The one with Tinder

This is where modernity meets mediocrity. You’ve been given the easiest, the smartest, the most efficient tool that enables you to peek out of your solitude, talk to people, get laid. What could possibly go wrong? Are we humans too intelligent to express ourselves in such a manner? Don’t fool yourself. It’s just that we have never been modern, at least not since the ancient Greece. Why, we use the internet but we don’t use our brains. There are people out there who would try to connect via Facebook with the spirits of their dead folks, they use it to tweet the devil, they upload the videos of them tables turning, ain’t they?

That’s right, modern people are made in caves. And it ain’t Platonic.

So don’t blame the application, you dummy.

Just imagine. Living your life in a fast-developing, constantly changing world of diversity, where everyone is chasing their own chimeras, where no-one has time to be oneself, far too busy being someone else, chronically preoccupied doing things they don’t like, doing what they’re told is worth doing, unable to do what they find worth doing, believing that what others believe is believable enough to be believed, alone and incapable of binding stable relationships, alone among others, collectively outsiders, alone in your own company, too alone to quit being alone, with your back against the wall, with fear of rejection, with irrational anxiety, uncomfortable with being uncomfortable, yet too comfortable in your dark comfort zone of painful resentment, facebookly exposed, instalated from the real life and netflixed in solitary fiction, just imagine there are people out there.

You pass them by, you watch them from a good safe distance, you try to guess what they’re like, you admire their beauty, you imagine what it would be to get to know them. You dream of sweet togetherness. But you go to different schools, you take different buses, you cross different streets, you watch different movies, you listen to different music. Our minds are framed in the way that does not allow us to just initiate a conversation, say “hello” spontaneously, introduce ourselves without fear of being judged and rejected or simply suspected of some evil intentions. That’s how it works.

But maybe, on the other side of the river, in a different part of the city lives a person like you, a person who also feels the same needs, shares your views, has similar tastes in music and films, likes the same ice creams. By the way, let’s not forget that this person is quite cute.

Most likely, though you both seem to be made for each other, you will never meet.

And there comes the greatest, the most fabulous invention of our time: Tinder.

The idea seems quite simple: you upload some photos of yours and write a few words about yourself. Then you either like or dislike people and wait for people to either like or dislike you. If it’s a match, you start talking and when you’re done talking and you feel like it, you go out and see each other.

So the first thing you see are them photos. I don’t know about boys, but girls like it cute and well retouched. Girls that are naturally cute can simply show any photo of theirs and just wait for guys to admire them. But some girls find they have to mess up with reality, they tend to correct nature, to hide their little flaws, to pose in a position that would make Adele look like Ariana Grande. Listen, girl, one will find out anyway. So why don’t you just accept yourself the way you are. You can also work your ass out at the gym and hope it gets tight, but please, do not try to fool anybody, it is not polite. Why, do I pretend to have some wrecking balls like the one Miley Cyrus swings on? Do I pretend to have chest like Rambo? Do I pretend that I speak five languages? No, I just do.

But let’s pretend I like your photos. I find you’re quite attractive and I’d like to talk to you. Now, how do I start? Oh, wait, there must be something to start with in what you say about yourself!

Now some say there’s not enough space for them to write about themselves. However, many of them have never written anything longer than a tweet. Furthermore, some girls tend to waste that space to write about how tall they are or how they don’t like writing about themselves. Some say they’re crazy. But if you say you’re crazy, most likely you’re not. Some say they are sarcastic. But you don’t say you’re sarcastic – that’s what sarcasm is about, isn’t it?

Same for being ironic: it is such a clever thing to do, as to reveal to the world the utter truth about you being ironic, thank you.

Some say they’re attracted to intelligence. Great, please, be my judge, it doesn’t matter what you bring to the table, you can surely estimate how smart or stupid I am. Once a girl asked me suspiciously what was the last book I’d read. I gave her a few French titles of some publications in literary theory, semiology and epistemic critic, and she never answered back.

So it turns out most girls are sapiosexual. And ironic.

Why is that? It is rude and unfair to expect from anyone to be intelligent.

Am I intelligent? I hope not. Are you? I don’t care.

Some girls love travels and to eat, and yes, they ignore syntax.

They say that if you can’t stand them at their worse, you don’t deserve them at their best. What kind of rhetorical fascism is that? I say if you’re not there for me at my worse, I don’t need you at my best.

