Collection Three

Sex Through the Screen: Where our Intimacy Wanes

When it comes to expressing desire, words can betray us. They betray us by swapping out the ephemeral glitter of our fantasy for a tentative birth into substance. It is vulnerable, like a newly-hatched sea turtle far from the surf. Circling above are predatory birds – reality – ready to dive and swipe that fantasy from existence. There is no natural defense against this reality; the mother (no one can fathom why she is programmed to put her children so far back from the line of safety) is long gone, and has entrusted the success of her progeny to chance. That’s a lot of pressure between us and the waves, and words put us in a minefield of faux pas and gaffes that frankly, are the broken, unwholesome children of the avoidance of rejection. They make us think twice about saying anything at all.

        Just how album cover art rarely matches the content of the music (the aging photoshopped-baby-or-adolescent-picture wave pioneered by Nas has been ridden nigh unto death and needs to retire), what people seem to be really searching for is not what they advertise. The size of the world changes with a person’s ability to engage with it. On both ends, it’s a small world, both in isolation and in community. On the high seas of community, enter sex: cast as a wide net it is sure to get, in addition to the inevitable flotsam populating its sea, one hopes, the (real) treasure one is searching for. Alas, here comes reality again; the betrayal by words we meant to escape migrates to this plane, only now there is payoff for hauling in an empty net. Or maybe not completely empty: enter the message in the bottle.

        We get the message, every second of every day via our handlers, the servants-turned-masters of our attention. The laptop; the desktop; the tablet; the cell phone, which in turn are all extensions of the television and movie screen. These screens set the stage to present the pantomime of the ultimate expression of what we think is intimacy – what we watch day in and day out to corroborate the steady, but failed, course we’re on. Actors try very hard to pull off the right affectations, to make us believe they are present, in it, sharing intimacy. When that does not work, or even if it does, something is still off, not right about that. Our sensibilities, though engaged, are not satisfied, and so we turn to the less dramatically-inclined, but more explicitly experienced: the porn star.

        What is it about pornography, and how it beckon us with the siren call of facsimile intimacy, but crashes us on the rocks of our own isolated sexual expression? No, we don’t drown; it needs us to be lured back, again and again, to submerge, to be held down long enough to feel the rush of danger, depth (death; le petit mort), then released to paddle to the surface, with a close call and a promise. I will do that again. Pornography no longer excludes, if it ever did; the screen has a way of simulating the wonder of being desired in ways that reality omits to even try. Each scene carries within it a representation of every conceivable (able) body type that exists – and codes them. Virgin, goth, twink, PAWG, fairy, spinner, MILF, BBW, bull, BBC, tiny. This lexicon is public, but it is privately utilized to identify the attributes of these types, an “informing” on real life. Men and women are invisibly branded – the (virtual) reality of their body types and the sexual potential embedded within each. A first-person camera view, POV for short, rechristens the viewer as the screen itself, and puts him/her in the front row of the rollercoaster in order to achieve the facsimile experience in lieu of a vicarious one. It does its convincing best to surreptitiously remove the “auto” from autoeroticism. A fine tactic; it’s not a trap so much as it is a false affirmation of an expression – and freedom – that you don’t have. 

       No matter which scene one watches it is a past event of someone else’s idea of freedom, broken into two basic camps. Homegrown pornography, filmed by amateur couples or maverick exhibitionists, carries a different tone from the professional arena. Wives, girlfriends, boyfriends, fuck buddies or strangers all place cameras into their private lives, display – aside from their intention to capitalize on an earning opportunity – and act with the intention to offer leadership; to show the world their interpretation of intimacy. Everyone, by virtue of this crowded market, thinks their way is best, and so the personas and body types – if not content – vary. Some of the more prominent ones maintain anonymity by showing only choice body parts, the “working ends”, a hyper focus on the function of their role within the screen. 

