Tag Archives: single ladies

Trawling Tinder

8 Aug

I’ve never had a good experience on Tinder. And yet, like a woman trapped in a co-dependant union, I keep going back.

Because Tinder is fucking hilarious.

Pockets of humanity lurk on there and trawling Tinder freaks has become a perfectly acceptable way to spend my weekend.

He Gives Good Head

Take this guy:


Check out what he’s holding. Doesn’t the image of a man with a decapitated goats head scream, “IT PUTS THE FUCKING LOTION IN THE BASKET!”?

Who’d make that their Tinder profile pic anyway? I mean, doesn’t that just get your goat?

I’m ‘kid’ding.

Can you see where this is ‘head’ing?

Ooh- maybe he’s trying to allude to giving good head?

This joke is old now. It’s time to put it out to pasture.

Pre-Battle Banter

Some men on Tinder are only after one thing.

TinderMan1: “So are we going to meet? What’s your address?”

CC: “We can meet, but I’m not giving you my address. How about a coffee?”

TinderMan1: “We know where coffee is going to end up, so just give me your address.”

This vexed me: Where, exactly, did this audacious prick believe that coffee was going to end up? Does coffee herald coitus? Not necessarily. Coffee can wind up in lots of places: a manic discussion on Jack Kerouac. A hilarious foam-on-the-upper-lip moment. Hell, I could be a stage five clinger that thinks espressos will mean babycinos.

CC: “You see, coffee is my he’s-not-an-axe-murderer-and-I-can-invite-him-into-my-house insurance policy :)”

TinderMan1: “Yeah. See, I work in the music industry and I can’t afford to buy every girl coffee.”

As this message was read, a thwack echoed across the city as the drawbridge to my lady-parts slammed shut.

CC: “What a shame: I’m a gold-digger and I’m not interested in poor men. Better luck next time.”

Luckily, the men on Tinder are a production line and Tinderman1 segued seamlessly into Tinderman2.

TinderMan2: “Where do I work? I work in banking and investments. So how about a vino sometime?”

When I didn’t expeditiously respond, he messaged again.

Tinderman2: “What, is working in finance a deal breaker? :P”

CC: “No. It’s not a deal breaker at all. In fact, it might even be fun to have a drink with someone devoid of a soul :D”

He blocked me after that. He wasn’t devoid of a soul, but apparently devoid of a sense of humor. My sardonic wit often combusts in the tinderbox. I was blocked by another fellow after I playfully said, “Don’t get too excited to meet me- I might yet be a convincing pre-op transsexual ;)”

Testing my Patients

I recently matched with a bearded bloke from Enmore whose profile spoke of ‘sustainability’, ‘craft beer’ and ‘meat trays’.

My, how I do love a hipster.

On our first interaction, The Beard gave me his Instagram handle and invited me to stalk him. I did. There was- amid jumpy iPhone footage of a plethora of live bands- a surprising number of posts dedicated to Shiner Bock beer. These were photographed in glistening, moist, pornographic glory. I counted eleven pictures of beer, but hardly any of him. There was more beer than beard on there.

I pulled out my phone and typed, “Saw your Instagram. Nice. I think my first question is: are you still sponsored by Shiner Bock?”

It was a whimsical bon mot that deserved, at the very least, an emoticon smiley. Instead I got a long, not really coherent explanation that was so convoluted, I wondered why he didn’t just type the word ‘no’ and save us both a lot of time.

We decided to meet for a drink at Newtown. I caught public transport in. Trains weren’t running due to trackwork, so I arrived ten minutes late, breathless and nervous. I scanned the crowd, my gaze finally settling on what I can only describe as a ‘demented lumberjack’. And he wasn’t okay.

Neither was I, actually.

Because who this bloke was in the Tinderverse and who he was in reality was somewhat incongruent.

The man from Tinder was bearded, smiling, slender. He wore Wayfarer sunglasses in one shot, clutched a bass guitar in another. He drank from a stein. He posed with a mischievous pug.

And the man trudging towards me? Well, he was the kind of overweight that usually has the adverb ‘morbidly’ attached to it. His soft, round midsection poked through a threadbare, black sloppy joe that was long ago washed to grey. It was, at least, clean. There were no obvious cum-stains or spag-bol remnants on it. His beanie, on the other hand, was coated in a powdery white substance that was, at best, cocaine and, at worst, dandruff. His face and eyes were completely flat- nary a flicker of emotion was spared for the jittery brunette before him.

And really, an expression would have been nice.

Because I’d only made a tiny bit of fucking effort in getting there.

