I’m such a prude.
I only log on to Gaydar for the tunes, I don’t do beats, and I hadn’t used Grindr until recently.
Is it antediluvian of me to wonder what happened to going out to meet people? Am I living in the past? Or have we always been a bunch of nymphos?
Even then, those venturing out often get maggoted to pick up. It’s not uncommon to turn to someone supposedly enjoying your company only to find them playing tonsil-hockey with a random.
What happened to the art of conversation? The thrill of the chase? I know, I’m a Nanna prude. But am I reaching for the stars here?
Huzzah for the creator of Grindr, for they’ve capitalised on a ginormous untapped resource — horny, roving queens. Beats are unsafe. And illegal. And dating sites subject us to the minutiae of embellished profiles. They also pose geographical dilemmas.
Grindr cuts to the chase. I’d heard of ‘toothing’, where Bluetooth seeks out casual cottage copulation. But Grindr takes it to another level. Just whip up a profile and shamwow — the GPS bang.
Props to ACON for suggesting safe-sex messages. Although the T&Cs make it all rather G-rated. No hung, cut and buff shenanigans going on here.
Bearing in mind I’m stranded out in the burbs, one of the local douchebags told me he had to wait till the wife went out and he’d put the kids to bed. Delete.
But I did indulge one hook-up. We made it to Starbucks. He was keen, and cute. Except for the lazy eye. Then just sat there like an envelope with no address. And I sensed slow-motion laughter in that coffee shop.
Final verdict? Meh. Too much of a stalker dynamic. The same might be said for the Foursquare app. I don’t want people knowing where I am every 30 minutes. I don’t know why anyone should care.
Call me old-fashioned, but I prefer to use my phone for calling people. Not turning the house lights off, ordering pizza, and certainly not to sniff out the closest anonymous shag.
I know, I’m a prude.
Bump and Grindr
I’m such a prude.