Flirting with Fannies

A couple of weeks ago, I was so bored of boys that I switched my Tinder ‘discovery preference’ to females. No prior thought was put into the decision; I just did it. So, although I’ve never done more than kiss a girl, I do think they’re amazing. Girls are just better to look at. They have a way of being simultaneously delicate and strong, chaste and coquettish, and you can empathise with them in a way that you can’t with men. 

I think I went in to it with romanticised expectations of connecting on deeper levels and actually being able to have conversations with like-minded women, as opposed to wading through the shit that men tend to spew. I was wrong. So wrong.

Here are some things that I have learnt grossly generalised about the lady loving ladies of Tinder –

  • They are not afraid to show you their boobs, two messages in.
  • They are not afraid to ask to see your boobs, two messages in.
  • They love straight girls. Direct quote – ‘I love straight girls‘.
  • Asian girls are always shocked to find another Asian girl. Every. Single. Time.
  • They like to ask if you’ve ‘been with a lot of guys‘. 
  • They want to show you ‘how to lick pussy‘. Apparently it’s different when a girl does it.
  • They have no problem getting naked on those stupid Tinder ‘moments’ that ALL your matches can see for 24 hours. 
  • They want to sext. All. The. Time.
  • Tattoos and piercings are a big thing. 
  • 80% are super sporty.

Here is what I learnt about myself from flirting with fannies –

  • I am 100% more likely to show my boobs to a girl than a boy. Because that’s what happened.
  • I literally think eyebrows are everything. But I already knew that.
  • I’m essentially attracted to hotter versions of myself. Basically, Esmeralda.

This is what I think I look like when I put coloured contacts in. If only.

  • I have no problem telling anyone that I want to sit on their face.
  • I think sexting is really dull.
  • I would rather look at boobs than a dick pic.
  • I would rather look at a dick pic than a pussy pic.
  • Other people’s vaginas make me wonder about my own. 

Considering that two boys are currently trying to ask me out on dates and all the girls only want to talk about putting their tongues in unmentionable places, as opposed to actually doing it, girl-on-girl action does not seem to be on the cards. For now, at least. Disappointing, or what?

Ladies, have you experienced other girls on some kind of dating platform? Fellas, does your experience of girls differ greatly?

Oops!…I Did It Again

First off, can I just say – two song title titles in a row? I should be writing for Grey’s Anatomy.

So, if you remember, I was supposedly using this ginger kid I met on Tinder. I say supposedly because I really don’t think I was, but let me lay all this drama llama out there and you can decide for yourself..

I know I said I had no interest in seeing him again, but, as was inevitable, he did ask if I wanted to do something on Friday night – the ‘something’ obviously being sexy time. As I am incapable of making [good] decisions, I asked a selection of friends what I should do. Basically, they all said ‘NO’. Consequently, I said ‘yes’. I messaged TG back to finalise plans and to casually let him know that I wouldn’t be staying over. I don’t think he was overly happy with that as he asked, ‘oh, was it the cuddling?’ but he accepted it regardless.

The evening rolled around, I threw on a jumper and leggings (classic combo) and headed over to his. We drank some wine, had some sex, and he walked me to the bus stop.

What a freaking lovely evening. I didn’t feel like I had used him at all. Everyone else had been wrong. I was right, like always. Fuck the haterz etc.

So, after going to bed feeling satisfied, I woke up the next morning in agony. Literally, is there anything worse than a bruised vagina? It hurt to put pants on. It hurt to walk around. It hurt to pee. It hurt to just fucking sit down. Prince Harry had well and truly fucked me.

Obviously I then complained about it to everyone, basically to announce that I got laid again – like The Lonely Island but just a touch more subtle

Needless to say, not one soul offered me any sympathy. So, after being called a slut and getting told that I used the poor ginger again, I, like the trooper I am, used my banged up fanny as an excuse to lay on the sofa and watch reruns of Sex and the City all day.

Naturally, five hours passed by and I was late to start getting ready for my friend’s birthday shindig. I cried to my best friend over whatsapp about how none of my clothes felt comfortable and then eventually settled on leggings and a blouse – classic me.

