Party Pooper

I'll let you know that I have a hefty queue of conversation screenshots from these aforementioned "social" apps. It's not all I plan on writing about, but it's really just selfish to keep these gems to myself.

HOWEVER. However. This simple exchange I had on Tinder while waiting on the subway platform after a late night at work is too good not to bump to the front of the line and share with the world:

MY JAW DROPPED. And I let out a simultaneous Gay Gasp. I mean...WHAT.

First of all, I was kind enough to respond truthfully to your first abrupt turn in conversation. Willie, my dear, you didn't respond with a salutation, which I looked past. If you couldn't tell by the six pictures available on my Tinder profile, I'm not a gym rat, but I'm not an absolute slovenly troll either. 

But then, there's no segue! Just, BOOM. 

I'll hand it to you, Willie. You've got moxie, kid. But I'm so confounded. Surely, no one has ever responded positively to that. 

Firstly - pooper? My "pooper." I've literally never referred to my asshole or anyone else's with any term other than, well, asshole. It's not a sexy part of the human body. Granted, an essential part, but not something you want to shine a spotlight on. 

Also, you're going to fuck the shit out of it? Literally? Like, you're into scat play? NO THANKS. If not literally, then OUCH. I'm a gentle lover. And you sound like a selfish top. This is a two-way street, buddy.

Alas, Willie has disappeared forever. Our chance at everlasting love or a fleeting love affair are forever lost. Commence the mourning period for the loss of this great wordsmith, the Cyrano de Bergerac of Tinder.