        The professionals, with their surgically-altered body perfection (the men, too. What, you think they all came to the table sporting Rubirosan endowments naturally? Well, then, I’ve got a sweet deal on BET Awards tickets, hosted this year at a Klan lodge for half-price that I’d like to sell you), compounding paychecks and notoriety are another matter. Their production budget allows for more immersive/expansive interpretations in all manner of unisex situations: the office exec dominating the secretary; the curious teen student being broken in by – or breaking – the “lucky” predatory elder; the service provider seduced by a client. The latest fast-catching trend, faux-cest, where everyone’s step-sister/brother/father/mother is working overtime to reject social norms by implying we’d all rather just keep it all in-house. Of course, I’d be remiss if I failed to include a staple of the American adult fantasy pantheon, and tellingly, the passive-aggressive rebellion – essentially the white woman’s middle finger – against oppressive white male patriarchy: the black cuckold fantasy. This obsession (generations-old practice; heritage) goes deeper than mere phallus size preference. It has been the silent scream echoed through our country’s history against the curse of the pedestal the American white female has suffered to sit on for centuries while her male counterpart had free rein of his carnal desires. To the sheepish resignation of the country, these fantasies broadly hint at a complex disdain this genre and its variations expresses – for the position they (continue to) occupy and for all the men, black and white, involved. But that is a conversation for another time. We know these situations are controlled by direction behind the camera, contracts, etc. Our fantasies are nagged, thwarted by the reality these things could not really happen, but absolutely does all the time in the minds of society in general. Art imitates life, even the fake life. These scenes do not come from the Ether, or from some producer’s imagination, but from the place where the masses believe, or are led to believe intimacy, no matter how it is dressed up, it to originate: the genitals. 

        Sixth grade: I remember standing with one of my classmates on the corner across the street from the Catholic school we attended. His eyes were locked on mine with a dopey, knowing grin on his face. He had asked me a question, was eagerly awaiting my response. I had missed what he said. “What?” I asked, pulled into the riptide of his emotions. From his infectious energy I could feel it was going to be worth my while. Undaunted, an insiders’ self-important excitement twitching the corners of his mouth, he asked again. “Do you—?” It sounded to my ears like, master me. Even after the third time he repeated it, that’s what I heard. Well, I took it and ran with it. Over the next few days I ambushed any classmate I could, thrusting that question into their consciousness, spreading the confusion that I first had. It wasn’t until the end of that week that I had gotten the phrase right.
Do you masturbate?
Ohhhhhh…for us, the answer was of the least importance. What was important to eleven year-old boys was the question, which pushed us, or so children always think, that much closer to the coveted private realm of the adult. We had stolen, like Prometheus, something vital, and had given it to our kind: a word, and then a language. Language is necessary to make sense of one’s world, and things with names become things that are real. Pieces began to lock in place, and informed my senses in a language I slowly began to understand, of the burgeoning ache of sexual desires.   

    In movies, this ache is usually put to the side for more important things; saving the world, fighting wars, winning courtroom battles, protecting the chosen one, finding oneself. Even though we can predict the characters who will hook up, they don’t act on these impulses right away; their first instinct is repression, denial. This informs us, the public, the role it plays in reflecting society’s ideas of it: a distraction, a nagging fantasy which intrudes upon a productive day like a persistent, petulant child. Then, when catered to, put in its proper place; a furtive, expectant imperative that will rise again to be handled (off-screen, of course. There is only enough time and money in the budget for ONE deviation. If you’re looking for more, then you’re watching the wrong movie). But what they spent a great portion of the plot denying was the need to connect, and that thwarted intention merely boiled over into something else. That is why storylines in pornography do not gel. If anyone can suspend the belief that a person really wants the partner of their choice (and I mean that in candidly loose terms; in many porn scenes, it is the act of being aggressively desired which catalyzes the “intimacy” that follows rather than actual choice) to be that forward in a place of business, then the consent element, for many reasons, has proven to be the crux of why pornography is considered an embarrassing addiction to many. 

