need to waste a mother’s time. Finally Door Number 3 gave me Jessica, the albino version of Precious, who had a soft spot for cupcakes and snickerdoodles. That match was completely the product of swiping with reckless abandonment. She may have been a good person at heart but there was too much person in front of that heart for me to handle.  Aside from these eligible bachelorettes I began pairing with countless robots. These Bots were on a mission to obtain a credit or debit card in order for me join them in a live chat.  Normally it goes something like “You look sexy, I’m horny and haven’t fucked all day. Go ahead and click the link and cum chat with me baby. I’ll get the cam going.” I had fallen far but “Live Cam” was not going to be in my IP history. So there we were, my phone and I, saying our last goodbyes to Tinder. It was a fun run, I scrolled through my matches and messages. A fleeting flood of memories that were set to be deleted and discarded, some good, most bad but memories nonetheless. As I scrolled through the messages I decided to send a few “deleting this app, here’s my number” messages to these Tinderonies. Couldn’t hurt to throw out a life line right? With that I hit uninstall and was done with that chapter of my life.

I had just left the gym and was going to get ready for work. Feeling like a refined man, more energy, alive and clean, I’d been Tinder free for little over a week. There were several bouts with withdrawals, nervous twitching, excessive eating, clammy skin, thoughts of reinstalling for just a quick swipe or two, where was the Tinderholics hotline when I needed it? Slowly but surely I had begun to ease off the smack and attempted to interact more with the real world. A hipster sandwich shop here, a vegan coffee shop there, I’d even gone back to a club  “Mix” and gave single Sergio an opportunity to socialize. Several atttempts to start conversations and join these  middle aged State Workers in the art of twerking I realized how terrible idea of an idea this was. A) I have two left feet. B) I posses little to no filter when intoxicated and C) A+B= Security asking me to leave. Not to mention the cost of drinking there was ridiculous. Could somebody please remind the owners that they are at the end of the day a Club in Sacramento? So to recap: I went hood rich at the club on subpar drinks, failed conversations and a private escort to the street. I guess it could have been worse night.

So where were we, it was a Thursday morning as I prepared for work after a quick gym visit, when I received that faitful “Hi ; ) it’s Trish.” I debated on responding but left it alone. A few minutes would pass and I’d receive a followup “It’s Trish….From Tinder….” Multiple dots and Tinder,  she was slightly ashamed. I again didn’t immediately respond as I had no recollection to who this person was. After what seemed to be the most uncomfortable seven minutes in Text Message Purgatory I finally settled on my trademark “Yo”. Again I was attempting to be a dominant male but also to come of as cool and not that interested. Trish apologized for the delay in messaging me and blamed it on her not checking the app. How could she had gotten my message if I’d hit uninstall on my phone? Did Tinder somehow survive my trash can? Oh well, sure there was a reason but still I had no clue who this person was or why they had a (530) area code. There were way too many possibilities, I shouldn’t have ever expanded my search radius to 30 miles. I stalled via small talk “How’s your day going? Oh you’re at work? What do you do? etc.” Backfire, turns out she was “off work” like permanently off work and going back to school to be a caregiver. Sounded like a real winner. Still no clue to who this woman was. I decided to buy more time and text that I was going into a meeting and would call after work. She quickly replied and was “getting impatient”. My curiosity and fear were beginning to peak and wander.

