Guest blog: My first three hours on Tinder

Image by the brilliant Stuart F Taylor

I love a good dating story – the more unusual the better. As a now-mostly-monogamous person, I like to live vicariously through singletons, remembering the heady days of internet dating and the weird and wonderful things that can happen when you match with someone on Tinder or OKCupid. This week’s guest blogger – Fran MacLaine – is here to tell you about her first three hours on Tinder. And it’s a rollercoaster, so strap in tight…

Names and identifying details have been changed. 

My first three hours on Tinder

It was 8pm on a Sunday and I was packing up my flat. Standard, except it was filled with memories of the seven years I had spent with my partner who, a month prior, left me to save his own mental health. In that depressing scenario, I wondered what I could do that would be more distracting and less productive.

About ten minutes later I had my first ever match on Tinder. His name was Dave, he was 37, and he was from Greenwich. I’d say Dave’s defining feature was that he was completely nude. That was largely because he was a practicing nudist. From his pictures, he looked tall and lean, and he wore glasses that gave him the air of a sexy academic. He was also, it turns out, an erotic masseuse with a free slot that very evening, if I was interested – what were the odds?

I weighed it up: it was Sunday night, I was fresh from a devastating break up, there was so much packing to do, this man was a total stranger, he could be a murderer, and Jesus Christ, Greenwich was over an hour away.

So, I went, obviously, under the condition that it was just an erotic massage, no funny business. He even said he’d masturbate before I arrived so he didn’t get hard during the massage. So considerate.

I spent the journey to his house giddy with excitement. Soon a tall, lean, sensitive academic-type would be smoothing warm scented oil over my skin, while respecting my boundaries, and in the nude, of course.

Now I look back on this night and wonder if I was experiencing some kind of temporary insanity, because, at the time, none of the following things seemed like red flags:

  • He asked me to let him know when I was a couple of stops away so he could finish masturbating,
  • When I told him I was near, he replied with ‘STILL MASTURBATING LOL’,
  • It turned out he was not as tall as his profile pictures led me to believe,
  • Nor was he as lean as I thought he was, but more on the malnourished end of the scale,
  • He wasn’t nude when he answered the door, but he was wearing a Captain Zap Brannigan- length silk robe, which we can all agree is A Look Of Sorts,
  • Finally, he did not have a professional massage table. What he did have was a single blow up mattress on his living room floor.

I should have left, I know, but I felt strongly about two things: if it came to it, I could take him in a fight, and there was no way I was going back to my sad empty flat of depressing memories without having had an erotic massage, damn it.

Fair play, I got one.

I felt relaxed, the oil smelled delicious, and the way he touched me was genuinely titillating and entrancing. That tiny naked man knew what he was doing.

As he thumbed out the tension in my arm, he rested my hand in a region, and I could feel it rubbing against something. I peeked out the corner of my eye – the wank didn’t take. “You can touch it if you like?” he offered, to which I gave a nervous laugh and said “oh, no thank you!” in the exact manner I cheerfully say “no thank you!” to charity fundraisers with clipboards.

Later, when he massaged my inner thighs and had the gynaecologist POV, he declared “wow you’re really turned on!” which I couldn’t disagree with.

“You know, this happens a lot with my clients” – on his single blow up mattress on his living room floor – “and I sometimes offer them… relief… Would you like some relief?”

And even though this was just your bog standard, garden-variety, nothing funny going on, totally normal Sunday night erotic massage in a stranger’s flat and nothing more, I figured, in for a penny, y’know?

He produced one of those massage wands with the big round heads, for which only 2% of purchases have ever been made with the use demonstrated in marketing materials in mind. He sat on my chest with his tiny little butt in my face, leant forward with the wand pressed to my pussy, and he went to town.

Reader, I gushed.

I tried to stop, I even tried to control the angle of trajectory – so keenly aware was I of his cream carpets – but before I knew it my thighs were juddering, my nails were digging into his waist and I was squirting everywhere. I was shocked. I didn’t know I had it in me – like literally, I didn’t know I had that much in me. And ladies, if someone gives up before they’ve made you soak the fucking carpet, remember this tale. Demand to gush, for it is possible.

As incredible and uterus-shuddering that orgasm was, it wasn’t long before I snapped back to reality. With tiny Naked Dave’s bum in my face, it dawned on me that my post-break up meltdown had peaked with me naked on a single blow up mattress in a stranger’s flat on a Sunday night, who I’d only matched with on Tinder two hours previously, and a Sport’s Direct mug’s worth of my own lukewarm squirt pooling under my arse.

“Would you like to do anything else?”

“Oh, gosh no, thanks though! Loved the massage. Skin feels great but *yawn* is that the time? Must dash. Sorry about the mess.” And with that I pressed a twenty pound note into his hand for the mattress and finished doing up my belt as I walked down the street.

I was on my way home, shaking my head and laughing intermittently because what the fuck just happened. I took out my phone to tell a friend what the actual fuck just happened when I saw Naked Dave (as he’s since been saved in my phone) had been in touch.

He wanted to tell me how much he’d enjoyed seeing my beautiful body in pleasure (thanks, I call it The Body Pasta Built) and to reiterate his own pleasure at just how much I’d squirted everywhere. I apologised for the clean-up job I’d left him with, but he assured me it was fine, that it was fun. At which point I wondered, did he mean that massage or the clean-up was fun?

And you know what? He didn’t leave me hanging for long.

“Funnily enough”, he said, “I collected your pussy juice in a mug…”

Oh my god.

“And I drank it.”


Now, this episode happened long before I realised that being blunt saved way more time than being nice, so my response lived somewhere between horror and a desperation to remain polite – “Wow!”

I even managed a few more replies in that vein while ND told me how my juice tasted like mild pee (how does he know that), and suggested I give it a try myself one day (mate I am so far out of my wheelhouse, I barely finish cups of tea).

Even while I shook silently with utterly bemused laughter on the train, I had to pause and admire his correct use of ‘farther’ to denote a physical distance, rather than ‘further’ to denote a metaphorical distance, when he lamented not being able to make me squirt farther. There’s always time for good grammar, especially when you’re sexting.

Naked Dave and I have not met up since, though he remains cheerfully optimistic, contacting me at least once a week with offers of threesomes, invites to be the subject of a photography project, or to see if there are any sex toys I’d like him bring back from his holiday, presumably from duty free.

To this day, I have never taken Naked Dave up on any of his offers.


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