I’d only spent an hour or so trying on outfits in my bedroom in a Tassie-Devil whirlwind of cotton. I’d only spent ninety fucking minutes battling rail buses, half of which was time spent in close proximity to a man with a facial tattoo who overused the word ‘cunt’. And then, when I changed buses at Strathfield station, there was only that tiny, little argument that I got into with the douche-bag in the hatchback; the guy who, after clocking my vintage army jacket and Doc Marten boots, decided that I was a Neo-Nazi. The dude that then began to trawl me in his car, chanting things like: “Where’s your Swastika, love? Adolf, hey? Seig Heils! Yeah! Nice boots Adolf!” through the open passenger window as I willfully ignored him for as long as I could.

‘As long as I could’ turned out to be ‘half a block’. I snapped after that and shouted- yes, shouted– “Go fuck yourself, you Peugeot-driving wanker!”

Not my finest moment. If I didn’t look like a scary skinhead before I started shouting at passing motorists with wild-eyed zeal, I certainly did after. Something clever and punchy like: “How dare you call me Adolf! Call me Eva. Or Miss Braun, you socialist swine,” would have been better.

Fucking l’esprit d’escalier.

Anyway, this bummed me out, because I thought that my carefully-chosen outfit said, ‘I’m stylish without trying too hard and my Heathers t-shirt says that I understand and embrace cult pop-culture references.’

But it didn’t. Apparently it just said two words: Master Race.

But, back to The Beard: when he greeted me, it was in a monotone, and he slurred his words.

Oh fuck, I thought. Is he drunk?

He leaned in for a kiss. I offered a cheek. He rested a paw uncomfortably close to another cheek. I pulled away. His hand lingered on my jeans like Velcro. He told me about his Sunday: a long walk with a friend that was hard because he got “munted” Saturday night, but a walk that he persevered with nonetheless because he’s “a fat bastard now”.

Then he asked where I wanted to go. We could go anywhere except The Townie. He’d been kicked out of The Townie last month- a feat that I, nor anyone who has ever set foot in The Townie, would think possible. But it was. The Beard’s version of events was: ‘I slur even when I’m not drunk.’ The bouncers was: ‘Even so, ten beers and a broken chair is inappropriate, and you have to leave.’

He asked if I’d eaten, the memory of his fat arse breaking a chair seemingly jogging him back to food. “Let’s go to Mary’s. You ever been there?”

I hadn’t.

He wiped his mouth. “I can’t believe you’ve never been to Mary’s,” he exclaimed in a flat voice.

We began walking up King street, taking a left turn down an alleyway. He led me through the darkness, deep into sex-crime central, before stopping at a place that had no signage, just a bare red bulb glowing above the door.

Oh Christ, I thought. He’s taking me to a brothel. Or a rape dungeon.

It wasn’t. In fact, Mary’s may be the only good thing to come out of that night. Mary’s is a dingy, heavy metal pub that serves fried chicken so consumable, I’m fairly certain it was a Breaking Bad, crystal-meth laced, Los Pollos Hermanos bird. They also serve a fried chicken dish named ‘Larry Bird’, which tickled me. Immensely.

He sat opposite me, studying me with open curiosity. “So how’m ah’doin?”

I put down my piece of chicken. “What?”

He wiped his mouth. “How am I doin’ on the date?”

I was taken aback and laughed. Loudly. “HAHAHAHAHA! That’s a…question. Isn’t it? Look at you asking…questions.”

“Is there like, any chance of,” he paused. “You know…”

Oh please God, don’t say it.

“Because I don’t go for casual stuff,” he continued. “Mostly. Like, I had a friend with benefits once, but that ended. It’s not me. There was one Tinder girl who took me home. That was weird because, like, she was tall and our feet touched during it. She left straight after it.”

I’d like to pause the story and assure you that I am absolutely not making this up. He absolutely said this to me, and as he spoke, I was absolutely conducting a mini-mental examination on the poor bastard: What the fuck is he talking about? That didn’t make sense. That was thought disordered as fuck. And I think he’s derailing. Is he derailing? No, he’s totally derailing. Is he a patient somewhere? I bet he’s a schizophrenic.

He wiped his mouth again. “You’re, like, big- for a chick, I mean- aren’t ya? You’ve gotta be five eight or…?”

Maybe I should ask if he takes Clozapine. The belly. The drool. Fuck! Okay, this is weird. I think I’m accidentally on a date with a fucking-

He considered me. “How do you usually go on Tinder dates? Like how do you do this?”

What the shit…? Oh no, he’s staring at you! Quick, say something now! Change the subject! Talk about  the chicken! Larry Bird! LARRY BIRD!