After a particularly stressful day at the office, made worse by a woman that had soiled herself, refused to bathe and wanted to argue about racism in world, I was ready for a drink and some relaxation. Only thing was this Miss (530) was still on my mind. How could I be certain this wasn’t a prank? News of my Tinder activities had begun to spread and I was getting crusified by my friends for the “quality of women” I’d met on online. It was a field day, think cats in heat with a fertile feline, tail up and all. Maybe one of these hyenas were up to no good? Several years prior one of my friends, we’ll refer to him as “The Indian”, had created a fake Craigslist ad. He listed me under Erotic Services and MFM (Man for Man for the uninitiated), described me as being after “a good time” and ready to mingle. The Indian set up a fake email address and had these pervs send over there “stats”,photos and requests. Some married, some closet and most describing the foul things they wanted to do to me. I can’t put any of it in print. All things considered, a practical Tinder joke by one of my friends was not out of the question. There was only one way to be sure if I had been played.  I had to ask for a selfie which would jog my memory. “Let me get a pic.” Nothing but the most honest intent behind the question. She responded with “What kind of pic? I’m with my kid.” Instantly I realized she had presumed I was asking for T&A shots. I figured I had two ways to proceed, I could correct her and clarify I meant a face shot or I could push the envelope. I chose the raunchier. “Hit me when you’re alone.” That generated a response of ” 😉 will do..” With that little bit of addrenaline rush I knew, like any good junkie, the relapse was coming. I could feel my excitement rising at the thought of throwing on my slut slippers again. I was more than eager to go into the belly of the beast once more. Tinder and I were going to need to put our differences aside. I was going to be the bigger person. We were going to kiss, make up, have disappointing sex and call it a day. Tinder and I were about to embark on phase two of our relationship. God help me and the Tinderonies in the Sacramento area.

La Diabla: My Dance With a Chola In The Pale Moonlight

Posted on by jimense86

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I’m sorry for the delay in posting but I was distracted with a perfectly drunken disaster and I promise we’ll get to her story soon enough. I truely appreciate you taking time out of your day to sit and injest this. Your feedback is always welcomed and useful. What follows is my date with a woman that could probably knife me in my sleep. All names have been changed to protect the innocent, allegedly.

I’d all but given up on Tinder and the thought of meeting a legitimate woman in my phone. Between the catastrophe that was Shelby and the shame of bumping uglies with Sandra it was becoming apparent to me that Tinder/online dating wasn’t the place to find your version of a family, dog, picket fence and love. Yet there I was in my bed on another lackluster Wednesday night with nothing but a trip to Sturgeon under my belt. I’d been out, enjoying another stronger than average Jameson and Ginger from Mark the Bartender. We filled the night with conversations about his fondness for Serena Williams, note to self: Don’t bash Serena in front of Mark, it’s a recipe for disaster and a one way ticket out of the bar. Mostly though we debated about sports betting and my recent dating adventures. As we sat there and exchanged barbs I’d again begun to reach for my phone, looking for that feeling, my trusted companion that could provide me with entertainment and maybe adventures for the evening. Tinder and I were beginning to become an item, for better or for worse.  I’d even done “homework” on Tinder and was coming to the realization that this was no “Christian Mingle” or “E-Harmony”. Tinder and a slew of others like it were designed to be strictly dickly and was meant for instant gratification, nothing more. Now don’t get me wrong, I’m sure there are tons of “serious and committed” relationships that have been formed from randomly swiping. I’m also fairly certain that Tinder is responsible for a spike in STDS, broken dreams and phone rape (Phone Rape being defined as “the unwanted or non agreed to advancement of sexual proposition, commonly involving eggplant emojis and the request for sexual favors”) but I digress.

After several unsuccessful “right swipes” I’d chosen to go home and call it a night. It was there, as I laid in bed, that a flashing blue LED light notified me of a match. A match made at 12:23 in the am….Hmmm, my curiosity had just peaked. As it turned out, I’d swiped right on a feisty little meatlocker, we’ll refer to her as La Diabla. She had an inspirational quote as her header “Patience is a virtue and through that virtue I found Him” She described herself as follows “28, SINGLE, entrepreneur, BLESSED, PROUD momma of 2, LOYALTY and RESPECT above all, I keep it 100 and always classy, never trashy but with a dab of nasty. Only real niggas need apply”. From what I gathered she was a mother that had the gift of rhyme, owned her own business and was looking for a real man to treat her like a lady. Her profile pictures fell in line with the bio in that they showed off her “assets” in a cheetah print dress, rocking hoop earrings that I could fist, her at club/bar, a questionable selfie that was all eyebrows and a Raiders jersey, with her finger raised to all the 49er fans out there. She Topped it off with a shot of her in a little black dress holding a flask of Hennessy and emphasis on some poor sap’s name tatted on her left breast ( Would later find out that was Baby Dad number two) along with a quote in cursive that ran the length of her chest plate, it read “Live, Laugh, Love, Respect” in what must have been 30 point font. It was right there, in that moment, that I realized I’d just hit the gold mine. I had finally found myself the down ass Chola I desperately needed in my life.

