Yeah, I tried Tinder again. What can I say? It had been like six months. I’m in a new zip code, and I thought, what the hell? And yet again, I’m left wondering about that age-old question: What is it about men and blow jobs?
Is that all they really want?
I think it is. End of the day? If they could give themselves blow jobs, there would be no Tinder. There would be no birth control, no abortion debate, no issues about reproduction at all because they would cease to acknowledge women exist once we stopped breastfeeding them.
Bob the Billionaire, a dubious member of my Circle of 5 who should have married me back when he had the chance but didn’t and so lingers on, living my quixotic, or chaotic, life vicariously from the sidelines, says there is a never-ending supply of unsatisfied middle-aged women who need sex and attention and more of them are married than divorced. Maybe it’s true. There is surely no lack of married middle-aged men trolling about looking for sex, that’s for sure. And if these women exist, it seems to me their woes are brought and continued on by their own damn selves. Amiright?
Limited experience suggests that Tinder is the simplest and most effective of the dating sites. It’s easy, it’s on your phone, it’s free and it’s generally no-nonsense. And though I’d sworn off of it, I went back. Because doing the same thing over and over again hoping for a different result is smart, not insane. Or so my sun-baked, vodka-infused sense told me.
Tinder: Key West Edition is much the same as anywhere else but for the fact you might recognize the faces at one of the three grocery shopping options on this southernmost version of Fantasy Island. The photos of them holding the dead fish are a little better. The fish are bigger. The guys have better tans. Sometimes, they even own the charter boats on which said shirtless photos holding the dead fish are taken. Occasionally, they’re holding a spear, like they stabbed the fish. Or wearing scuba gear to show that they dive.
And there are the motorcycles. They aren’t as cool. A Vespa scooter is not a Harley. Doesn’t matter, though. It all still comes down to blow jobs.
And so you go back forth for a bit about nothing really relevant to anything like how long you’ve lived here and where you lived before, and then, it happens.
What are you looking for? The inevitable question.
Companionship? Conversation? Someone to do something with? Fun? Drinks? Taco Grilla?
There is only one right answer, and no woman from the planet Earth is going to give it, even though most of us know what it is.
What about sex? How about blow jobs? The inevitable response.
And really, ladies. What is the right answer to that? “Ick, ewww, you are strange and possibly insane and gross and don’t even know my last name?” “Sure, sounds great, where shall we meet?” For most of us, it’s delete conversation.
And really, men. Does that ever work? Ever? Does any strange woman ever say “I saw your naked chest behind that grouper and I am sooo turned on, it made me want to give you blow jobs right now! Come on over.”
No one cares that I have cute feet. Or cute pets. Or hobbies. Or a once-cute-now-obnoxious tween. And a stalker. There’s no invitation to Sandbar Sundays or even to meet for a drink because it’s not like there are four bars on every freaking corner in this town. Call me old-fashioned, but is it really too much to postpone that conversation for after, say, we actually meet? Or doesn’t that even matter?
I have met and even tried to date the weirdos, the wackos, the medicated, the needs-to-be-medicated, the formerly in prison, the probably going to go to prison, the disbarred, the disjointed and the disenfranchesized. Like Dan Noah, I’ve had these kinds of first and last dates.
I’ve tried the whole Friends With Benefits things. And because I’m me, we’re actually very good friends and it got so the benefits weren’t worth jeopardizing that over. My world is like opposite world more often than not.
Have we all really gotten to this point in our lives only to realize that things really don’t get better after high school? Does finesse (I won’t even get into romance) go right out the window at 40 or 45 and single? Just get down to brass tacks.
The bottom line. Quite literally?
Here we all are…awaiting our 25th or 30th high school reunion, and it’s still all about blow jobs and getting laid with the same amount of game as your average 16-year-old. Maybe less. They still try to be romantic, I think; they aren’t jaded and tired and openly looking to hook up. They aren’t asking strange women for blow jobs on their smartphones. Or maybe they are. Murph’s not there yet, so I don’t know.
Ladies? Is it just me? Am I the only one who attracts these men? Are blow jobs really all that matters at this point?
Ready to give up…