He left to use the bathroom. I took the opportunity to broadcast my woe on Facebook. When he returned, I casually brought up the uni assignment due that evening. I’d already done it- it was submitted earlier that afternoon, in between leg-day at the gym and my ‘yuck, I now smell like a diseased yak’ pre-date shower. I didn’t know that The Beard was going to be a living nightmare and I wanted to be free from responsibility if he wasn’t.

“So I have to leave. Right now.” Which is a shame, I tried to say with my eyes. But, you know, responsibility. Stuff.

“Have another beer.”

“I can’t.”

“I’ll drive you home.”

“Oh, you don’t have to do that! To Hornsby!”

“It’s an easy drive.”

“No, it’s fine. Besides, you’ve been drinking.”

“Only four pints.”

In two hours. And I don’t want to die in a fiery car wreck. At least not before I erase my Google Chrome history. “Really, I’ll get the train.”

He walked me to the station, I glanced at the board and saw that a train- although not my train- was leaving in two minutes. “Two minutes! Nick of time. I’ve really got to run.”

He responded by grabbing me around the waist and grinding his crotch into my hip like a horny Doberman. He went in for the kiss and, again, I offered a cheek. He smelt like chicken. Craft beer. Plague. Peristalsis. Hormones. And desperation.

I boarded my train feeling fed-up. You can’t go on a bad date without it draining you of something. Even if you enter the evening with no expectations, you leave robbed of a little effervescence. I can usually see the funny side, and writing about it fortifies me, but there are times when I can’t help but wish I could go back to that heady period in my early-twenties when the world didn’t seem to be full of weirdos.

Wanting a little pick me up, I opened Tinder.

And found this guy.
img_0023His profile states- with a two-finger salute to the rules of grammar- that he is “the badboy you’re mothers warned you about”, he’s “the real 50 shades baby.”

He’s also a poet, because he goes on to claim that he’s “hung like an ox”,

“enjoys nibbling at your…”

“and making you scream with his…”

But only blows his load into socks.

Okay, so I made that last one up.

Tinder, hey?


All My Single Ladies…

16 Dec

Okay, so I broke.

Not Facebook, but I am updating the blog. I can’t help myself. I’m writing anyway, may as well edit and share the nonsense.

It’s quite difficult to stay off Facebook. I have to say I’ve cheated- a certain amount of Facebook is necessary for travelling, so I send trip related private messages. I know. But I haven’t looked at a news feed. Surely that buys me some willpower points somewhere…right?!

After a week of my self imposed exile, Facebook emailed me. “You haven’t checked me! Are you okay? Have I done something wrong?! You have notifications waiting! Come back! Whatever it is, we can work it out, I can change!”

I told my best mates about my Facebook Holiday Ban during one of the semi frequent emails I send: Hello, not dead, robbed or raped. I’m here now, heading there tomorrow. How’s Sydney? Miss you! 🙂

One bestie drily replied to the FBHB news: Good. You aren’t there as a fucking foreign correspondent.
The candour that only fourteen years of friendship can bring.
You are there as CC trying to rediscover herself. Much more important.
The same candour that allows one to call out a self indulgent and hackneyed three month voyage of self discovery that only the immature ones with no responsibilities can afford to do.

Anyway, enough of that. Travelling. Alone. Hmm.

If I had a dollar every time I heard, “You’re alone? My god. Isn’t it scary?”

…Well, I’d probably have seven dollars, but this is South East Asia, man. You can live like a King for seven dollars.

This question is usually followed with, “Don’t you have a boyfriend you can travel with?”

I had no idea that a partner was a prerequisite. Now I know.

Come to think of it, the question at the Thai border makes much more sense now, “Ladies: are you in the company of a man who regularly fills you like a bathtub?

I, of course, answered no. I was preoccupied with the realisation of how long it had been between, um, baths. I had to bribe the guy to let me in the country by myself. AND he only did on the assurance that I would don the harlot lipstick and do my best to find a man and settle down like a normal person.

My solo bliss hasn’t stopped a hive of indignant-bees entering my bonnet. I actually wrote a messy rant: why is a single man a bachelor- a swinging, free, fun, hard drinking lad who has taken the brave path of avoiding histrionic banshees loaded with oestrogen. A single lady? Well, she’s a spinster, crying into her soup-for-one and forgetting the names of her fifteen cats. Because, we are worthless unless we are part of a couple. We have to be paired off like animals heading towards the ark before we dry up downstairs and become useless. Well, title of my blog aside, I would like to firmly place myself as a bachelorette rather than a lonely cat lady, and it’s so unfair that…


I know. Me and Ms. Greer. Frightening.