Some say: no ONS. Now, for the ignorant and uncultivated, this acronym stands for “one night stand”, meaning that you hook up and have sex and forget about each other the next day. Well, as cool as it sounds, hardly anyone wants to keep it that simple. For if it’s good, why not do that again sometime? Why does it have to be one night, when we can fuck on a daily basis? Where’s the logic? Then again, if the night is not good, no wonder it’s no more than “one”, right?

Why, you cannot expect from a man or a woman to fuck for charity. It’s unhuman and it’s against the idea of equality. For if one actually fucked for charity, he should fuck everyone.

But let’s be honest, girls have their point here: they don’t like boys to be cavemen. So you boys should at least pretend not to be instantly horny and waiting to get laid. Go talk about some stuff, say something smart, tell her about books you like or movies you watch and don’t get too excited, don’t push it, play it cool. Don’t act like a jerk, you already are one. Everybody knows what men are like, it just doesn’t have to be made more obvious.

But it turns out that even the talking part ain’t that easy. To start with, girls expect you to be the master of the opening lines. They are so serious about it that they use the space they have to write about themselves to manifest their reluctance towards guys who start with “hello”. Apparently they find it ain’t smart enough. You have to be a damn wizard of small talk to develop some brilliant welcome, like a copywriter for a great company that’s all about “Connecting people” or “I’m lovin’ it”.

And then, once you start chatting, it’s either an instant chemistry or just “yes” and “no” kind of answers. Just like in real life.

So you end up with five hundred pairs, you start several dozen conversations, you try to keep track of who you talk to and who you sleep with. Sometimes it turns into something more serious, most of the times it doesn’t. It’s easier to forget that on the other side there’s an actual human being, when you think of it as a bunch of photos from a dating app. Sometimes it’s simply a disillusion. And sometimes you both just need to get laid and you get what you want only to agreeably forget about it. That is all.

In general, we mostly misunderstand and therefore misuse the potential that technology offers us and instead of improving the quality of our lives, we go digging deeper and deeper into our lonely depressive holes. Modernity offers us connection, but we bring our ridiculous fears and prejudices to it. Our hasty and unjustified judgments estrange us from people we barely know. Our anxiety, overthinking and chaotic reflection drive us away from real creatures that await us out there, willing to talk, craving for intimacy, just like we do. But alas! They are also driven by fear, anxiety and overthinking, just like we are.

The one with some dark thoughts

Dear darkness, I need a drink. I need a cigarette. These nasty little guys that kill you slowly every single day are the reason for some of us to cancel the most recent suicide plans. Heaven knows, drugs would be of no use, was it not that the ever-blood-lusting dude upstairs had not fixed his cannon against self-slaughter.

I’m not a psycho person myself, I’m not even a psychologist, and I don’t know shit about addictions, I’m just a humble practitioner. But what I do know, is that these artificial paradises we get high on are not the problem itself. The real reason we do that is that we cannot keep our shit together, we cannot look at the face in the mirror, our dearest enemy, we cannot stay together, I mean, collectively, we cannot communicate honestly, we cannot love openly, we cannot have sex like normal animals, we cannot even fight anymore.

Our interpersonal relations are just like bouncing bubbles. In each and every one of them there is a universe locked within. But the walls we’ve built over years are too solid to be torn down with words. There is a real communication breakdown. What we’ve got here is failure to communicate. We’re fucked.

Camus got it right: we live in a permanent plague situation here.

The one with the new beginnings

You moved on, stepped in so far that, should you wade no more, returning is as tedious as go o’er. You bet, you Macbeth. You’ve been through some real shit, man, you’ve seen shit, you’ve done shit, you’ve lost your shit, but somehow you’ve managed to keep your shit together and now you know some shit about shit. You just needed some time, some warmth and some pussy.

It turns out that pussy is the greatest painkiller for all of your hard aches. Pussy heals it all, pussy knows, pussy listens, pussy understands, pussy will lead you through the darkest valleys of your most desperate times. Have faith in pussy.

It seems you’re cured – not that you’re totally fine and stuff, but you’re obliviously not a crybaby bitching about how hard it is. And then, a few weeks away from moving out from your glory hole town to start a new life, you helplessly fall in what seems to be love. Love again.