        An embarrassing, competitive addiction; Chris Rock’s stand-up special Tamborine was far less a comedic legend’s (twenty million-dollar) exhibition and more a prophetic survivor – who had taken the long route to healing after experiencing massive trauma – warning away would-be sufferers from a similar fate. His wild-eyed admonitions and semi-rehabilitated, black elder aura blunted the edge to many of his jokes (which in this context were not really jokes, but the painful aerial maneuvers of a demoralized kamikaze pilot low on fuel), particularly the admission his failed marriage and subsequent divorce were the result of his pornography addiction and cheating. While he was not clear on which paved the way to the other, the point: I can completely understand why a married or otherwise committed heterosexual man would become addicted to the one-sided paracosm that is pornography. The screen creates a fine-line compromise between satisfaction and infidelity, and before long this compromise is what becomes the competition. It is an avatar, a foil, a placeholder into which the imaginer can port in order to experience how it must have felt (or should feel?) having his way with the woman who – liberated, brave self-expressed mistress of her own destiny that she is – knelt before the altar of consent to invoke the god of “intimacy”. The woman one shares his life with plays second fiddle. 

        The paradox of coveting secular satisfaction within an institution which promises satisfaction of the body – all you have to do is utter those timeless vows! – is not really a confusing one. Fantasy does not long remain a fantasy; when exposed to air, it oxidizes and becomes reality. Many people, surprised and not uncommonly bitter in the end, find that to be worthy of and maintain a fantasy, there is a price to be paid: one must either show up or disguise as one, an ad infinitum exchange for an exchange. As with the best and the worst of us, this is a test of endurance Chris Rock failed, even for all his fame and money, on both counts – via the screen and via the arms of other women. Outside of a porn valley studio, simply being aggressive at the right place and time is not enough. There are chores – taking the garbage out, minding the kids, paying the bills. The genitals – that “portal of intimacy” that can take a backseat to any of the myriad happenstances which buttress longterm social stability – will just have to wait. 

        The sucker punch before the knockout is the early phase of a relationship; the constant rutting common to new commitments, where ignorance conflated with mystery obscures the panicked frustration resulting from throwing one’s lot in with a stranger. This anxious expression of lust (our placebo for this affliction) which we count as intimacy is used to establish the contours of a reality that begins to grow and take shape out of one’s control; incompatible personality traits, weight gain, body odor, bad breath, fluctuating socioeconomic standing, and the constant comparison of one’s partners against the unwitting potential of strangers. The screen is immune to many of those vicissitudes because it already embodies them. It has swallowed them whole. 

        I was long familiar with the agitprop fixture of the stork and his job (interestingly, never a female stork) of delivering babies to expectant human mothers. He just didn’t educate me well enough, or at all, to the function of just how the baby came to exist, or to be in his care in the first place. He wasn’t the only one who didn’t report to work on that account. The reality of sex was the Bermuda triangle, in a way; conversation disappeared at its border, and was denied an existence through the closed lips of my parents. In my formative years, movies, for the most part, were left the job of informing my reality of sex via their caricatures of it:
Desperado: sex as artistic catharsis, aka cowboy spur down the booty cheek; contrast with protagonist’s evil drug lord brother, a morose killer with everything to lose, numbed to the joy a woman did her best to give him (punctuates her failure with cigar smoke exhaled into her mouth)!
Backdraft: sex as expressive, poignant motif atop a firetruck; symmetrical, thematic release!
House Party: sex as the sacred, on-pain-of-death privilege of the alpha male; any interlopers to that privilege are dealt with! With a shotgun! 
Predator 2: sex as extension of ill-gotten gains which you can never keep; you’re killed before you can climax!
Cabin Boy: sex as long-overdue pity circumstance; you may get lucky if she feels sorry enough – for you!

