The Straight Gay Ghost of Tinder Past

tinderghost2

So this past Saturday, right? I’m sitting on the couch in my hotel room and killing time on Tinder waiting for a trolley to pick me up for a wedding, and I come across this buff bro type named Benjamin with the perfect amount of facial hair and I swipe right and It’s a match! and he messages me.

  • Benjamin: oops lol

Twelve minutes of silence

  • Benjamin: this happens sometimes, it’s weird

At first I thought he said “oops lol” as in “I MEANT TO SWIPE LEFT BECAUSE YOU’RE GROSS lol,” which hurt my feelings and stunned me into the twelve minutes of silence you see noted above, but then when he followed up with that second message I was just confused.

  • Me: wait what? What happens sometimes?
  • Benjamin: I’m not gay lol. But idk sometimes guys show up in my feed and I guess I’m an aggressive swiper
  • Benjamin: the last time this happened the guy took my third photo a little too seriously and asked me if I wanted a bj haha

So of course I go and look at his third photo, and it’s of a random sign on a fence that reads: Ready. Set. Blow!

  • Me: LOL oh, gotcha. Yeah sometimes Tinder puts girls in my feed and I’ll have a mild identity crisis. Not gonna lie, that third picture of yours is intriguing haha
  • Benjamin: ha

So at this point I’m fairly certain it’s over, but then after a few minutes he’s baaack.

  • Benjamin: You ever suck a straight dude’s cock?
  • Me: Uhh
  • Me: maybe in college? now I only give head to get head haha
  • Benjamin: lol I see
  • Benjamin: You’re saying I’d have to suck yours too? lol
  • Benjamin: I might be willing to try

Okay. If you weren’t just like, “WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON? THIS IS ALL SO ABRUPT!” as you read that, then I’m going to go ahead and assume that you run in some fucked up circles. Because seriously, what the fuck was going on? It was all so abrupt!

A sick part of me was intrigued, though. And he was cute. And I mean, who knows, I figured. Maybe sexually flirting with a closeted/questioning straight man on Tinder will be a great, emotionally healthy thing to do! Plus the wedding trolley was running late.

  • Me: haha REALLY?
  • Benjamin: maybe
  • Me: well I’d probably be too chickenshit to meet you IRL anyways
  • Me: I’ve seen enough TV to know that being lured into a strange setting on the promise of straight dick can be dangerous
  • Me: I don’t want to get gay bashed!!!
  • Benjamin: lol
  • Benjamin: no I understand
  • Benjamin: so do you have a nice dick?

First of all, how insufferable am I with the whole making-light-of-gay-bashings talk up there? But it was an actual concern I had, and that’s why talking to closeted/questioning straight men on Tinder is never a good idea — you’ll totally wonder if he’s serious or if he’s like, acting on some kind of gang initiation dare where he has to lure a gay guy into a strange setting with the promise of straight dick and then maim him. It was a dark scenario to contemplate, but luckily, as you can see above, he asked me about the quality of my genitals before I could fully explore it.

  • Me: I’ve never had any complaints haha
  • Me: You???
  • Benjamin: about 7
  • Me: nice

How hilarious is it that we’re both grown men here? Like, as I’m reenacting these messages I’m legit thinking to myself, “OMG HIGH SCHOOL DELUXE,” which is both sad and also evidence that people never actually grow up and everything is just a façade. (Wait was that deep?)

  • Benjamin: you have Snapchat?
  • Me: yeah my name is ctnicolas
  • Benjamin: send me a pic of it
  • Me: my wedding trolley is here! Argh right when this was getting good

Saved by the fucking trolley, am I right? I mean, as much as I enjoyed our bizarre spur-of-the-moment exchange, I’m not about that dick pic life. Even though I’m pretty sure I gave him my Snapchat name because I wanted to get a pic of his dick, but whatever, I’m a hypocrite, YOLO.

After I logged off Tinder, I got two notifications indicating that Benjamin had messaged me. By then I was in wedding mode, though, so I didn’t sign back in to look, figuring that he probably just said “lol ok ttyl” and I could go back to our conversation later in the evening after I got white girl wasted at the open bar.