Drinks and dancing was super fun, but once I realised that I would miss the last rail replacement bus and decided that I was completely against taking the night bus home, I messaged Ben and asked what he was doing. Not unto my surprise, he had all the time in the world for me and after a quick ‘but you’ll have to stay over’ caveat, I was on my way.

Look, I know how this sounds, but I really wasn’t just using his place as a means to avoid the nightbus (but if you knew how rapey my walk home is, you’d totally understand). The night went as you’d expect it to go, though I’m not sure that was wise considering the state of my vagina at the time. I did disclose the situation at hand when he collected me from the station – he seemed far too overjoyed at the thought of me opting to stay over just for cuddles –  so he was fairly careful with me, but it was still pretty rough going.

Sex aside, he’s nice to talk to and we do get on. But, alas, the kid, at some point during the night, administered what I like to call ‘the kiss of death’. HE KISSED ME ON THE FOREHEAD. THE FOREHEAD, GUYS. So, obviously that meant he had to go.

I’ve yet to meet someone who truly understands my hatred for this ungodly act. They get that it’s weird when boys you’ve just met in da club do it (trust me, it happens), and that it is a very affectionate thing to do, but, overall, most people think it’s actually really nice.

They are wrong.

It’s actually just really inappropriate. Forehead kisses are for real love. Forehead kisses are what I give my little cousins when I’m standing behind them and brushing their hair away from their little faces. Forehead kisses are what my grandparents give me. Forehead kisses are what I imagine my future husband will give me when I’m sitting at the breakfast bar in our kitchen and he’s just stolen my mug of coffee. Forehead kisses are not for booty calls. It’s just too much.

Couple this with the incessant need to cuddle, and it was game over for Tinder Ginger. We obviously just needed and wanted different things. Maybe it’s harsh, but I think it’s fair. And, because I’m a bitch, I obviously didn’t say this to him and  just ignored his subsequent messages instead. Whoops.

Although I still think that I didn’t use him, some of you may have re-evaluated your opinions! What do you think – did I use the kid?

You know that I could use somebody..

So, last night, after watching the new Made In Chelsea (yes, I watch it; no, I’m not ashamed of that) I was telling a friend how the show essentially leaves me with no faith in men. This quickly turned into a bit of a ‘men are shit’ moan as I started watching John Tucker Must Die afterwards. Though he was technically not wrong to counter with positing that women can also be pretty shit, it wasn’t what I wanted to hear and our conversation went something like this:

Me – True, except I don’t know any shady girls. But 90% of boys I know are shit to girls

W – True. 90% of girls I know use men

Me – I don’t use men

W – Tinder Ginger?

I matched Tinder Ginger (TG) a couple of weeks ago, and, after a few days of talking, he decided to strike whilst the iron was hot and ask to meet up. So, we pencilled in plans for the following week. However, whilst I was slightly tipsy and out with my friends that Friday, I messaged him and asked what he was up to. Long story short – we met up, went for a drink, and went back to his.

I don’t think I need to tell you what occurred back at his, but I will; SEX. Sex occurred. Sex occurred after four months of not occurring.

I didn’t need to clarify that for you, did I? Who wouldn’t understand that that was essentially the plan from the get go? What boy doesn’t take a drunk girl asking ‘wanna do something?’ on a Friday night to mean ‘wanna fuck?’

With that in mind, here’s the rest of the conversation with W:

Me – I don’t think I used him. He knew what that was

W – So? Knowing doesn’t stop it being using

Me – Not if it’s mutual

W – You Tindered him for just sex. That’s by definition using. You used him. You knew it was just sex. He clearly didn’t as he’s still talking to you

Me – No one meets on Tinder and has sex straight away and thinks it’s more than just sex

W – He does

Me – Nah, it’s friendly

W – Is this how you get all your friends?

I maintain that I didn’t use the boy because there’s no way he didn’t know what that whole dalliance was about, and I think that knowing does stop it from being using. I didn’t lie to him or deceive him in any way. He understood what I wanted and complied accordingly. Also, he had a fucking great time. A better time than me, even. I know because I kept count.

