Praise the lord! Easter is just around the corner and I know I could certainly use a little something to restore my faith in humanity.
Real Tinder Fuckboi unfollowed me on Soundcloud less than two days after I chose to ignore his meager attempt at a reconciliation text. My fan base may be modest in size, but it is valiant in heart and I knew no real listener could betray me like that. As I watched my following drop from 50 to 49 users, I set out to identify the culprit, so I could make sure to cross him off my wedding guest list indefinitely.
Lo and behold, the offender proved to be former strip club DJ and current douche supreme, Real Tinder Fuckboi. He even got me on Snapchat. I should have known. You can only trust a boi to bring you and your follower count down. Oh well, I’ve since moved on to men more supportive of my creative endeavors.
This Wednesday I ended up alone in a dark, vacant nightclub with its old and perverted but clearly entrepreneurial owner. We got to talking about my career pursuits. He suggested I do an “exposé” on the underground lap dance party scene–with me doing both the dancing and the telling.
He told me the parties are designed for “Wall Street guys” looking for “girls next door” instead of “old Russian strippers with fake tits.” He tempted me with the potential of a 1000 dollar nightly paycheck before leading me to the dungeon where said privileged scumbags pay for a faceful of titty.
Most of the dancers are introduced to the lap dance lifestyle after perusing Craigslist for “hostess” jobs, as that’s what they’re so appropriately listed under. Because girls just looking to make a couple extra bucks leading families of four to window booths at TGI Fridays are exactly the type of girls hoping to be trapped into a life of selling their bodies.
On my way out, nightclub predator casually asked about my feelings on sugar daddies. I replied that sex for money is “where I draw the line,” to which he responded, “well it doesn’t have to be, like, you just fuck and get handed an envelope of cash.” That cleared things up. He gave me his card and told me to contact him if I ever wanted to talk, “professionally or personally.” He wants to get lunch. I want to vomit.
Thankfully, here to save me from yet another week in fuckboi hell, is Jesus himself, revealed in the form of an exceptionally adorable bunch of Tinder bois, just as I thought all hope was lost. This week is dedicated to those cuties whose profiles simply scream, “I would never unfollow you.”
Anurag knows life is good even when he could potentially be jumping to his own death. Swipe right.
Jason isn’t afraid of white wash denim or painting against standard heteronormative color expectations. Good guy.
Mo finds reason to smile amid even the most nightmarish of experiences. Keep him. Not the birds.
A 101 year old man who can turn a bio starting with “We’re all going to die” into beauty is worth a few super likes to me.
Safiin works at the “Krusty Krabs.” Plural. Your Krabby Patty is in good hands with him.
John is a wizard and clearly a seasoned pickup artist. Swipe right to never again endure the pain of being asked if it hurt when you fell from heaven.
MEGAN!!!!!! Swipe left on Nicolas, but never forget!!
I used a mutual appreciation for Korn to strike up a conversation with Adam. He has a cat named Doody and is the closest thing to an angel this earth has to offer.
Michael cares. He really cares.
And Patrick is just plain adorable. Look at that doggie!