Flash-forward to later in the evening when I’m white girl wasted at the open bar:

BENJAMIN IS GONE.

Like, his profile is not in my matches anymore. Our entire message history has vanished. It’s like he was never there. Like he didn’t even exist.

You may be wondering how I was able to so accurately quote the conversation throughout this post without the actual transcript for reference, and the answer there is that I was obviously writing this post in my head from the very first moment Benjamin brought his penis into the discussion, so I was grasping tightly to the contours of pretty much every line we exchanged right from the start. (Though I didn’t have the foresight to screen-shot it before he went all fucking Houdini on me, but lesson learned.)

I told my best friend Fran this whole story the next morning over coffee.

“Yeah, dude, it was so weird,” I said. “Like, ‘Ever sucked a straight dude’s dick? POOF I’m GONE!’ He deleted his entire Tinder profile because of me.”

“Or he just blocked you,” she dryly retorted. “Oh! Did I just stomp on your self-importance?”

It was kind of insulting but mostly hilarious, because it was true.

So in conclusion, I don’t know. This whole situation was bizarre and crazy and yet another example of the sad, strange world we live in. Mostly I just feel for Benjamin, because I know we’re all on a different journey in this life and sexuality isn’t always black and white and so who the hell knows, maybe he’s bisexual and needs to figure that shit out via a spontaneous Tinder beej. Or maybe he’s gay and tortured. Or maybe he’s straight and was just having a moment like the one I had that time I flirted with a beautiful girl at a straight bar all night and we almost decided to go back to her place to “just get naked and see what happens” but didn’t.

Or maybe — actually? — it’s none of my damn business. But then again, neither is the length of his dick. And yet somehow I know it’s “about 7.”

The Internet is so weird.

 

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11 Signs You’re Drunk and a Problem

1. You order a “Grey Goose and Vodka.” The bartender looks at you weird and is all, “You mean Grey Goose and Soda?” and you reply, “THAT’S WHAT I SAID, DICK!” followed immediately by, “Oh my God. I’m so sorry.”

2. In the wake of #1, an imaginary, miniature, and slightly translucent Full House-era Bob Saget starts hovering over your left shoulder and convinces you to leave a 100% tip, mostly out of white guilt (or something), to make up for the whole debacle.

3. Straight women: You start Katy Perry-ing and kissing each other.

4. Gay men: You also start Katy Perry-ing, kissing straight women and/or lesbians.

Well, I made it a solid two months.

Well. At least I made it two months.

5. Straight men: Ain’t nobody got time for Katy Perry, as you’re too busy Facebook status-ing impassioned rants RE: underrated athletes who are hated on by many but are in fact the BEST OF ALL TIME.

6. You spend five or more minutes meticulously fashioning a grammatically sound and typo-free text message to your [ex-boyfriend/hookup/person whom you generally wish would love you] that simply says, “Hey. How’s it going?”

7. You start answering all questions with “GENEVA CONVENTION!”

8. You’re not sure what the Geneva Convention is/was.

drunk

9. You craft what you think is the perfect Snapchat, but is in fact just a really, really dark picture of an unremarkable barstool. When sending, you speedily check off names with reckless abandon—including all the people you usually avoid Snapchatting out of fear that they’ll think you’re a loser. Which is very ironic.

10. You touch people in ALL the places.

11. You receive a response to the text sent in #6. It says, “I’m OK, you?” and you respond with, “WHdAT the FKCU Do YOU THINK, ASFKLHOLE???”

 

At Least My Self-Replica Bobble Head Can’t Get Fat

So I have some random, amazing news: I am now the proud owner of a self-replica bobble head. And — since it is a physical object made of plastic, with no emotional eating issues whatsoever — it can never get fat. So now, on some level, I can never get fat. This brings me more comfort than I’ve felt in a long while.

And by “in a long while,” I mean ever.

I should thank my brother’s fantastic girlfriend who BRILLIANTLY thought to herself, “What’s the best gift for a self-absorbed yet low self-esteem-y blogger? Ah! A self-replica bobble head!” and had it designed to reflect my every physical feature.

Y’all. It looks just like me. Which is awesome and slightly creepy. But mostly amazing.