If it can be edited to sound more clever and witty, and less slavering feminist, it may make the blog. Maybe.

Probably not.

You’re welcome.

I’ve had other reactions to being alone. I met an almost lady boy in Sihanoukville. Beyoncé. Yep. Truesies. I change names on here but that was too fabulous to cover up. I’d periodically see him sashaying down Serendipity beach, hawking cheap friendship bracelets. He would sit next to me as I sipped piña coladas and we’d chat. We initially bonded after he made fun of my arm hair.
“Let me remove it?” he asked, brandishing threading string with a wicked gleam in his eyes.
“No, it’s fine.”
He pouts. “Who are you here with?”
Upon hearing that I was travelling alone he bluntly asked, “Don’t you have any friends?”
“No, actually. People hate me. In fact, I didn’t come here for a holiday, I was chased from Sydney by a mob with burning torches.”
“You’re so funny. I’m going to make you a bracelet because you’re so funny. Even though you have hairy arms.”
“Beyoncé, I don’t have hair on any other part of my body. My arms are fine. Leave them alone.”

Girl power rants aside- Does solo travel ever get lonely?

Fuck. Yes.

South East Asia has been a whole other experience: quieter, more introspective. Europe was a giant party and it was so easy to meet fellow solo travellers but this is vastly different, and my time so far has been a long way from the drunken debauchery of last month. When I chat to people and hear their Full Moon Party stories I wonder if I’m supposed to be vomiting in a tuk tuk instead of blissfully reading trashy thrillers in a hammock on the beach. But, to be honest, I feel that someone my age at Koh Panang is a bit pathetic. If you’ve done it at thirty, power to you, but I’d feel like I was squeezing myself into a pair of jeans that no longer fit. Lying on the bed, wrenching them over my almost-thirty-one-derful hips, pretending not to notice the camel toe…I’m over drunken debauchery. Sigh. It’s happened. I’m getting old. I’m entering Cher-town.

To finish this post, I’d like to make a reference about how I believe in life after love, but I can’t figure out how to make the bad-synth vocals come off in print. My writing is rusty. Damn.


Romance Wrapped in Masturbation References

28 Jul

I am a single lady, which I am fine with in a, now put your hands up, oh oh oh, kind of way. There are upsides to being single. It affords me time to write. My spare time is spent busily weaving blankets of bad grammar and adult themes. I wrap these blankets around clumsily crafted word babies made from nuggets of utter bullshit within which a kernel of truth resides.

When you are single, chocolate ice cream becomes a perfectly valid choice for dinner. Dutch ovens- the kind where your other half farts and holds your head under the covers- become a thing of the past. And, fuck it, I’m going to watch 500 Days of Summer. Again. Right now. In my knickers. Then I am going to paint my nails, scream “romance doth suck” in time to Beethoven’s Fifth, and pretend that I contain one fifth of the awesomeness that is Adalita Srsen whilst air guitaring in a pink wig.

See? Kernal of truth, nugget of bullshit. Try and pick what’s what, it may be fun. You know, if you have nothing better to do with your time. Loser. Actually, don’t try and search for the kernel of truth. Shame on you. Your time is running out. Your life is ending before you. You are dying and decaying more and more with each passing day. The end will be upon us all before we know it. In fact, you shouldn’t even be reading this blog. You should be sky diving. Or learning French. Or something. Go. Now. Use your time constructively. I will still be writing boring bullshit in a month. Promise.

I digress.

There are downsides to single-dom though, especially when you are trying to get your writing out to a wider audience. Saturday night is sometimes spent tumbling down the rabbit hole that is Googling your own name. Incidentally, my twitter account is worth USD$4.94.

Oh, and no sex, too. Yeah. Big downside.

The prospect of internet dating has been suggested to me a few times, and after letting out a peal of teary laughter that tastes like loneliness and red wine, I occasionally contemplate it. I imagine that internet dating is like Sushi Train, only instead of a selection of delectable raw fish speeding along before me, I will have a range of bad selfies taken in a public toilet. Internet dating to me is just sex on tap. The unspoken conversation would read, I know why you are on here, you know why I am on here. Let me meet you, confirm that you aren’t Jason Voorhees, then we can have shameful anonymous sex at your place after which I will hurriedly dress, murmur thank you, and hastily depart never to see you again. I imagine that to be the case, anyway.

Kernal of truth. Nugget of bullshit. Just saying.

So a friend recently described her experiences Internet dating. Not me, though, let’s be absolutely clear on that before we move on.



