A Tinder conversation escalated from “Hey” to “I’m a fuckboy and I am here for hook-ups. Why are you here?” in the space of one text which was my reply to the said “Hey”. The prude in me was all but set to take offense except the rest of me shut her down as soon as she started to wrinkle her nose.
I spiralled off into my mind palace, reasoning with myself: Would you rather he charmed you with Harry Potter quotes, Manto translations and biryani stories only to mislead you with the oh-so-wonderful signals? Or, would you prefer absolute honesty from the word go? You do know this is Tinder, right? Besides, let’s not pretend that you’re high on all things serious and are here for anything more than thumb exercise and unlimited validation.The abysmal sex ratio makes Tinder a fertile ground for temporarily curing my insecurities. (Tinder is the Haryana of apps, one date had quipped to me, as we jokingly discussed how every right swipe mostly is a match for women, in our limited experience.)
It took me three seconds to be so but I was glad for the change in the script that I was used to. There has emerged a dating trend, one that is inspired by social media’s pervasive YOLO hangover, which amounts to multiple one-night stands with the same person. I’ve been a participant as well as a victim to it.
I replied, “I’m here cuz I am bored and Tinder seems to be the shortcut.” Texting back – I’m a fuckgirl and I too am here for hook-ups – would’ve been bit much of a banal meet-cute. Fuckboy replied, “Wow that’s the first time a girl did not overreact! You wrested a screenshot opportunity from me!” And so we began to spar. I admitted that the last time I impulsively agreed to go on a date without caring for compatibility, I was thoroughly bored, insinuating no fucks would be traded if I was bored. He agreed that intellectual stimulation is a cliche that does hold good. There was no flirting, only the blatant admission of intentions, and some candid banter on some of our beliefs. At the end of the conversation, I felt oddly refreshed. No one had been misled.
For the first time in a long while, I met a person who was clear with what he wants from another and we could honestly trade words and fucks without fishing for signals. A fuckboy/fuckgirl/fuckwhoever need not be a despicable species, not the ones who can own up to the task. A fuckwhoever, often misunderstood to be a modern spin on the term playboy/playgirl/playwhoever, is essentially one who can separate the emotional from the physical and treats sex as musical chairs, but with due mutual consensus. The pseudo-fuckwhoevers are those that string you along with their “I don’t know what I want”. It’s an immature lot who revel in their confusion, unapologetic of the wreckage they leave in their wake. It’s those that float their boats in high seas of “commitment phobia” that bring a bad name to our kind. We know exactly what we want, how we want it, with whom we want it and for how long we want it.
On occasions, whenever I’ve taken the hint that the other person was starting to be attached in ways more than I could ever reciprocate, I’ve let the person know that it wasn’t going to work out. I, fuckgirl, have never strung a person along but hell, none of my karma seems to return to me: I’ve allowed myself to venture into the dangerous territory of mixed signals, waving the flag of hope. It isn’t foolish to have hope, I told myself, but it is selfish to be apathetic towards those whose lives you’re fully conscious of affecting.
A friend of mine, a fellow victim of “I don’t know what I want”, cautioned me against Fuckboy saying that rat poison remains rat poison even if you’ve read the label before uncorking it. I pacified her: At least this bottle comes with a label.