One of the best things about it is that it’s doing an animated, disco-y, Travolta-in-Saturday-Night-Fever-esque move with its left hand. Those who know me in real life can confirm that this is totally apropos.

Note: It has been brought to my attention that in photographs, the raised arm can be vaguely interpreted as Nazi-esque — which I totally didn’t notice myself. Because I’m not antisemitic. But if you are, then please be advised that in real life it’s 100% Travolta and 0% Hitler.

Here it is in my fridge, sandwiched between a bottle of Samuel Adams Winter Lager and a Low-Sodium V8:

fridge

After this initial session proved just how photogenic my replica is, I decided that it deserves a larger platform. So I brought it with me to my office in Times Square.

Here it is being manhandled by Mickey Mouse on my desk:

mickey mouse

Here is a representation of how I think I will feel on the inside if/when I ever get to meet Christina Aguilera in real life:

xtina

And finally, here I am trying to recreate the Leonard DiCaprio “I’m the king of the world!” moment in Titanic — except the exact opposite of that:

times square

Speaking of this photo – do we love the new look around here? I feel like the old set-up was too, like, serious or something. Plus I’ve always wanted my blog to look like American Apparel and Thought Catalog had unprotected sex and popped out a key change. Or something. I’m starting to not make sense again, and that could be because I’m still recovering from the cold that kept me home from work for the better part of the past week.

Stay healthy, y’all!

P.S. I LOVE YOU GUYS. Whoever helped to get me onto this list (see: #29) of the Top 100 LGBT-themed blogs on the web, I’m super touched. You clearly deserve your own self-replica bobble head for having such awesome taste in blogs.

I Broke My Own Rule and Brought My Self-Esteem Issues to a Football Game

Here is a (truncated, punctuated, and spell-corrected version of a) text message conversation that took place between my brother’s girlfriend and me at the Patriots game on Sunday:

  • Nic: Your boyfriend is such a gentleman.
  • Brother’s Girlfriend: Are you sure you’re referring to the right person?
  • Nic: Some girl in the row behind us is touching his head and he keeps angrily telling her to stop. Pretty romantic, I think. Meanwhile I keep secretly wishing she would touch my head.
  • Nic: Just for the validation of someone finding me desirable.
  • Nic: But NOOO, she touches my uncle’s head before she touches mine! I’m fat and ugly.
  • BGF: Haha, who is this girl touching everyone?!
  • BGF: Everyone but you.*
  • Nic: IDK! She just touched my dad’s head.
  • BGF: So even if she touches your head now, at this point it would just be an afterthought.
  • Nic: I’m the fattest person ever.
  • BGF: No way dude!
  • BGF: Clearly she’s drunk and thinks she already touched your head.
  • Nic: You’re right, maybe that’s it! Or maybe she’s afraid to touch my head because she secretly likes me the most.
  • Nic: Or maybe I’m delusional.
  • BGF: No. She’s in love with you and doesn’t want to ruin her chances by treating you like all the others.
  • Nic: I feel a little better now.

And then I got distracted because there was a football game happening in front of me. And then Gronkowski broke his arm and I internally cried like a baby over my team losing the best tight end in the league for essentially the rest of the season. And then I cried even more over the fact that I was rejected by a drunk, head-touching woman. And then the drunk, head-touching woman FINALLY touched my head, and I was dismayed to learn (yet again) that a slight expression of validation didn’t solve all of my problems.

                                        This is kind of the best place ever.

And I’ve now written yet another blog post that highlights my extreme need for therapy. I’m thinking that for my first session, I should just print out every post I’ve ever written, hand them to the therapist in a neat stack and say, “Please read these and fix me.”

P.S. I am fully aware that my whole being gay thing should have eliminated any interest or concern with the drunk, head-touching woman whatsoever — but this post clearly proves that low self-esteem knows no gender.

P.P.S. I’m currently writing this blog from the Metro North train, and I just made the BIGGEST SCENE EVER because I thought I saw a cockroach creeping around near my foot. I screamed, and people turned around to find me with my legs entirely in the air. All the while, I was wondering what kind of a weird breed of cockroach this was because it appeared to be silver and kind of shiny. I started imagining that if I were lucky enough to be able to get to work alive and Google “silver cockroach,” I’d discover some kind of crazy, poisonous, bacteria-spreading death insect that everyone but me knew about. Then I looked closer and realized it was just a nickel that had somehow rolled in my direction, so I exhaled – though my relief was severely tainted by the fact that I’m now hallucinating on trains. Check, please.