        All these movies pointed the way to the bone (ha!)-strewn graveyard, the place distracted adults go when they need respite from the plot in order to address their frustrations with productivity. The sounds emanating from that graveyard harmonized with my mother’s terse explanation of its mechanics and subsequent result – a woefully inadequate, under-representing blurb (most likely intended to dissuade me from asking any further questions) that would make any Southern pro-life feminist worth her slogan buttons groan in shame – foreshadowed the morbid, comically violent bitterness she expressed years later when one day, at fifteen years-old, I came home with a hickey on my neck. For the price of that experience, I had to stay at my grandmother’s house for a while until she calmed down. 

        At eight or nine, alone with my father in the car as he drove me somewhere, he imparted the sage counsel to let nature take its course, but with a caveat: “This,” he said, pointing to his temple, “will get you further than this.” His finger left his temple and I followed with my eyes where it went, which was squarely to his crotch. I looked back up at him. His finger tapped his zipper. “This will only get you into trouble. Don’t be like me,” he added for good measure. I got the point. “This” was trouble. “This” wasn’t. The admonishment omitted instructions on how to navigate a path they, my parents, in retrospect, knew very little about themselves. Neither of them told me that Nature indeed does take its course; a course that suffers no corrections once embarked upon, and that if certain things were not in place before one embarked upon this course (a sense of self foremost amongst them) well, then, you became a rudderless, hodgepodge tapestry of those experiences. And I don’t care what anybody says – there is nothing alluring, “complex”, or gratifying about contemplating a piece of art that is trying to say too many things at once. 

        Perhaps a year later, or sooner, while sitting in front of the television at his place, bored, I had an idea. A collection of VHS tapes lay arranged in a compartment underneath the TV. Interested to watch something else, a movie perhaps, I perused them. In the rows of black rectangles a red tape caught my eye. Its bright, fire/blood color promised something interesting. I looked at the label; there was none. I popped it into the VCR, waited, and it started playing.
I got the point. With that experience, flesh – mine, and the flesh of those I was compelled to objectify (a habit that became increasingly easier as time went on) – became something else.
“Don’t be like me.”
The hinges to Pandora’s Box became warped, and the lid lost its function to hold what had already escaped. What this meant was there was no chance to return what was lost.      

        75 million visitors a day on PornHub alone – to say nothing of the other sites on the web – sums up the expertise of the average, tempered soul; there is a collective ignorance concerning the right body part – the wellspring – from which intimacy comes. I think the pathway of the genitals and the out-of-proportion, hyper-concern with them is probably born from the dogmatic, Christian paradigm which haunts the outer edges of the American consciousness (is it really a coincidence it’s called missionary? Doggy-style? Not merely because being on all fours resembles the stance of a canine, but because while dogs have in abundance a conditioned loyalty, they are bereft of shame). Freud posits an interesting theory that traces this back to an ancient, parricidal blood-guilt which eventually transposed with religion (nearly all faiths are patriarchal in execution and in practice). The patriarchal horde – a model in which we see default in lower beasts – where the alpha male-father figure is absolute ruler of the clan with a monopoly on the females, was abolished when the sons rose as one and slew him, transforming the social hierarchy into a fraternal clan. This “sin”, recognized as such through the passage of time, was atoned for by rejecting the spoils the father solely enjoyed, primarily the harem of females while undisputed despot. This can explain why the vow of celibacy – as it relates to the danger of sexual freedom of the masses and the exclusion of women in the pulpit – is a requirement in religious orders and imposed secondhand as (a moral) de rigueur on the general populace. In its place, to honor this ancient covenant, we see some of the disastrous effects this has had on most religious institutions. A conversation for another time.   

        Sex is a natural act. What is unnatural is the thought we’re compelled to pay forward, which is the genitals concern and contain everything we need to know about sex. We find that this is a recipe for disaster because our genitals do not contain knowledge of any sort independently of us. We see when left to its own devices (for one, the exposé on the Amish colonies); sex for its own sake in the name of release, becomes a stunted, wasteful, reptilian transaction that randomizes quality. The genitals can only reflect the will, the character and mentality of the owner (in that case, I consider myself, and mine, merely half-tamed. I am fine with that), not the other way around. 

