Ding. Match. Flirt.
The terrifying thrill of returning to dating apps after a decade.
‘We could just do it… now.’
‘We could, couldn’t we, but how? Would that be nuts? Is it too soon? I’m nervous. Can you show me?’
‘Omg, easy, it will take like half an hour, I think you’ll feel amazing.’
I pulled out my phone, clicked through to ‘apps’, and downloaded Hinge. It was a dark winter evening in Elephant and Castle, rain scattered the windows, a kind of iridescent Pollock.
Alex and I were still sweating after performing a couple of dance routines and filming each other, limbs thoroughly booze loose. I was fluorescent with possibility at this time in my life. That’s the thing about horrendous break ups, as painful as they are, the new chapter that is thrust upon you is inescapable and electric, and because we humans are so bloody adaptable, you’ll find yourself crying one moment, (real, disgusting, guttural cries), then laughing and 5,6,7,8’ing the next. Pulling your skirt up, throwing your hair around, feeling kind of turned on by the idea of lying naked with someone new.
I was lucky to have Alex, who after various Hinge fun and disasters, met the love of her life, and knew exactly how to set up my profile, how to reply to the prompt questions, in what order I should have my pictures. We curled up on the sofa and with brain surgeon precision, selected pictures in which I looked both hot, and fun, and intellectual, and sensitive, thoughtful. Just a gal with healthy boundaries and a great sense of self and absolutely not heartbroken and terrified.
Profile set, I got to swiping. I had met my ex pre dating apps, and was ignorant of the addictive nature of the swipe. I would often harp on from my ivory tower that I didn’t understand apps, like… how could you get a sense of someone just from their pictures and a couple of sentences? I need energy… you know?
How wrong I was.
Man with fish, no!
Man on bike, legs, nice, yes.
Woman with cat on her stomach and blue eyes, yes.
Woman in a corporate setting no.
I developed my taste within minutes and realised I was starved of this kind of excitement.
I’d had ten years of safety after all. The thrilling unknown of dating apps was delicious. A hot shot of whiskey, one after another, bam, bam, bam.
Alex and I sat, legs thrown over one another, developing my new life, trying to find someone to walk through it with me. It was funny and wild, but also a chance to right some wrongs, to make romantic decisions based on the wisdom of my womanhood.
Ha. Well.
I matched with a guy that night, and we flirted immediately, and my romantic ass genuinely thought for a split second ‘wouldn’t it be funny if the first person I matched with ended up being the person I spent the rest of my life with?’
I want to scream with laughter at that sentiment in hindsight.
I matched with another man, who after 10 minutes of chat invited me to his cottage somewhere outside London, and asked if I liked to be hurt.
Well, like yeah, but in a masochistic kind of ‘tell me what you think of poetry honestly’ kind of way, rather than… uh … whatever it is you're suggesting.
Bam, bam, bam. One after another, *ding* match, flirt. *ding* match, flirt.
I spoke a lot to the guy I thought might be the love of my life. Purely based on the fact that he liked me. Nothing to do really with any sense of connection or compatibility.
I was at this point in my life, so insecure, so sad, still picking up the pieces of my heart, still adjusting to my medication, that anyone who was remotely kind to me had the potential of being the love of my life. Poor guy.
I needed to be told things about myself like they were offering parts of a puzzle I had lost. I enjoyed so much the well of loneliness inside me that was flooded suddenly by compliments over message. I loved the power I had over my phone. Whenever I felt lonely, sensual, sad, I could pick it up and be soothed. Whenever I felt independent, satiated by my own company, I left it on the kitchen table and watched films. I was addicted to my new way of living. However, I would be lying if I didn’t say that my longing to be seen was palpable.
Seen is the operative word. The breakdown of a relationship comes with so many arguments and disagreements in which you think you are invisible, your feelings negligible, that eventually you become a Russian doll, changing, adapting, to help, anything to help, getting smaller, and emptier, smaller, and smaller.
My time alone, single and broken, though necessary to my healing, also led me to a belief about myself that I was unlovable, or at the very least, not as lovable, easy to love, easy to be around, as my friends surrounding me, who were deep in the throes of new or lasting relationships.
Conversations on my phone with strangers led me to believe, just for ten minutes, or an evening, that there was hope yet, and that the unlovable part of me could be hidden behind a screen, or even transformed in the presence of someone willing.
It took some time to understand that talking to these people had to go somewhere. When people asked me out on dates I would think … are you for fucking real? EW? I don’t even know you? Just tell me you think I’m pretty and interesting. In fact, tell me you’ve never known the likes of someone like me, but then leave me to watch my reruns in my pants.
But the time came for my first date. My first date in over ten years.
I met him at a pub. Miffed already that I was the first one there and he was running late. Though my confidence was shot, my ability to be pissed off with men was still potent. My leg bounced anxiously beneath the table, my teeth tingled. I gulped at my Pinot like it was water. I messaged my friends with an agonising need to be reassured.
‘Don’t get murdered!’
‘Send location!’
‘Well, he’s late…’
‘Let us know if he’s actually fit.’
When he arrived he looked handsome, a shiny new thing.
Awkward hug. Find my seat again. Dizzy.
‘How’s Hinge been going for you?’ he asked, leaning back with his pint.
London had already taken on a new hue. The pub I was in, which I had visited so many times in my ‘old life’ had transformed now from calm little boozer, to den of potential debauchery. As I looked around, the low light was almost sensual, the couples sat at their table buzzing with tension, the woman serving us drinks – gorgeous, my skin against the leather of the seat – electric.
‘Oh, yeah, crazy. It’s been nuts.’ I replied, trying to appear nonchalant. Cool, calm.
He spoke about how many terrible dates he’d been on. How one girl called him a ‘rude prick’ on his last date. I lied, and said I had also had some real stinkers, not wanting to appear as fragile as I was.
Though the date was okay, and as I would soon learn, just another awkward first date …what was most enjoyable for me, was the opportunity to be a new person. Totally new. After the Handsome Blob of Nothing withered into nothing, I was a clean slate, and being looked at with new eyes meant I could act as charming and as confident as I liked, and they would believe me, and perhaps in this way, this act, the charm and confidence would seep bone deep and I would be renewed.
After the interview in which I tried to become a new person came to an end. He leaned in and kissed me. His lips were new. Tongue new. Scent new. Very clean, almost citrusy. And wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong. It was awkward trying to find his bottom lip, knowing when tongue should or shouldn’t be present, and how much, well, how much could I? His tongue became more aggressive, flat and large, filling the cavern of my mouth, and sliding over my lips. Concentrate, I thought. Lasso this dude, control him. Tongue, lips, mash, mash, mash.
When we pulled away, my chin was wet.
My chin. Was wet.
And I was drunk.
I wobbled to the bus stop. Wiped my chin with the back of my hand, and waved him off like a Queen from her chariot.
A new person already. A single woman in her 30’s with the opportunity to build an entirely new life, and a terrible first kiss under my belt.
And it would be entirely new, and rife with tales I could shout tipsy over dinner, because what else was there to do on the long bus journey home but open up Hinge, and keep swiping? This is how you re-enter the world in your 30s — wet-chinned and wanting.