 

The Restorative Power of Mountains, Oktoberfest, and Lots of Garlic

So, the past few weeks have not been ideal.

I stopped dating (and consequently, blogging), the Pats lost for two weeks in a row, and I had to deal with some other life drama that is totally blog-inappropriate (although, my definition of blog-appropriate includes some pretty questionable things — so there’s a good chance that my other life drama is actually totally apropos by normal-people standards).

In light of the above, I decided to drop everything on Friday and spontaneously join two of my best friends on a trip up to the Catskills for a long weekend of nature, Oktoberfest, and garlic — three of my favorite (totally non-questionable) things.

It was awesome and pretty much fixed my life.

Our first morning there, we engaged in an rousing session of moving wood from a big pile in the yard to a neatly organized stack on the side of a shed.

                                                      Bringing lanky back.

Yeah, I’m basically a glumberjack. (That means “gay lumberjack,” for those of you who don’t spend much time in glumberyards.)

…Or maybe I’m just Big Ang. (This is what happens when I obnoxiously try to display my buff chest while my friend struggles to take a picture that actually includes my face.)

Later that day, we encountered a random group of horses quietly standing still in the middle of a circle.

I know, right? It was weird to me too.

                     “Oh, don’t mind us. We’re just chillin’ with our saddles on.”

Naturally, I felt compelled to loudly declare, “THOSE ARE NOT REAL HORSES!” So I did.

And then my friends looked at me like I was the weird one. And then the horses moved and I stood corrected. And then I tried to explain to my friends that those horses were freakin’ bizarre — because a brilliant Mariah Carey music video from 1997 taught me that real horses, when left to their own devices, like to run wild and free with abandon into the sun.

And then they looked at me like I was weird again, and I was like, “Listen, y’all, if we weren’t in the mountains right now and had cell service, I’d settle this immediately by YouTubing ‘Butterfly’ and this whole argument would be moot.”

And then we all stopped caring about horses because we realized it was time for Oktoberfest.

After a glorious afternoon of beer and German food, we decided that the best way to end the day would be with some good old fashioned cigars while overlooking the mountains from the house we were staying in.

           Gangsta. (Or just nerdy gay man with a cigar and a chalice. Either one.)

For some reason (and by that I mean, “probably because of all the beer”), I felt compelled to try to be a tough guy and inhale all of my cigar smoke for the first time ever. So I did.

And then I proceeded to throw up three times.

Frazzled, I thought I was dying and promptly took to Google while my friends watched A Time to Kill starring Matthew McConaughey and Sandra Bullock and insisted that I was just having a bad reaction to the fact that I inhaled an entire cigar.

Thankfully, Google agreed with my friends. Turns out that inhaling cigar smoke is totally okay if you’re a chain-smoking professional. If you’re a glumberjack who only smokes on special occasions such as Oktoberfest, New Year’s Eve, and Carrie Underwood album release days, then you should avoid it at all costs. (You’re welcome for the warning, glumberjacks.)

By the way, did I mention that there was lots of foliage already and I freakin’ love being in nature?

                                         Fresh mountain air heals everything.

Our final day in the mountains involved hitting up my first-ever garlic festival. And it was heaven.

Turns out I’m a big fan of garlic burgers, garlic fries, garlic pancakes, garlic ice cream in garlic waffle cones, garlic sausage, and (non-garlic) bottled water.

At the end of it all, I feel like the trip (combined with Sunday’s incredible Pats win) really put life back into perspective.

And I didn’t even have to watch Titanic this time!

But I did have to move some wood, throw up a little, and eat probably nineteen cloves of garlic.

Totally worth it.

 

Food, Football, and Love

Every time I write an angsty rant about why men suck, I always question the decision later. Like, if only I had watched He’s Just Not That Into You for the thirty-seventh time while inhaling frozen chicken wings and a case of light beer before opening my laptop, last week’s post could have probably been avoided entirely.