TG was actually a really nice guy – a 26 year old graphic designer who not only somehow found the patience to listen to his crazy one night stand talk about her love of penguins in children’s books, but also knew the books, and their authors and illustrators. We got along really well, minus his incessant need to cuddle, and I ended up staying ’til half past one the next day. But it was what it was, and I didn’t really expect to hear from him again.

After I left his house, I went to meet W for lunch (in my same clothes – so classy, I know), and in the twenty minutes it took me to get to Carnaby Street, I knew that I didn’t really have any intention of seeing him again. I’d gotten what I set out to get and so I was over it.

Okay, so I suppose if you want to be a pedantic little bitch about it, I may have used him. If you’re not a cunt, however, you’ll see that the negative connotations of ‘using someone’ don’t really apply here and no gingers were harmed in the quenching of my thirst.

What do you think? Did I use the kid? Or is it just part of the nature of adult sexual relationships?

‘I don’t know you won’t put me in a suitcase..’

Let’s be honest; the internet can be pretty fucking shady. You never know what’s really going on or who you’re really talking to. We’ve all seen Catfish; relative anonymity is a powerful tool. So, when it comes to internet dating, or meeting anyone from any kind of social media platform, really, you can never be too careful. I grew up in a fairly protective household, and although I thought my parents overdid it, their weariness of strangers has definitely rubbed off on me. You don’t know who’s sitting behind the keyboard; everyone is a potential rapist or murderer.

Save for when I was 15 and would talk to strangers over MSN and MySpace, I had no real experience in talking to people I didn’t know until my friends and I all got ourselves on Tinder last summer. My initial impressions weren’t great, as the first message I received was:

You look like you’re a naughty girl.

Needless to say, he was promptly blocked. Slightly more wary, I continued to sift through the abundance of unappealing boys with no chat until I came across one who was basically my twin. We got along like a house on fire, and ended up talking consistently for days. After a few days, he started to mention that we should meet up, which, of course, scared me shitless. I’d already sort of eliminated the Catfish worry, as we’d obviously already exchanged Snapchats by then, and I had indeed confirmed that he was the same boy in his pictures. To be honest, though, as Tinder profiles are connected to Facebook profiles, I’m not overly worried about someone not physically being the same person. Sure, he may be the brown haired boy in the suit, but so was Patrick Bateman.

YOU WOULD NEVER KNOW

After endless excuses, I finally admitted that I was just plain ol’ scared – that I didn’t know he wouldn’t put me in a suitcase. He thought I was being irrational, I was as serious as I’d ever been. That week, a girl in her mid-twenties had been found in a suitcase near where I live, and her murderer has only just been found guilty. Stories like this, sadly, come around far too often – you really never can be too careful. Before you start, I obviously don’t mean to trivialise what happened to this poor girl. It’s just that sometimes you can’t just say, ‘sorry, I’m scared you’ll rape and murder me’. Like I said, the internet is pretty fucking shady, and you can never be too careful. So, without further ado, here are some of the results of the ‘suitcase line’..

W – The first time I threw this worry out there, the first time I ever met anyone off of the internet, was with W. When I first met him at a pub around the corner from the library, he whatsapped me saying, ‘I’ll be the one with the suitcase’ – I laughed, but it didn’t put me at ease. Two days later, when I ended up in his bedroom, he pointed out everything that he would be able to fit me in if he chopped me up. I felt at ease when it dawned on me that boys may also have reservations when it comes to going home with strangers – as we were falling asleep he mumbled, ‘don’t steal my shit while I’m sleeping’. Classic.

J – Click the link for some context on this kid; it’ll help infinite amounts. To summarise, though, J was essentially a massive toff and, unsurprisingly, was not amused by my suitcase fears. Obviously he was just boring. When he met me at the station and we started walking towards the pub, he said that he had considered picking me up in his car because it was raining. He then went on to explain that he didn’t because he knew I wouldn’t be cool with getting into a stranger’s car, especially as his car has tinted windows and looks a little bit rapey. As he saw my brow start to furrow, he quickly let out a nervous, ‘and there’s a suitcase in the back’. My mouth literally dropped. I decided he was kidding. So, after a brief return to his house for more drinks and ‘privacy’, I let him give me a lift back to the station. I tentatively opened the front passenger side door to the rape car and peered around the front seat. Lo and behold, there it was – a big arse suitcase. I got in the car regardless as I figured that if he was going to murder me, he would have done it already. I ignore his messages now.