I made sure to send a manly and simple message to her “yo”, figuring it was the best way to say hello without sounding desperate. I promptly received a message of “Heyyy”. Three “ys”, this girl was fun already. We went back and forth and again exchanged basic info, IG and SnapChat, I discovered she’d just moved from San Jose and was using Tinder to “meet new people”. I could respect that, I’d been struggling with getting back in the dating game and was nobody to judge. La Diabla had been single “forever” (forever being six months) and was raising her daughters on her own. Her “Entrepreneurship” consisted of making hats that utilized bold lettering of statements like ” Bae”, “On Fleek” “$ Trees”. This was without a doubt a woman on a mission.

After what seemed like weeks of back and forth flirting La Diabla finally asked me ” What’s good tomorrow night?”, a Thursday, I suggested Benny’s or Fanny Anne’s, two Bars that were more than suited to the crowd she typically ran with and that would display my ability to adapt, not to mention it would be fun run in the mud. We’d both agree on Benny’s as she’d been there prior. Benny’s is a local dive bar, a bar where you can score stiff drinks, loose morals and if lucky, get stabbed in the stomach if you played should you play your cards right. I absolutely couldn’t wait till we met up. Where would we go? Would she be down for a shot and a red can or would I end up holding her pocket? The excitement was again growing and I’d begun to feel alive. Cheers to tonight and the endless possibilities it brought.

I sat at the bar, nervous again, sweaty palms and a couple of Stellas in. La Diabla finally showed up in all her glory. White skirt, breast and chest tats on full display. The bloodshot eyes were also a nice touch in the “I don’t give a fuck” kind of way. We took a shot of Hennessy to ease the nerves, her choice. We sat there, listened to music, exchanged flirtatious comments, lies and desires. It took roughly 30 minutes before we ran out of things to say. You can only talk Raiders football for so long. I attempted to force a conversation around “what are you looking for” and was met with that awkward pause. You could see the hamster wheel racing as she searched for politically correct response. We each knew we were wasting the other’s time. Maybe it was that I’d slightly catfished her and was indeed 5’6 to her 5’8? Either way La Diabla was not feeling me, the conversation or my eyebrows. It may have gone sideways when I failed align with the terms “fam”, “ya feel me” and “On Mommas”. I wanted to break away and call it a night but I was legitimately afraid of how quickly she could knife me just for pissing her off. What was once nervous curiosity had evolved to hypertension filled fear. After what seemed like and hour La Diabla looked me in the eyes and said “Be cool, I’m not trying to fuck with you.” Out of instinct I wanted to respond defensively, in an attempt to cover my embarrassment and letdown. Who was she to tell me that I wasn’t worth a mistake? I fought the urge to throw my drink at her knowing that nothing good could come from that. The reality is that I ultimately ended up paying for our drinks, my bean dip next door and a free bag Pringles.  La Diabla would leave me at Benny’s with nothing more than a slight hug and “Don’t change”. What the fuck am I supposed to do with that? Where does one go after being let down by a clown with breast? I need to stop randomly swiping. These were all thoughts and questions that passed though my head as I kept sipping and thinking, drinking and swiping. What did I learn? Sometimes it just doesn’t break your way. Sometimes the universe swipes left.

Midtown Sandra: The Art of Catfishing

Posted on by jimense86

“And I ran, I ran so far away”