But then again, it was met with an overwhelmingly positive response from women far and wide — so at least my anger was able to cultivate some kind of sisterhood united against noncommittal a-holes. That’s always good.

In any case, I’d like to bring some positivity back up in here by presenting you with a photograph of a mural-sized rendering of the tattoo I’m strongly considering getting inked between my shoulder blades:

                                           This piece of wood just gets me.

Or, if we want to be a bit more specific — a combination of:

  • two hot dogs,
  • a cheeseburger,
  • three grilled shrimp skewers,
  • approximately fourteen steak tips,
  • eight pieces of marinated pork,
  • a quarter of a rack of ribs,
  • probably a bag of chips,
  • too many Coors Lights to tally up, and
  • another cheeseburger

is love.

Because that’s what I ate on Sunday throughout the course of tailgating and attending the Patriots home opener, and it was definitely love in its purest form. And/or its most obese form — which is fine, because I’m totally over those body image issues, Lou. Because really, unlike a gay bar, Gillette Stadium is something of a judgment-free zone.

I don’t know what it says about the world that I’ve come to associate gay men with rejection and ostracization while I associate NFL games with love and acceptance, but the irony is not lost on me.

                                     I’ll take “fat” over “douche bag” any day.

As far as the game itself, we couldn’t have sucked more. But I’m getting over it.

And yeah, as far as the men I’ve dated this summer, they couldn’t have sucked more. But I’m getting over that, too. Because — when it comes to both dating and football — it’s early.

And there’s always next week.

 

Purposeless Dating: A Big Waste of Time

When it comes to how I feel about dating, my nineties television soul mate — Ally McBeal — says it best:

“The truth is, I don’t actually date. Not for the fun of it, anyways. I more like audition potential husbands. And if I don’t see any potential, I don’t waste my time.”

This woman. She gets me.

This is why I’ve had approximately thirty-nine and a half first dates this summer that ultimately went nowhere. Because if we’re on a date and I learn that you are:

  • closeted,
  • of an unkempt appearance,
  • humorless,
  • a Jets fan,
  • shorter than advertised on OkCupid,
  • averse to beer-drinking, or
  • incapable of having a conversation about anything other than the gym,

then I will not waste my — or your — time.

I kind of have a non-existent biological clock that requires my husband and I to adopt our first potentially international baby when I’m between the ages of thirty and thirty-five, and I’d like for us to have been happily gay-married for a good five years before that happens. So, according to these calculations, I have a maximum of six years in which to find Mr. Right.

While I realize 2018 isn’t the most immediate deadline, I have no desire to spend the rest of my twenties reliving my slutty college years months (I was monogamously coupled for ninety-percent of my undergraduate experience).

In short, I hate wasting time.

Unfortunately, because the universe clearly hates me, the majority of this summer’s guys that I did see husband-potential with seem to love wasting time. This is evidenced by the fact that they waited until the second, third, and even fifth dates to tell me that they “aren’t looking for anything too serious,” but “still want to hang out” — and then had the nerve to suggest we still sleep together.

Pardon my naïveté, but it truly blows my mind that men can effectively say, I’m afraid of commitment but I do kind of enjoy your company, so let’s just have no-strings-attached sex, and expect it to be received with a glowing air of understanding acceptance.

I’m sorry, but the whole reason I went on those multiple dates and took the time to get to know you as a person was because I ultimately want those effing strings (maybe not with you, but if things were to work out, then, yeah — strings would be the end goal). And frankly, I’m pretty damn sick of feeling like I’m some kind of crazy person because of it.

Maybe I do need therapy.

But honestly, when did wanting a relationship go from being an obvious implication of participation in the dating scene to being some kind of rare psychological disease that signifies my desperation, neediness, and obesity?

After days of contemplation, I’ve yet to figure that one out.

I have concluded, though, that perhaps the above-mentioned men of my summer aren’t all being honest. Maybe the ones who “don’t want anything serious” are liars who may or may not just think I’m fat. Or maybe they are being truthful. Either way, it doesn’t bode well for my future that I keep meeting men who could be described in either of the following two ways:

  1. They honestly aren’t looking for relationships, and are therefore douche bags — douche bags who all deserve to be stuck on trains with burrito bowls and no forks — for allowing chemistry to develop between us over the course of several dates, and then telling me that they’re commitment-phobic.
  2. They’re lying sons o’ bitches. They actually are looking for relationships, and the “don’t want anything serious” line is their seemingly-less-damaging way of telling me that somewhere along the way in our sequence of dates I scared them off by saying that I “truly believe Taylor Swift is the Joni Mitchell of our time… except deeper.”