She’s the kind of girl that gives you a vague notion of the Unattainable. She’s your teenage fantasy from the poster. She’s the incarnation of the sluttiest innocence, of the sublime vulgarity, of the modest provocativeness, of the kindest bitchyness. She’d make you proud, she’d make you feel alive. But you know she’s totally out of your league.

Funny thing is, she feels exactly the same about you.

Yes, life has its own genuine sense of irony. It knows when to pour down some big load of shit on your head, and when you least expect it, it gives you a hug, a candy or a blowjob.

So you’re sitting there on the patio of the most popular club in town, hanging out with your best mate, having a beer or something, and she’s sitting there, right in front of you, just a few steps, accompanied by what appears to be her boyfriend. You’re watching her discretely because you like everything about her.

But she’s not so discrete – in fact, she’s not discrete at all.

And there goes the most important, the most becoming, the most exciting thing about men and women, the very essence of our sexuality – the eye contact. It’s uncompromising, it knows no retreat, it’s dense, it’s intense, it’s present and it’s tense. You two just take it to another level.

You know it’s something, your best mate knows it’s something, but the presence of the other guy makes you all confused. Everyone’s dying to see how this one ends.

Your friend proposes you a bet: he wants you to go there and just flirt the shit out of this situation. You may have some guts but you’re not mad, you can’t take such a bet, you don’t want any Faust pas.

Then you and your friend both decide to go out, have a walk, visit some other place. Then after a while you both come back again and she’s still there. But now she’s the one who’s leaving. Things just come and go, fortune’s a bitch, once you’re a king, once you’re a beggar.

And all of a sudden, after your eyes have already met for the last adieu to optically kiss the space that separates you, she approaches you carelessly and hands you over this wrinkly piece of paper that appears to be a chewing gum wrapping. You both say nothing, she leaves. At that moment you still consider it a joke, she must be having a good laugh now, for what you’re about to discover is most likely a wet chewing gum she’s just put out of her pretty mouth. But instead, inside the paper wrapping, you find her phone number.

You type the number down on your cell phone under the name that says it all: Unknown beauty. Of course you call her. You’re not as dumb as you look. So you start dating. Turns out that the guy she was with  the other night is her gay friend. Totally trustworthy. She’s got some cool friends by the way. And she’s gracious and she’s damn smart. She’s that kind of smart that you find hot as hell. She reads things and she likes your writing. And loving your writing is the sweetest love a girl can make to you.

She recommends you this novel that will change your way of thinking about literature forever. It is Nabokov’s finest and most achieved work, full of juicy passages and incredibly eloquent puns: Ada or Ardor. From the very first lines you adore Ada’s pandoric orientation towards nature and you sense the odor of her brilliant idiolect, dressed in the splendor of ardent metaphors that open the door to most devious ardor one can think of, devoutly to be punished, erotically speaking, adultery adored and devoured. You notice that Nabokov is relentlessly fucking with the reader and you start to love this game that only the one with the pen, the one with the pun, the pantheist demiurge of the fictional world, can ever win.

Thank you, my adorable Ada, ardor of my dolor.

You and your new girlfriend go along surprisingly well. She takes you quite seriously – such an honor you did not expect. So you take her seriously too. That cannot end up well, can it?

You have your big time, there are moments of a violent passion. When she first kisses you, you already end up scratched and bitten but you do not complain, you appreciate her pretty cruelty. You even like the fact that every damn time you leave her for a tiny moment alone in a bar, someone tries to pick her up. And though she’s kind to everyone, you’re the only person she gives a fuck about, so you both make fools of other guys pretending to be siblings, just like in the novel.

Such is the Summer of your loving. No wonder when she tells you she’s got to leave to Manchester for a couple of weeks, you decide to follow her without hesitation. There will you spend some of the most incredible days of your life, most of the time shifting gently from a passionate lovemaking to a deep conversation. You keep talking while falling asleep, and you wake up talking, and all of a sudden, you realize you’re making out again. Fucking and talking – this is what couples do.

What could possibly go wrong? She even forgave you when your ex ended up again in your bed, she appreciated the fact that you told her, that you’d resisted the almost uncontrollable temptation of the body you knew so well and loved so much. She forgave you this. And she forgave you, God, she really did, this one time when you told her in the bed that she’s not this other one, she’s not your ex. Such a brilliant ontological statement. And you told her that, you bitch. This one thing no-one should ever hear from a lover: “You’re not her”, “You’re not him”. One day you will hear that too. In fact, you will hear that many times. Take it as your redemption. Far too many times you were him to the others and you didn’t give a damn.