-A Flock of Seagulls

Not long after the disaster of my first Tinder date did I manage to begin recovery with Sandra. The Tinder gods said we were a match while I was drunk-swiping AND being stood up by Shelby, all at the same time. On paper we got along just fine, she was witty, held a good conversation, frequented similar establishments and had a job and no kids. Her profile pics included some showing her squatting during softball, sitting at a dinner table with friends, a selfie laying down with her dog, the driving selfie( a real skill) and her newly done toes. Anyhow, after a few days of flirtatious texting we decided to get together. Now fearing a repeat of The Virgin Sturgeon night I chose to meet her on her turf, plus downtown Sac always provides a good chance to get drunk and make mistakes. She suggested a small chain “Burgers and Brews”, great food, fun atmosphere and solid beer, plus it showed she might be a girl that’s not ashamed to actually eat. I brought out a nice pair of jeans, polka dotted socks (sock game strong) and a pair of lightly mocha Clarks and yes, I wore a shirt too. I stole my roommate’s cologne, again, but this time no need for gel with a new haircut and lineup. I could feel the excitement slowly replacing the fear from last time. Shelby no longer had a hold of me, I was ready to meet, greet and sweep this little Tinderonie off her feet. The Redemption would happen tonight. I requested an Uber, Black Car at that, and had my scotch to ease any nerves that may have lingered. As I waited for Larry, my driver, I went over the plan for the night. We’d eat and drink, share some conversation, plant a couple jokes and light stories, maybe exchange some horror stories from online dating and then start our own little beer crawl. Let the chips fall where they may. Half way through my thoughts and the glass of Scotch Larry rang me and off I went like Cinderella in her Rolls Royce pumpkin. I got in the back of the car and exchanged the obligatory Q&A with Larry (How long have you been driving, How do you like it etc.) we somehow got on to the topic of what my evening had in store. NATURALLY, I spilled my guts to this stranger and as soon as I mentioned Tinder, Larry shared his own horror story of a Tinder date gone awry and how real the catfish game was but who was Larry anyways. That wouldn’t be happening to me, the universe couldn’t be that cruel. I had a phone number, a face, an Instagram and like 128 hours of text messages. We had arrived, 15 min early again.

The night was lively, Burgers & Brew slightly packed and a little noisy, but not obnoxiously loud.  I stepped through the door and scanned the room, no sign of Sandra. NO WORRIES, I went to the bar and ordered a Heff, people watched and relaxed.  NO SOCIAL ANXIETY kicking in whatsoever, I stepped out for a cigarette.  Palms a little sweaty and heart picking up a few beats I made my way back in. Those 15 min were up, I scanned the room once more, again no sign. No way this was happening two times in a row. I went back to finish my beer and send a text letting my date know that I was here. After a few minutes and a last scan of the crowd I rose from the stool and prepared for another walk of shame. Heading to the door in defeat and disappointment I hear my name called, or growled or howled if you may. I turned to look and couldn’t make out the noise and then it happened. First I saw the arm, then the chin, then the cheeks then the eyes and then the profile pictures all made sense. I stood there confused for what seemed to be hours, dumbfounded by the reality of my Friday night. I my friends had just been catfished, across from me sat a bully of a woman that had the gift of gab and words, a sharp tongue, good humor and real personality. The only problem, I cringe and apologize as I write this because I was not supposed to be put in a position to be this honest, was that she was a solid extra 80 pounds (20 of which may have been in makeup and eyebrows), a triple chin and a lack of Instagram filters different. It was the equivalent of you ladies meeting a guy in the darkness and comfort of your favorite club after one too many Malibu and Pineapples. You swap numbers, agreeing to a date only to find out your Tom Hardy is really a 8 inch shorter, fluffier, balding version of Tom Cruise. I my friends had just found myself in your shoes this time. My first reaction was to turn and walk out the door, run, run far away, but I fought the urge. I’m not a shallow person and believe everyone has their positives and negative aspects but come on, why the lies? Who was she to assume I wouldn’t be attracted to her as she was? Either way, I was already here, it was Friday and I was a beer and a scotch in, so why not. We sat and shared conversation about our day, the waiter came by and took our order, I had the Fuji Salad and she had the Chorizo Burger. She had the Chimay, not a cheap beer and I had some water. Was I sending subtle hints? I learned Sandra was in between jobs and “working on herself”, she had recently joined a Cross Fit gym and was apparently making major strides. She even shared a few tips on how to strengthen up. Maybe she could put down her appetizer first? We talked about our experience on Tinder and the horrors of meeting people on this app (like being catfished?) and ignored the elephant in the room. I couldn’t help but show my disappointment. She knew it, how could she not? When asked if something was wrong I attempted to lie through my teeth only to say “You’re not who I expected.” Bam, grenade of truth pin pulled. She looked at me, with some of the most hurt puppy eyes, like she had just gotten caught pissing on the floor. I swallowed the lump in my throat, “It’s cool, I’m having a good time. You’re a lot of fun.” We proceeded to finish our meals; well she finished hers plus my side order of garlic fries. It was at that moment that I knew I had to shout the truth because if not we were going to enter that awkward moment where she’d ask to go have another drink, or I’d suggest another drink then wham! Next thing I know I’m catching the ride of shame home to shower and scrub off the shame. Here’s my “Parental Advisory” disclaimer for those of you who appreciate brutal honesty: “I can’t do this. You’re a liar and you catfished me. There’s absolutely nothing right with who or what you do. I legitimately was attracted to who you pretended to be. So fuck me.” What really got me was that she sat there dumbfounded, with the look of disgust. Like I was the bad guy here.  Like I had done something horribly wrong. But remember, hell hath no fury: “You’re a bitch, that’s why you’re not getting laid tonight.” She shot back under her breath but not so subtlety. I quickly gathered myself and with no sort of a comeback simply walked out of the restaurant. Did Sandra have a point? Could it be that I needed to treat Tinder for what it really was? A quick way to piss in the wind and get it in, not giving two shits about who or what I spent 180 seconds of my life with. Those were just a few thoughts that ran through my head as I made my way down the street to meet with some friends and pretend the night never happened.