To the number ones: Grow a pair, and learn to keep it real. And to the number twos:

…Grow a pair, and learn to keep it real.

With this in mind, I’d like to proclaim the following to all potential suitors:

Be aware that I’m looking for something serious. Who the hell knows yet if I’m looking for something serious with you, but if I agree to multiple dates, then it should be interpreted as me acknowledging that I at least see potential with us. If I eventually decide that we may not be a good fit, then I will tell you that — probably by saying that I see us more as friends (who never hang out).

Please reciprocate.

Don’t waste my time; don’t waste your time.

 

 

Tragedy Strikes During My Fantasy Football Draft

So, with the exception of last week’s glorified Instagram posting, it just occurred to me that it has been two full weeks since my last real post. Gasp!

Where has the time gone?

Actually, I can answer that question:

  • One weekend at a casino filled with a drunken Zac Brown Band concert and modest gambling
  • Four gay bar debaucheries (just like the olden days of Keychanges)
  • My fantasy football draft, which turned into a major debacle when I lost my Internet connection
  • Lots of feelings-eating (as per usual)
  • Mad Men and several more Don Draper fantasies
  • Work (lest I forget)

And suddenly it’s fall.

If you don’t know me in real life, you may be shocked to discover that the same emotionally needy gay man who once assaulted a wine bottle out of husband-less frustration happens to be a fantasy football enthusiast (with a title under his belt, no less) and a country music fan, but both facts are indeed true.

Being a gay fantasy football team owner is kind of like being Peggy Olsen in Mad Men. That is to say (for those ignorant to my new television obsession) it is akin to being a female working professional in the male-dominated corporate world of 1960’s advertising — you must overcome prejudice, never let them see you cry, and deal with the fact that everyone is going to expect you to eventually get pregnant and start neglecting your duties. (Really, I should be so lucky to have that last problem.)

To give you some insight as to how I retain my identity while participating in heteronormative activities such as fantasy football, here is a fun little screen shot:

                                  And there goes my credibility.

Please note the Mariah Carey-inspired team name and Victoria’s Secret-approved helmet logo color scheme.

I had been preparing for this season’s draft for quite a few days leading up to the event, so you can imagine my utter rage when my WiFi decided to cut out during the seventh round. Thankfully, I had chosen most of my starters at that point, but when I finally got back in, I found that auto-pick had stocked my bench up with a number of unsavory back-ups.

Not. Okay.

Naturally, I proceeded to write a strongly worded e-mail to my building about how the free WiFi they offer is total crap and I demand a recount! (Kind of nonsensical, but I was pissed.)

The e-mail was actually pretty eloquent, but then I arrived at the final paragraph and couldn’t resist sharing with them that they had negatively impacted my fantasy season.

I now realize that this may have negated the validity of my entire argument and made me come off as some kind of disgruntled frat boy who really needs to gain some life perspective. I might as well have also thrown in that their WiFi is so bad that it interferes with my porn-viewing habits and often renders the Domino’s Pizza Tracker inaccurate.

Needless to say, I’ve yet to receive a response.

Anyways.

I really want to elaborate on the five other bullet points above, but now I also really want to order Domino’s, so I’m torn.

Where would I even begin? The gay bar sagas involve Lou, whom I’ve reluctantly become friends with. The casino weekend involves car troubles and beer, which is always fun to write about. The feelings-eating is pretty much a feature of every other post of mine, so I guess I can skip that…

Ooh! I just got a brilliant idea.

If there’s one story that you’re particularly intrigued by, tell me in the comments. If there is enough feedback, perhaps I’ll just make my next post dedicated to whichever topic has generated the most interest. Or just don’t comment at all and I’ll construe all of the non-response as evidence that my life is as uninteresting as I secretly fear.

(Excuse me while I order a pizza.)

 

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