        Sex is a necessary, particular, tremendous transference/exchange of energy – a gamut of mental, emotional and spiritual – that cannot be likened to any other experience on earth. Nevertheless, we, through our conflation with the experience of intimacy try unsuccessfully, and fall far short of the mark. Rather than the gateway, it is the scalped ticket to the arena entrance, which in reality exists first in the mind, and then connected to the body. Decide for yourself and recall the act with someone you loved versus the one you didn’t. Sex is the mechanism that is used to explore that intimacy; whether auto-discovered or communal, the diminishing returns of the journey often require repeat expeditions to justify it.

        The choice is always up to us – cast the net as it pleases you. As you do, consider that what you haul into your boat will probably not be the treasure you seek, because it is not in the depths below. It is higher, on the horizon on the level of one’s sight. 


If I had to give 2020 a modified movie title, I’d have to choose Boy, Interrupted. With the erasure of my everyday life coping mechanisms, the stress most certainly had me considering jabbing a pen into my aorta. Factored in with global panic/recession (for some of us), the country’s ethnic group-specific fifty-billionth alarm “awakening”, and economic upheaval were gym closures and the subsequent auf weidersehen to my gains (sixty-‘leven-million reps takes a while to equal 3,100+lbs in weekly volume, if anyone was wondering), gainful employment and a consistent social life. Then my love life imploded. Nailed it, 2020! My experience was/is essentially a mirror to millions of others all over the world. That amplification of common suffering snowballed and had everyone feeling the blues.

And now we’re…over it?  

Yes. I think we’re all totally fucking over it. 

Working Title:

Pandemic Underscores Retroactive Personal Growth in Cisgender Hetero Male Along His (sort of) Quest to (sort of) Date Again.

Help Me Help You: The Soloist, Part One.

Foot Shot Out The Gate

         My ongoing takeaway of this current…mess, is that flexibility is key. Many things were cancelled or altered, but in the wake of these upsets, opportunity always lurks somewhere. A bit of humility is a part of the equation as well; I’m not running the show, I’m just a commentator with a loud microphone that can be cut off at any time a la the Grammys. This was how I approached the slow way way back to some sort of paradigm even remotely helpful to readjusting into healthy practices. Which includes (online) dating. With a recommendation from a friend, I chose a platform, made a profile (shown further on in this piece), and put my flag in the ground with the tried-and-true instant turn-off. Casual.

        Now why would I go and do a thing like that? Casual has a long, shady historic reputation; is everyone who claims this denomination a part of some unitarian church of emotionally broken, sexually unhinged alley cats with no standards and a deep-seated aversion to commitment? Please see super-detailed infographic shown below.

How Women (supposedly) See Casual Men:

How Men (supposedly) See Casual Women:

         I chose to plant my flag in the ground that made the most sense. I understand the difference between a connection and an institution, and I was looking for an opportunity to be a part of a dialed-in co-op of possibility which builds from the ground up, not some acceptable rubric mark-up. I’m an artist, so I make them from project to project. I’m not in the Pokémon league per se, but neither am I for counting my chickens before they hatch. 

     Marking oneself as looking for a relationship is hardly a reliable indicator of stability, elevated morals or quality. Often times, people use it as civilian-grade camouflage against the prison floodlights of social stigmatism. Every person has their own reasons for what they choose, and quality comes in non-conforming packaging. Case in point, I came across quite a few profiles that proclaimed its user to be “ethically non-monogamous”. Times are changing, it seems – in en vogue increments. I mean, pardon me for saying, but that just sounds like a gentrified way to say casual (or a race of aliens in a 60’s Star Trek series episode; or some alternate reality qualifier in a prequel to Inception).