Anyway, when you’re involved, shit goes wrong incredibly well.

You’ve been accepted to the studies you’ve been dreaming of. You’re about to move to some real city and enter the path that will enable you to read the French novels for a living. How cool is that? You’re going to learn some shit too. Oh, you can’t even imagine the things you’re about to learn.

Now you leave, she stays. But you both don’t worry much. For the first few weeks you visit each other regularly and you keep talking and making sweet love all the way au bout de souffle. It’s just that at some point, and heaven knows why, you stop caring. Maybe it’s because you too sure of her being yours, or maybe you’re too excited with the new city thing. Either way, you fuck it up once again. All the missed calls, all the long, sensitive and pretty brilliant letters she sends – you leave it all without much of a response. She’s damn right to dump you, she’s too much of a woman for you.

Now you’re all alone with your novels. In a city that doesn’t give a fuck about you.
Watch out for the shit is yet to come.

The one with moving on

First you jerk off. You don’t think before you do. If God wanted you to think first, you’d still most likely be jerking things out rather than working off. Be it a matter of one consonant. Besides, you’re eighteen, you can handle things by yourself. It’s been a while, that’s true. For few years you’ve been in the right hands but the right hands have left you. You’re on your own, remember?

In fact, you’re the loneliest creature in town. Everybody else is doing it, but not after having what you had. Most of them boys haven’t even seen the bra yet, while you’ve been unhooking it for some time with your left eye and your hands closed. This makes things even harder. You’re unable to concentrate. You should be preparing for your biology exams, for until now you’ve been doing quite well. Now you look at all those molecular structures and you’re simply unable to give a damn. You are no scientist, you are no House MD either.

The girl who completed you, who understood you, who knew you inside out, has recently found someone. Though you still make out occasionally. But the last blowjob you got was rather a tearjerker: a swansong, if you will, a handy adieu. Now it’s the other boy who seems to get lucky. By the way, the guy’s a friend of yours. Punching him in the face did not help, even though some intuition had told you it would. It may have something to do with your silly boyish notion of honor and pride. Sleeping with her best friend didn’t help either. Jealousy is devouring you. You’ve never experienced such a powerful negative feeling. You come to nail the Othello part. So here you are, full of regrets, wandering through all the crappy holes of your holly town, your city of angels, and you dive into every rotten assomoir, every damn pub in which you’re likely to run into them. You search under every stone, on every bench in every park you expect to see them kissing. Then you wait all night in front of his house knowing that she’s there. You sit there trembling from anxiety. From such a grief, there is no relief: ‘tis bitter cold and you’re sick at heart. So you’re chain-smoking, burning inside with desperation, only to find out that they went messing around somewhere else. Turns out you’re no good at stalking.

The only thing that keeps you going is writing. You’ve done it before. You’re naturally familiar with words, you possess this peculiar capacity of amusing yourself and others by simply scribbling some dirty thoughts, pathetically ironic, disguised into series of ridiculous puns and nasty metaphors. You don’t know exactly what you’re doing. So far it’s been kind of intuitive, you just feel this overwhelming urge to outcry, to unshadow the bewildered areas, the darkest, the most unexplored districts of your soul overflowed with poison. You learn that the linear narration lets you keep your mind busy, you’re thoughts in a relative order. You find that the life is to be told, or, as your Columbian master would state, that you must vivir para contarla.

Then you come to find some pleasure in listening to those dark, romantic Scandinavian death metal bands, for these are the only sounds that ease the pain and let you go on with the terminal spirit disease. Then again there’s the guitar. So you shred the shit of her in an unconscious flow of compulsive creativity. That’s all you do. Thus you have found your sublimation. Thank goodness, you’ve already given up on your scientific career. Or at least so it seems.

Such is the Autumn of your loving. You Fall from heaven, for you have formed your fault. So now you have to find a solution that is just, lucid and fair – or maybe just Lucifer. For deep down in the darkest caves of your enchanted city, among those realms of decadence drown in the liquid despair straight from the Devil’s distillery, you come across the most bizarre and wicked, most peculiar creatures that no fantasy author would even dare to depict. For the ease of use, you call them bitches.