P.S. I did eventually text her in a drunken state that evening asking “Do you want to drink?” and we did end up “watching Netflix”.  Why? Because I didn’t want to be “that guy” and it guaranteed some companionship for the night. I could blame the alcohol, wash the shame off and deny, deny, deny a la Slick Willie and his now infamous “I did not have sexual relations with that woman” testimony. Who would know what I did (other than you all now)? With that, I began my descent into the real macabre basement that only Tinder and Online Dating can bring.

Maybe Flock of Seagulls had it right in that one line, when dealing with online dating, we should all just run, run so far away. After all, it’s only a matter of time before your “swipe right” materializes from an online avatar to what Pinocchio would call “a REAL girl”. Stripped of the filters, glamour pics and faux smiles, aren’t we all just flesh and bone? Yes, some of us more blessed than others in with our appearance, achievements and adventurous lifestyles, so how do you separate yourself from these bid-jackals? When creating an online profile, the single most important decision you make is selecting the pictures that sell the idea of you, as a perfectly normal, trusting, inviting and maybe a bit adventurous guy. As a man you must refrain with all your might from the “dick pic” as your profile pic. Relax, there are other ways to tell the world who you really are. This is even more important on Tinder. It’s an art, a painfully meticulous process that will make or break your profile. It can be the key to a flirtatious chat, that leads to a number, drinks, and an exchange fluids and that ends with an Uber ride-of-shame home (that you have pay for of course). On the flip side, failing to deliver enticing photos leads to somebody unceremoniously throwing you away to the “left.” We judge, analyze, rate and deem worth a “swipe right”(remember you don’t get unlimited swipes anymore) within a matter of seconds. That picture of you backpacking in Brazil has the power to open somebody’s Pandora’s Box and create at the very least a “Netflix and chill” story to text your best friend. However, upload an ill-advised selfie and brace yourself for a night on your couch with the cat, a Pabst, Little Cesar’s and your choice of Gilmore Girls or Hardcore Porn. No pressure with this decision right? No reason to lie about who you are or upload who you used to be. You know who I’m talking about, the pre muffin top, enhanced by Mayfair, Valencia or X-Pro filters or the “these pics are from Vegas(real life caption, I have the thread to prove it) I’m not really a party girl shots.” Let’s not forget the fellas, the ones who post a pic holding a bud light and no shirt cruising the lake on a badass speed boat, never mind that it’s my brother’s and I rent a room in a house with a mattress on the floor. I’m talking about those of us posting pictures in work suits with #workflow #swag as opposed to #personalassistant or #mailroomlife. These are the Queen and Kings of angles so I only post from 270 degrees or “the from chest up”. Maybe they’re ahead of the curve, maybe I’m bitter and jaded and maybe I need to step up my photoshop game.