I stare at my phone, swiping fatigue slowly numbing my index finger. A 27-year-old comedian and actor who loves pizza — swipe right. A 30-year-old lawyer flexing his muscles on the beach — swipe left. A brogrammer at Snapchat — swipe left. A photographer looking for his next muse — swipe right.
I’m skeptical of the abundance of good-looking men dancing across my iPhone. Likewise, I’m also shocked at how direct they are in their “about me” bios. “Not just looking for hookups,” one wrote. “If you wear pounds of makeup and plan on getting your tits done this year, swipe left.”
You don’t see that kind of language in San Francisco, but I’m no longer playing dating roulette in my beloved foggy home. I’m 300 miles south in LA.
I’ve lived in San Francisco for three and a half years. During that time, I had two serious boyfriends, two breakups and a fair number of Tinder dates sprinkled in between. When I got asked to come down to LA for a gig, I made it a priority to fill up my calendar with a lot of dates. I was curious about how dating in LA compares to dating in San Francisco. Plus, I didn’t know that many people here.
I expected my Tinder flings to deliver the glamorous SoCal adventures I fantasized about: make-out sessions on the beach and late-night motorcycle rides up Runyon Canyon. But I didn’t expect one to give me the wildest date of my life, one that would push me out of my comfort zone and serve as a right of passage in my proverbial sex diary.
Match #1: The Guy Who Doesn’t Like Girls Who Eat
My first interaction on Tinder in LA was with a guy named Doug, a 27-year-old professional athlete. We shared a similar sense of humor. Doug and I chatted for a few days about the usual stuff, which led him to ask me out for “ice cream, a drink or coffee.” It was around 4:00 p.m. on a Tuesday afternoon — neither of those appealed to me. My stomach was growling. I was hungry.
I didn’t have dinner plans, so I told him — in addition to his culinary suggestions — that I also liked food. An hour and half later, he unmatched me. Is the thought of a woman eating here really that terrifying to men in LA?
This wasn’t a good start to dating in LA, but then I had been warned about the city’s notorious flakiness.
Match #2: The Bearded Hipster
As quickly as one disappeared, another appeared later that night: Joe, also 27, a native of LA who was born on the Westside but found himself converted to the charms of the Eastside. He had a beard, worked in “the industry” and loved to travel. We chatted about Thailand, a place we had both visited during the previous year. He asked if I wanted to grab a beer that night to swap travel stories. I had already eaten, so a beer sounded refreshing. I agreed.
He picked me up at my apartment (something guys do here in LA), and we went to a nearby dive bar. Joe looked a lot different from how he looked in his Tinder profile pics — shorter and skinnier. He was funny, and it was nice to listen to his travel stories. I ended up calling it a night after one drink because I was tired. He did show me where to find the best ramen in the city, though.
Match #3: The Deplorable
Over the next couple of days, I was bombarded with messages from a guy named Connor, a Chicago native who worked in finance and fancied lacrosse. He was maybe a bit of a basic bro, but we had a Chicago connection.
Our messages were pretty innocent and flirty at first. But then he inquired about what I meant when I described myself as a “global citizen” in my bio. I told him that I felt more connected to being a citizen of the world than being a citizen of the United States. “You sound like a Bernie supporter,” he said. Aren’t we all? I thought.
He told me that my progressive liberal views were “terrifying.” I definitely wasn’t in San Francisco anymore.
This time, I took advantage of the Unmatch button.
Match #4: The Nerdy Physicist
Thank goodness for the incoming messages from Logan, or I would have deleted the app right then and there. A Robert Pattinson look-alike, Logan was a 28-year-old Brentwood native who was working on his PhD in physics. He skipped the small talk and proposed dinner right away, clarifying that it was “his treat, yo.” What a gentleman.
We met at a Mexican restaurant in Venice. He said he wasn’t that hungry and that he would pick at whatever I ordered, which ended up being tacos and nachos — very un-LA of me.
Logan was kind and attentive. We talked about yoga, his academic pursuits and my thoughts on LA vs. San Francisco. After we finished our margaritas and tacos, he asked if I wanted to go for a walk on the beach and smoke a spliff. I politely declined. My attraction to him had begun to wane. And the margaritas could have led to bad decisions, so I called it a night.
Match #5: The Burner
All these wholesome dates never could have prepared me for my final one, though. Nicolas, a Spanish entrepreneur, tried to court me with an emoji riddle: a unicorn, a party popper and a panda. Unable to decipher the correct answer, I responded with a random emoji string: two girls dancing, a skull and an alien head. Little did I know that I had just foreshadowed what was to come.
“Aliens scare me,” he replied. Apparently, he had adopted one at Burning Man but lost him after the first night.
I appreciate a little mystery in a man, and Nicolas was good at radiating obscurity. I agreed to meet him for a drink. His Spanish accent made me nostalgic for the time I lived in Spain. We talked about travel, adventures, being new to Los Angeles and sex. And he wasn’t shy about sharing his desires and quirks when it came to the games he played in the bedroom.
I’m always a fan of talking about taboo topics. I believe life’s too short to neglect our dark sides, and when we openly discuss the things in life we were taught not to talk about, it brings us closer together. However, I’m still shy when it comes to talking about sex with a stranger. I guess I’m a little prudish that way.
It took a little coaxing on his end before I admitted that I’ve been curious about what it’s like to have a threesome — with another guy or girl — something I had never done before. I’m always in favor of new experiences, as long as they don’t hurt anyone.
“Would you want to join us, then? She’s curious about having a threesome,” my date said, half joking — but mostly serious.
We eventually reached the point in the night where we had to decide whether to go home together, and that’s when Jess appeared. She had exotic green eyes and dyed red hair, and decided to play the mediator in our discussion.
“You should go home with him,” she chimed in from the other side of the bar.
I laughed and asked her how her night was going while the lights brightened for closing time. She explained that she had actually been on a stale date with someone who had left a few minutes ago.
“Would you want to join us, then? She’s curious about having a threesome,” my date said, half joking — but mostly serious.
I nudged him and instinctively shook my head no. But as fate would have it, he asked the right person.
“Sure, why not? As long as that’s OK with you,” she said to me.
Even in the world of evolving threesomes, girl code still exists. Since we were on a first date and I had no real emotional attachments to him, I agreed. Maybe they would hit it off? Or maybe we all would?
The rest of the night was strange, awkward and exciting all at the same time. I demystified a long-term belief that I held on to for too long: that I’m a jealous person. There was something captivating about the dynamic that forms when you share someone in a sexual way. I was afraid of the guilt and self-judgment that might follow after, but those emotions never arrived.
My dates in San Francisco have never been this exciting — but then again,San Francisco is feeling a little stale these days. Sure, I’ve been told that anything can happen in LA, but then I never thought that that would involve a Tinder threesome.