Don’t get too excited – they come from the same background as you do. They’re lonely and heartbroken, dazed and confused, desperately in need of some stranger’s hand. Hardly ever do you find a princess among those. But then again what sort of prince are you?

In each and every one of them you find the elements of what you hold dear: sensibility, comprehension, empathy, acceptation, concern. It is no longer the body thing – thereby you discover the Personality. It is true what Proust once said, that a lonely being desperate for intimacy would throw itself into the arms of the first creature it encounters that shows at least but a shadow of willingness towards it. Such is the saddest law of self-preservation in the shallow gutter of our depressed society. You could be bounded in a nutshell and count yourself a king of infinite space, was it that anyone would take you the way you are.

So you could spend nights and days talking to them, holding their hands, caressing them, listening to whatever they want to say. You kiss like there’s no tomorrow. You inhale their breaths and exhale the smoke. At the moment you don’t need much banging. But they do. And you come to ask yourself: what if everything is about banging? What if nobody cares about your useless sensibility, your taste for novels, your neurotic writing, your guitar-raping skills – all these things you cherish the most? What if all you are is a grotesque amalgam of pointless inclinations towards art and some monkey-tricks no-one gives a shit about? You are not the male they’re looking for – you’re but a playful curiosity, a temporary distraction.

So be it. You find it harder and harder to trust and to care. The ones you’re attracted to do not even notice you. So you take the others as a substitute. It comes easy, it goes easy, it comes around and goes around. You hurt because you’ve been hurt. The less you care, the easier it gets, so you take it for granted. But then again once you really care, you become a prey.

It’s gonna take some time to master the art of not giving a fuck. But you’re on the right track, for once you cared too much – and that appeared to be far from enough.

21st century schizoid male

So you suffer from this modern disease of being an average privileged white male. Heir of the western civilization. And you are chronically attracted to women. Well, you’re not so average, you say. Not so privileged as it may seem. And though you’re as white as Columbian coke, you’re certainly not as masculine as some of them cowboys you’ve seen in the movies. As for the civilization thing, you find yourself on the very frontier of the Wild East. But damn sure you’re attracted to women. You like them, you love them, you care about them, and you treat them with respect. As long as they don’t fuck with you. Metaphorically. In fact, you like them both physically and intellectually. You like them rough, you like them soft, you like them red, blond and brown, you like them tall, you like them short, you prefer them slim, but not as much, because fluffy is healthy, and you like them shaved, and you like them hairy, you like them tight, you like them deep, you like them smart but you accept them silly, you like them bitchy and you like them subtle.  You love them at your place, sometimes at theirs, you love them on the couch and in the church, in the kitchen, in the dressing room, in the closet, in the toilet, on the stairs when everyone stares, in rain and on the train, all in vain, over the hills and far away, in the park, why not, damn it, even on the desert. You like their sense and sensibility, their pride and prejudice, their jane ass teen.

You pervert.

Either this is what Mother Nature made you or you just grew up watching too much of James Bond. Nature vs. Culture. But then again it doesn’t really matter for this is what you are. And what you are is not necessarily what women want. You may consider yourself quite male-efficient, however, most of the times, it turns out you’re just maleficent. Now, that’s a killer pun to hit you in the face. You try so hard to fulfill that unattainable ideal of manhood, the knightly phantasm you thought was desirable for it seemed to work out quite well for the special agent 007 so aptly castrating all those impotent mad scientists from the Soviet Union.

So you learn to speak five languages, you play the guitar, you ride a motorbike, you quote Shakespeare, you lift, you practise muay thai, you know how to box, you grapple a bit and, don’t be too modest, you are quite handsome, you dress well, you are one smartass and dude, admit it, you know how to kiss. Besides, you are quite good at hyperbolizing your own qualities.

And you keep saying that sex, as one subversive Victorian dandy would state, is only an excuse for kissing. But it is not. It may be the very essence. This is yet to be explored. So you end up knowing shit. You question your own identity, your blown masculinity. And anything you say – always apologizing, explaining yourself, for you’re an honest man, you say what you think – is offensive, sexist, dirty, childish, foolish, insensitive, evil, and barbaric.

To Whom It May Concern, let us speak up. Let us explain the shit out of manliness.

Let us speak aloud for what we are men-to-be.