Choosers Can’t Be Beggars

        I’ve become a lot more selective (for many other reasons besides COVID, may it damned). So many things caused me to swipe left that I developed a western (my west, not yours) hemisphere callous on my thumb. Here’s the short list:

  • Jumping in the air for some unanswerable/arbitrary reason. 
  • Photos-only profile. The more I have to wonder what type of person you are, the (rapidly) less attractive you become. 
  • Busted first picture. Someone put you up to this. 
  • Filters. Of any kind. I’m gonna be mighty disappointed when I don’t see dog ears sticking out of your head in person. Or super big, shiny-scrubbed eyes. It’ll just ruin the whole thing for me (isn’t that, like, 2016 anyhow?). 
  • Every photo is of you doing over-the-top, extra-extracurricular shit (re: asanas whilst dangling from the edge of a cliff, napping on sedated tigers, practicing Muy Thai in a semi-active volcano, et al.). Where exactly are we supposed to go from there, a cup of coffee, or…?
  • One photo. You thought better of it, but didn’t have the heart to delete. 
  • Demands for someone with their “shit together”. Fun fact: people with their shit together have no need to shout it into an empty room (a fistful of professionally shot portraits in dinner gowns holding wine flutes are not a valid contribution of proof), nor do they need to demand that of others. Suspicious. I wonder: are your latrines set up to handle the waste you will inevitably/unavoidably bring to the table? Did you get a personal white glove check from Megan Thee Stallion? Did you include emotional and spiritual shit, too? Then I really start wondering: wouldn’t the Universe have blessed your shit-together head-ass already? Why are you still on here looking? Wouldn’t that— and before I know it, my OCD (obsessive compulsive deducing), a raging category 5 tornado of internalized side-bars has swept me up and away (after I’ve swiped left).
  • “A” random/incongruous photo posing with “a” black person. Look, there’s no exacting reason you need to demonstrate token solidarity on a dating app; I’m pretty sure that memo from HR applied just to when work you’re at work.       

On quite a few occasions, the app politely (but I feel like, kinda still judging me) let me know I ran out of candidates and asked me to readjust my standards.   

       I can see from a certain point of view this level of particular seems odd. Yet, I consider this to be growth. You know, for all the truth there is to this being an aggressively patriarchal/phallocentric society, there are a lot of humans who are passively (or unwittingly) a part of this eroding set-up for no other reason than being born on whichever side of the gender line – in this case, male – and therefore subject to reinforcement of these ways of being via societal cues, peer pressure, tradition passed on/not corrected by older males, etc. I was no different. Over time, self-examination and reflection (and errors on e-R-r-O-R-S on E-R-R-O-R-Ssooooomanyerrors) exposed my modus operandi for what it was: a manufactured, gender story-dependent shame masquerading-as-pride-prompt to be challenged by the things I didn’t want. According to the story, I can change what I don’t like by sheer exertion of will, or tangible force. A no can become yes. Night can become day. Rejection can become opportunity. This founding seed of delusion has long been the gateway to the stereotypically negative male behavior towards women. Within a healthy/civilized context, many women appreciate a man who knows how to court and pursue…capture – but that’s not what I’m talking about. The catcalls, the threatening reactions in the face of rejection, the stalking, the physical violence and psychological abuse, the relegation of a whole human to the pop-up status of a t’ing that get the spotlight. While I’ve occupied the lower ends of this non-exhaustive toxicity spectrum, the fact is, I still occupied it by keeping my place on the conveyor belt as a cover-up to protect a societal-enforced context of my self-worth. There is truth to the axiom: people treat others how they treat themselves.

Piercing the Veil

        What was honesty to digital distance? Like the boy who carried the butter on his head all the way home, by the time it reaches its destination, it’s not in the same form any more. Largely because honesty, conflated with truth, is subjective. You tell it how you see it, not how it is, and then honesty bleeds into its disrespectful neighbor, convenient truth. There was one potential match I made that progressed with a fair amount of velocity. We bantered for a bit, and before long she invited me to meet in person. Convinced that I was her type, she made sure I knew it; her hyper focus on external details (namely, my height) nagged me to double-check hers. She then admitted that her photos were not up to date. Naturally, I asked her for a few that were. She demurred, making excuses and deflections that echoed long after my simple request. From there, what seemed like a storied connection unraveled. If you haven’t deduced by now, I can be a cheeky SOB, especially when I feel my mettle – or even more egregious, my intelligence – is being challenged.
“Look, queen,” I texted, “I’m gonna tell you straight that I don’t eat catfish, and if you bringing it to me, I won’t even touch the plate.” The music grinded to a needle-scratching halt that preceded a figurative, neck-swiveling tirade (well, had I allowed it to build steam; I mashed the un-match button and kept it moving) that killed any possibility of connection. The exchange was short, but the message was clear. How dare I?

