Hinge date inin Leeds

I downloaded Hinge to collect data.

Don’t blame me. I was villainising men at the time. I got divorced the year before so I convinced myself that it wasn’t in men’s biology to love. Pussy was all they cared about. My belief was that they confused love with sex. Thought they were in love with a woman when they actually just wanted to fuck her.

And fuck her.

Until it got boring.

Until somebody younger showed them a slice of affection.

Oh, dear god, to stay married to a woman in her mid twenties when you could score one younger…

Talk about love.

So last year when I was single, I didn’t use Hinge for love.

I used it for sex.

To satisfy my own pleasure.

I was living just outside Leeds at the time. Nighttimes would involve dates with my vibrator, sometimes a pack of ready salted crisps if I got hungry afterwards, and a quick ten minute Hinge scroll to see if anyone in my likes was worth my attention.

That’s when I came across Pat.

He was three years older, twenty eight. Six foot five. Worked as a GP.

Green flag after green flag.

His texts were consistent. “How was your day?” he’d ask me. “Was there any drama today in the office?” I worked in marketing so there was never any shortage of it.

We texted for a week and met up that weekend. In the past few months I’d been on quite a few first dates. I never spoke to them again. Sometimes it was me that decided to go ghost, other times it was them, but I never took it to heart because I learned things from the experiences either way. More things about me and my needs. More things about other people. I mean, had I not met up for a few drinks with Samuel from Lithuania, I wouldn’t know that the country was the last one in Europe to be converted to Christianity.

I’d do so fucking well in a pub quiz.

Saturday evening I met Pat down Greek Street and we shared a couple drinks. He was hot. Probably the most good looking guy I’d ever been on a date with- always dangerous. Rule number one in all the trashy feminist magazines: never date a guy you find attractive.

That’s how you get your heartbroken.

And he looked like a heartbreaker.

Good job mine was currently off on sick leave.

Pat was half Moroccan. His eyebrows were thick and came together every time it was my turn to speak, either because he was listening intently to what I had to say or because he couldn’t keep up with the shit I was chatting.

The latter, most likely.

“You have bits of blue in your eye, did you know?”

Perhaps that was his way of breaking up the conversation. I had been waffling about my two cats for an ungodly amount of time. “Yeah,” I replied. “I did know.”

“It looks good. Compliments the blue.” He took a sip of lager and shook his head. “Sorry, you must get that all the time.”

“No, actually.”

He was a good conversationalist. Answered questions in full depth and returned some to me. Eye contact was strong also and he bought all of the rounds, the chips we shared too. On top of it all, he knew how to dress. Wore a white cotton t-shirt to compliment his hazel skin tone and beige linen trousers which… contrary to popular belief, a lot of men often struggled to pull off.

We finished up with the drinks and walked down the streets of Leeds. It was 12AM at this point, neither of us had work tomorrow, so he suggested doing something else.

I gave him a pointed look. “Like what?”

He rolled his eyes. Scoffed. “Not that. We should do something a little different… like – ” he looked around” – when was the last time you went clubbing?”

“Clubbing? What, with all the eighteen year olds?”

“Clearly you don’t know where to go.”

I chuckled. “Are you sure you’re twenty-eight?”

“Positive, come on.”

All Bar One. More of a pub-club really than what the kids of today would call a full blown club, but the music was good and neon lights spun around the place like lighthouse beams.

It was okay.

I returned from the bathroom with a drink in my hand.

“Thanks.”

“Shall we go dance?”

The sexual tension ramped up when Hell Is Round The Corner came on. He grabbed my hips as soon as I started swaying them, his head lowering and lowering until the distance between us closed and his lips were on mine.

Goddamn, he knew how to kiss.

Arousal leaked through my panties.

At one point I dashed to the bathroom because I was wearing white and thought I’d leaked through.

The kiss grew in intensity, his breath thickening when I inserted my tongue into his mouth.

He groaned.

Broke the kiss to look back into my eyes.

We stayed that way for an entire song, his hands on my hips.

Mine locked around his neck. The position required standing on my tip-toes.

“I’m so horny for you.”

My pulse throbbed thick in my neck. “I thought you didn’t want that.”

“I was trying to be respectful. Believe me, I’m still trying.”

“How far away do you live?”

It was the longest five minutes of my life, waiting for that taxi to arrive and pick us up.

We slid into the back. His hands were smooth, nails clipped and in pristine condition. Street light leaked in through the window, silhouetting his figure. He slid his palm up my thigh, head turning, and though I couldn’t see the expression on his face, I felt the lust on his face in energy form between us.

He ducked under his seatbelt to sit closer to me. “I’m so excited to fuck you.”

“Believe me,” I said. “It will be me fucking you.”

That poor taxi driver.

We arrived back to his house and undressed one another up the stairs. Then we flew naked into his bedroom, shut the door behind us and I climbed up into his lap. He was hard, like full mast.

It was me fucking him, of course. Back in my radical, maneater era, it was one of the few ways I thought women could exercise some sort of control over men.

And he seemed to love it.

The guttural moans, his eyes snapping open just as he was about to finish.

I angled my hips in a way that had his dick hitting my sweet spot over and over.

And over.

Until I came.

He texted me the next day: we should do this again.

But I was already onto the next man.