My Tinder Date Was Also A Male Escort
An anonymous contributor’s story – thank you for oversharing 😉
If you’re anything like me, when I log onto Tinder, it goes like this:
No, no, no, no, nope, no, fuck off tiger man #8 that Super Liked me,
no, nope, oh wow a gym selfie that’s real original,
NO (to the guy kissing a dolphin), nope (to the guy on his wedding day), NOooooo (to the guy in a headlock with a real life kangaroo)
why the am I on this again?
….a few moments of hesitation…
yeah, maybe actually?
The Tinder game is a tough one. Ruthless in fact.
However, one recent Sunday I did what single people do best when they are nursing a particularly severe hangover and feeling extra sorry for themselves because they woke up alone. I logged onto Tinder.
In the wise words of R.E.M., “Everybody hurts, sometimes.” And that morning my loneliness had reached breaking point. I needed some love. Even if it was just the vacuous satisfaction of being ‘liked’ by a stranger based on a overly-flattering profile photo. Whatever.
The swiping frenzy was in full swing when one particular bio caught my eye (yes I read the bios.)
“I’m very real. I work as an escort…not trying to find clients here. Say Hello.”
I was intrigued. A quick swipe to the right and voila – it was a ‘match’.
We did the usual back and forth of mindless banter. We exchanged numbers and the first thing he texted me was, “So do you really want to meet up without even seeing a photo of my face?” Oops. My bad.
We exchanged selfies, as you do. I guess? I have to admit, I was expecting a little more charm from someone that escorts women for a profession. He shamelessly asked me to come to his house more than three times in three days. What a keeper, right?
While he was kidding himself with his persistent approach, part of me was still looking for adventure. I agreed to meet him in person, in public (for obvious reasons) on Tinder Tuesday (the day of the week set aside to meet a complete stranger without feeling a sense of FOMO, fear of missing out, on Thurdays, Fridays, Saturdays or Sundays).
7:30 pm. Lil Darlin in Surry Hills (Sydney). That was the plan.
At 6.30 pm I asked that we push it back to 8pm so I had time to scull three glasses of a $7 Merlot beforehand. He wasn’t too impressed when he called me at 7.55pm and I still hadn’t left my house. First impressions? Punctual…Professional…Employed…Probably good at sex…I’m already drunk and over-analyzing everything, ah shit.
At 8:10 pm I arrived and called him. I could see him on the phone across the road, sheepishly looking at me like I was his mother’s age, with horrible regrowth and bad teeth.
“Are you just seeing if I’m acceptable enough before you cross the road?” I asked. He giggled and admitted that’s exactly what he was doing. What a charmer.
He greeted me with the type of hug you give an estranged cousin. Just as we sat down, he’d already ordered my drink for me without asking what I wanted. Sorry, what? Alarm bells were ringing in my ears. “Two of those hundreds & thousands cocktails and we’ll grab two of the fairy floss shots too,” he said. I actually hate sweet drinks. The nightmare was beginning to unfold.
He kept glancing down at his phone while we waffled some small talk. I actually couldn’t believe how rude he was.
“Sorry, I’ve gotta take these messages for work..you know what I do right?”
I looked away and said, “No, what do you do?” Watching him sweat at my question was probably the highlight of my evening.
“Uhh…did you read my bio?” he asked. I said no. “You should probably read it now,” he almost demanded. Maybe I was being a bit mean but he was being so rude I really didn’t care.
I admitted I was joking. He didn’t find my sense of humour very funny. What a dick. Meanwhile, his phone was vibrating out of control.
“Sorry, each time I get one of these messages it could mean $150 in my pocket.” Ah-ha! Turns out he was also a pimp. My mum would have been so proud of me.
He didn’t even try to pretend to be interested in anything but my body. Gross. So I decided to make the most of the situation.
I asked him everything I ever wanted to know about sex work. He was willing to oblige. I suppose it meant he could keep talking about himself. Nonetheless, he answered all my questions. “What kind of women book you?” “How much do you cost?” “What’s the weirdest thing a client has asked you to do?” “Are most people that book you just really sad and lonely?” “Do you enjoy the sex most of the time or do you have sex with people you have no attraction to?” “Do the women get a refund if they don’t cum?” It was all very interesting. I was just pretty taken aback by just how self absorbed he was. I don’t think he asked me one question the entire date. It felt like I was at a pizzeria with my six year old brother glued to his IPad.
Only through sheer persistence did we end up at another bar. A small part of me kept hoping he would magically turn into a decent person. If only he had a few more tequila shots. Then it got to the point where I just wanted to drink my disappointment away. Somehow we ended up back at his house. Not without a pit stop at 7/11 where I tried to buy Marvellous Creations chocolate, plain potato chips and Tim-Tams, only to have my card declined. At least he paid for my much needed drunk snacks.
In his apartment, while I was stuffing food down my throat, drunkenly attempting to call an Uber, I saw him dim the lights and, wait for it… put on the 50 Shades of Grey soundtrack.
Wow. I remember thinking, “this is the lamest thing I’ve ever heard.”
It took a terrible soundtrack from a terrible film to get me the hell out of there relatively unscathed. Not before he accused me of being “cold” and “closed off,” of course. Poor boy. Didn’t he get enough sex where he worked?
The next morning I woke up in my own bed (thank god) with the above mentioned food items forming a nice little nest around my neck. That morning I wasn’t lonely. Instead, I was relieved I actually have standards, even when I’m blind drunk and on a date with a professional seducer. At least from my experience, he wasn’t a very good one.
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