P – This kid was undoubtedly the cutest. He had a youngish face and seemed really sweet, which obviously meant I needed to be extra careful. He laughed off the suitcase line with an, ‘I only have a duffel’ and I was hooked. He added me on Facebook to put me at ease and off I went to meet him for sex drinks. Drinks went swimmingly – he was boyishly charming and I was endearingly awkward – so we moved the party back to his. He had told me that night that he was in the process of moving house, so I expected to walk into a mess of a flat. However, what I found myself in was far, far worse. The place was barren. BARREN. There was literally nothing there but the furniture that came with the place. The fridge was unplugged. There were no toiletries in the bathroom. THERE WERE NO SHEETS ON THE BED. I knew it; he was going to murder me. This was the most suitcasey situation, ever. I questioned him endlessly. Was this even his flat?! Eventually he threw me on the bed and had his way with me. His innocent little face was a lie. He fucked like Christian Bale in American Psycho (minus the mirror). I stopped waiting for a suitcase and started anticipating a fucking chainsaw. As you can see, though, I survived to tell the tale.

There have been other miscellaneous responses – I get a lot of, ‘could you fit in a suitcase?’ Sorry, are you implying that I’m huge? Some boys play along, some boys think it’s insensitive – so it’s also kind of a way to gauge how fucking dull they are, too. Essentially, though, my point is that you should always be safe. Always meet in public places and always let someone know where you are. Don’t let anyone put you in a situation where you feel uncomfortable or at risk. They WILL try to do this; I am genuinely shocked by the amount of boys that think I will just turn up on their doorstep without having properly vetted them first. Men are morons.

Dumb shit men say: The Asian Edition

Happy New Year!! I hope you all had a wonderful time celebrating with your loved ones and were super messy to make up for me being super sensible. I’ve literally no stories to tell from the night. Hellooo, adulthood.

Anyway, I thought I’d do another ‘Dumb shit men say‘ post, with an emphasis on the ones that talk to me because I’m Indian. Now, I’d say 80% of my messages are from Asian men, so, really, most of what you’ve already read is from them. So I’ve sifted through the muck and found some that are more explicit in their Asian approach. Enjoy!

They like to point out that I am Indian

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They like to point out that I am tall for an Indian

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They think it’s okay to speak in Hindi

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And make references to Bollywood actresses

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All because we’re just so damn hot

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Liar, liar

As I mentioned here and here, I make bad decisions. W was a bad decision I knowingly made over and over.

We met on Tinder. After a week of constant talking, we realised how much we had in common and how similar we were. So we met for a drink after he was done with work and I was done with the library. I was awkward but we got along great. A couple of days later we arranged drinks and a sleepover. During drinks I had second thoughts, and started texting my friends saying that I wasn’t sure I was attracted to him and felt like it was just friendly. I stayed over anyway. We watched two of my favourite movies, The Big Lebowski and Megamind. Things happened but we didn’t have sex. The next day he bought me breakfast and took me back to the library. Sounds great, right? We definitely had great friend potential, I wasn’t sure of my feelings further than that. Regardless, we kept meeting up after work and during lunches. We’d go for coffee, take walks around the city, hook up in bathrooms – it was fun and easy.

After a month of this, we finally had sex. In a bathroom on campus. I knew I shouldn’t have done it as soon as it was over. Whoops. I said that I didn’t want to sleep with someone who was sleeping with other people, so he said that he wouldn’t. In hindsight, I’m unsure why I said that. I didn’t have feelings for him beyond friendship, I think I just didn’t want to share.

The next day I was at drinks with my best friend. He came up on her Tinder. I told her to like him. They matched. He chatted. He lied. I was raged. I pretended everything was fine. I got him to come see me on campus with the promise of a blow job. I confronted him. He denied it. We were done. I went out and got blackout drunk.