        The conveyor belt analogy I mentioned earlier isn’t just reinforced by the male portion of society, and vice versa. People as a whole may be blind, but they aren’t dumb. We have been trained to accept what is given as what is, and within the framework, to make it work for us the best we can even if things aren’t that great. Each side keeps the other trapped in these roles, and for a variety of reasons. My role is a utility, and my purpose alongside a woman is to be useful, and grateful to be useful (because it doesn’t have to be me, the line is long, etc.). By all accounts this was a gift horse, no? I basically discouraged a sale from a willing customer (her) wanting to buy a product (me).

       As I dismantle this paradigm for myself, some things began to make more sense in the outside world. Most powerfully, I now see the dating arena as a customer’s market; there are TWO customers, no product. In this space, each gathers to see how their worth is measured and reflected against where they are emotionally, intellectually and sensorily within a perception of how others exist based on what they choose to show. Which direction one swipes is determined by what one feels measures up to where one’s aspirations are, not one’s reality. And if one’s reality is not calibrated in a compatible way, then that match will always be out of reach. Casual starting to make sense yet? 

Swiping Addiction

        The era of the op-ed length profile is over, never to return, which is a shame because I enjoyed reading those. The bid for relevance is now mandated by the governing body of 500 characters. Trying to stuff substance and depth into such as small space is a challenge, and not everyone is a writer (I think in my case, that might have made it worse). See my attempt below:

Crickets are the best compliment – don’t ever let anyone tell you different.  

Now what kind of compatibility was I up against? Take a look at some of the profiles that I came across in the ocean of personality bites and judge for yourself. These are from actual women. Tap the icons below to enlarge. You probably won’t want to miss a word. 

Ax’ing For a Friend

     What’s that? Have I had any luck? To quote the sage advice of DMX – may he rest in power – twenty-two years past, but still relevant today: mind ya business, lady. The experience of making an effort in spite of this figuratively barren landscape was reward enough. It gave me the jolt of reality that I needed. National trauma aside, people are still people, and nothing really changes that. Well…maybe something. My love language is physicality; tactile stimuli helps me intuit genuine/valuable experiences and in this socially distanced/remote-mandated world, I feel a bit caged in. The illusion of closeness in this kind of environment is at least a small comfort to a lot of people, whether they’re serious about finding a match or not. I’m sure I’m not the only one who can appreciate the irony of the much more serious risk to life and limb with one’s clothes on

       This new landscape is here to stay a while. The worth here is that someone is always on the other line and all you have to do is have patience. Stripping away the demands, the fears and false perceptions from truth, in the end, what are we ever really looking for in others? Proof of life? Of value? Of substance, worth? Most of us really don’t know, and are not honest about that ignorance. With everything that’s been going on, I come away with a fair amount of gratitude. Others have not been given the opportunity to be appalled, entertained, amused, humbled, wisened, annoyed, and head-over-heels (last one is pending).  

Aaaand…please, enjoy this gem on the way out:

“Bumble needs to make the site traditional where men chase the women. This is exhausting.”

If you're really stupid, you can now buy an iPhone 6S for N35,000 |  TechCabal

Yes, queen. Totally fucking over it.

1 Comment

  1. Accurate AF! Online dating feels like window shopping for sex. Most of the guys I’ve come across are not interested in dating or even having an actual conversation and most of their responses are nonsensical. I download an app look around for a few days and just delete it. I give you tons of respect for doing it long enough to write a lengthy, well written and detailed piece about it.


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