So, she signed up to Plenty of Fish, a free, suitably sleazy website, with the express intention of finding a casual shag. Good on her. I helped her write a punchy and clever profile, managing to get the phrase ‘I know, totally ninja’ in there. I’m not sure how either, but it did make sense in context. We Photoshopped a few pictures, hit enter, and waited for the little fishies to come nibbling.

And, they did. My God, did they ever.

The first message was a fifty year old man who sent an image of what can only be described as a Benjamin Button cock. It was at least thirty years younger than him. There were no words, just an arty cock shot. Delete. Block. And move on.

We waded through the various replies and found a few reasonable ones buried within the myriad that contained bad spelling, internet memes, amateur pornography, and poorly used emoticons.

She began chatting to one lad, Farm Boy. Two years younger than her. Farm boy seemed nice enough. His profile boasted of his apparent intellect, which usually means that his IQ lies just above turducken; but she reasoned that he could be a shy guy not adept at getting girls. They exchanged numbers and started texting, and here’s where things went…awry. Farm boy texted constantly, and her mobile vibrated more than her, um, actually, she will kill me for writing the simile I wanted to. Let’s just say her mobile rang more than…a church bell on Sunday. Or something. Damn it, nowhere near as good as the other one.

Anyway, he began asking questions. Not, “are you Team Edward or Team Jacob” questions, either. “Can I ask a question?” he’d write, and before she could respond: If we hit it off, can we have sex? Can I ask a question? If we have sex, where will it be? Can I ask a question? If we have sex, will you be having sex with anyone else? Ooh, I have an awesome question, if we have sex-


That was me that sent that, not her. Well, he was interrupting our lunch, where I was busily talking about myself. It can’t be all about him, you know.

“CC,” she exclaimed shortly after I put Farm boy out to pasture, “how do I know if I want to have sex with these men from just a picture?”

She had a point, and I didn’t have an answer. I personally find that there is a certain intangibility to attraction. It’s all quite primal, really. I’m sure that the little synapse that fires in my brain when I smell a male who smells a certain way has been carefully engineered by evolution. It’s that weird mix of pheromones and hormones and stuff. There’s something nebulous about a real connection, you can’t pick it, you can’t describe it, you can’t explain it, it’s just there. You turn giddy, you laugh at stuff that really isn’t funny, your pupils dilate (really, they do), you fidget, your eyes sparkle, and you can’t wipe the stupid grin off your face. Real chemistry is uh-mazing when it happens, and you can’t get it through text messages, computer dating sites or internet chats.

I am a total slave to a real connection with a person and I have written off more than a few perfectly nice men because my ovaries didn’t clang. This is before I started practicing the Single Ladies dance at home, anyway. Oh wait, that sounds like a euphemism for something. It wasn’t. I meant the hand thing. No! Not THAT…oh, you know what? Never mind. That hole is dug.

But, it isn’t all about me. There is a point buried in this.

“And,” my friend continued, “I don’t know if I can be bothered playing all the games that men play.”

Ha! Yes guys, that’s how we think. You do! You know it, we know it. Its okay, we do too. She has a point: imagine if dating was actually an honest exercise. Imagine if you could say to someone, “You know what? I don’t want to marry you, I definitely don’t want to bear your children, and you can forget an ever after with me. I just want to take you to the bedroom, shag the shite out of you, and then go about my day. Maybe the following day I will want to shag you again, maybe not. Let’s just shag and find out.” I know, right? I think men AND women would like hearing that every now and then. What do we hear instead? “It’s not a good time for me”, “I’m just flat out with work at the moment”, “I’ll call you”, “I love you”.

Actually, scratch that last one, I’m still 7.4 bastards away from being that cynical.

However, if we were completely honest with each other, would that elusive connection disappear? Would it be dragged to earth with the reality of my overflowing washing basket? Would that subtle feeling that you get, where you can almost feel the snaps of electricity in the air between you, vanish? I think it would. And I think that the agony of putting yourself out there is worth the possibility of finding something that makes you smile. Instead of Googling your own name on a Saturday night.

Farm boy may disagree with me, though. He never texted her again. I may have broken him.

Anyway, my friend’s foray into the sticky world of online dating has been short lived. As she said to me “I was getting too many cock shots. First thing in the morning, BAM, there it is. If I don’t like you enough to wake up next to you, I really don’t need to see your willy before my morning coffee. I know men are proud of them, but that’s ridiculous. Imagine if women carried on like that?”

Problem is, we do. In our own way. It’s still fun, though. Whoah oh oh, oh oh oh…