A few days later he text me something about wanting to put his dick in my ass. Brilliant. We spoke the next day, he suggested make up sex. No. But then I thought about it and decided we could have sex without the friendship. I got him to come fuck me and walked off without any chat after. He text straight away to say it was a weird experience. Oh well. I stayed distant, he tried to be friendly.

Eventually, we fell back into a friendship. I don’t know how or why. I didn’t trust him. We then spent a week together, from morning ’til eve, studying and hooking up everywhere. Bad, bad choices. Having a friendship with someone you don’t trust is hard. I wanted to be friends with the boy who was basically my twin. I wanted to be friends with the boy who’d wait ’til I looked up from my work and then rip out pages of his textbook with his teeth and eat it to make me laugh. I wanted to be friends with the boy who’d sing along to Childish Gambino, Taylor Swift and the High School Musical soundtrack with me. But he was overshadowed by the boy who’d tell lies. He was overshadowed by the boy that I just couldn’t trust. How do you have a friendship with someone like that?

The answer is that you can’t. There’s just no way. A few days ago he came clean about a pointless lie that he’d been running for at least a month. A lie that I had never believed and was completely unnecessary. After this I told him that we couldn’t be friends because I didn’t trust him. As hard as I tried to ignore him, he wouldn’t let me. It seems I’m pretty weak like that. But yesterday it all blew up.

He told me he got back together with his ex-girlfriend 4 days after they actually had. In that time he had talked about having sex with me, asked for sexy snapchats, and sent the odd dick pick. That’s just not okay. Not to me and not to her. There were other things, too – but I’d be here forever if I wrote about every cuntish thing he did. If I wasn’t already 100% certain that there was no shred of the boy that I thought I’d been friends with in him, when he said

I value myself more than others so I do what I want. [Being a] cunt is a side effect

I knew I was done. You can’t come back from that.

He is essentially someone I should have cut out of my life months ago. And I knew that. But against my better judgement I gave him chance after chance. Of course it backfired on me. It was always going to. It makes me angry and sad. I’ve never ended a friendship before. Not intentionally, anyway. It’s different when friends drift apart slowly and you almost don’t realise it’s happened. Cutting out a friend who had become quite a big part of my life was and is hard. But it’s necessary.

If you are in a relationship – whether it be romantic, friendship, casual – and if it is not serving you as a person, if it’s not letting you grow and be the best version of yourself, then get out. Don’t waste time on people who don’t respect you, don’t value you, don’t put in what you do but expect you to do this for them. You are worth more than that, and so am I.

‘You must have done something to put him off’

Never has there been so many ways to ignore someone. Phone calls, texts, emails, twitter, Facebook, whatsapp.. the list goes on. The worst part is that on most communication platforms nowadays, you can see when someone’s read your message and actively chosen to ignore it. At least when all there was was letter writing, women could pretend their post had been lost, delaying that feeling of rejection just a little longer.

Rejection is never easy. Especially when it comes in the form of silence – but this is what I got from Pancake Boy a couple of weeks ago. I met Pancake boy on Tinder, and he seemed sweet and nice, and looked super cute. He told me he’d create a new type of pancake and name it after me – I thought this was adorable, W thought it made him a moron. He gave me his number and full Facebook name so I wouldn’t feel catfished – again, adorable. We talked about everything and flirted and then he asked if we could go on a date yet. However, after he said goodnight one evening, I never heard from him again. And I, for the life of me, have no idea why. W’s helpful input was:

You must have done something to put him off

But I hadn’t! I was charming as fuck and everything was going swimmingly. Frustrating or what?

You may be thinking that this post reads pretty one-sided. Like I’ve never rejected someone in the same way. ‘What about J?’ you may be thinking. Hilariously, but also rather tragically, he did message me a few days after I never replied to his message, saying:

Can’t believe you’ve rinsed me!!!

a) who says rinsed?

b) you definitely knew when I got out of the car that you were never gonna see me again.

I did think back to this after being rejected by Pancake Boy, thinking it was some sort of dating karma. But I wasn’t creepy like J was, what had I said to ‘put him off’? Unfortunately, it’s just one of those things, I guess. I’ll never know. Just like J will never know. Or maybe I should tell him? What do you think?