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    Dating

    Dating As A Millennial: Expectation vs. Reality

    image via the smell of roses

    Dating as a millennial is a minefield.

    Tinder, Bumble, Badoo, and shit, even Fetlife have a lot to answer for when it comes to dating. We’re now expected to be the perfect combination of sexy, fun, funny, demure, smart, and ~*kinky*~. All so we can get the ‘perfect guy’ who turns out to be a fuckboy, anyway. Also, shit in bed. Welcome, my friends, to dating as a millennial.

    I feel I am well-versed in the subject of dating. Hell, I am the single friend, so dating is my area of expertise. I have a love-hate relationship with it. Some days, it’s just a hate-hate relationship. Other days, I delete every dating profile and erase the apps from my phone. Don’t get me wrong, my love affair with dating as a millennial came on strong. I mean, hundreds of men at my fingertips at all times? Hell. Yes. Getting to make the first move so you can skip the “Hey bby, you want some fuck?” messages? I’m here for it.

    That’s where the love affair begins and ends. It’s a rather short romance, wouldn’t you agree?

    You painstakingly set up your dating profile: choose photos that show your face, your body, that you’re ~*sexy*~, and that you can make fun on yourself, then you write your bio, which almost always includes a sly plug for your blog or Instagram account. (Because the #hustle never stops, right?) The fun really begins when you start swiping right (or left) on your potential suitors. Nope, nope, nope. Oh, wait a minute, he’s attractive and he has a dog*.

    Well, hello there.

    The stars align, and you get a match.

    You start talking. It’s innocent at first. You trade lame jokes and memes like you’ve been best friends (who want to fuck each other) forever. After a day or two, a dirty joke slides into your DMs. You try to rein it in by sending a GIF of a cat. They think you’re handing them your pussy on a silver platter, and ask if you have Snapchat. After a bit of hesitation, you think ‘fuck it’, and so begins the slippery slope of dirty messages, booby shots, and dick pics with terrible lighting. Oh, and the rising expectations.

    Scenario: Organising a date

    Expectation: We’re going to organize a date after talking for four days straight. It’ll be coffee and only coffee so I can disappear without having a ‘family emergency’. Aunt Martha can’t be ‘hospitalized’ again, can she? Coffee. Maybe coffee and a bagel because I love bagels, too. Let’s do this.

    Reality: C’mon, just do it! You love coffee. And sushi. You also love face masks. Ok, maybe not the last one. You also love wine. Mmm, wine. Will he expect sex if I suggest wine? Probably. Or maybe not. Why is this so hard? You’ve been talking to this guy for days. Surely, it can’t be that hard to just suggest coffee. Do it, do it before someone else does! *insert last minute plans to get coffee here*

    Scenario: The Date

    Expectation: It’ll be sunny, the birds will be chirping, and the coffee will be strong. Your ‘in person conversation’ will flow as easily as it did online, and you’ll have an instant connection. It’ll be so great that you’ll want to stay longer than ‘just coffee’ and you’ll cross your fingers in hope that Aunt Martha doesn’t actually go into hospital.

    Reality: It’s raining and the only available parking space was far, far away from the café. Your hair gets wet and the makeup starts to run off your face, so now you look like a drowned rat with panda eyes. Great. It has been a stressful morning, so you order a triple shot flat white, which only manages to accelerate your heart rate and makes you twitchy. He actually looks like his photos, with the addition of a dirty mo*. There’s not that many awkward pauses and you get a kiss at the end of the date.

    *You actually like the dirty mo and feel strangely conflicted when he shaves it off.

    Scenario: Sex

    Expectation: Fireworks. Magic. Seeing stars. He goes down on you for more than two minutes. Even spanks you a little. All that magical bullshit that only happens after you’ve been fucking someone for a long, long time.

    Reality: Cock fright.

    Finally, you realize there really are only two ways this thing can go. Because dating. You know, if you manage to get past the first one.

    Scenario: Becoming ‘official’

    Expectation: He asks you to be his girlfriend during a romantic date. You know, something that involves coffee or pizza or bagels or wine. Definitely wine, because wine is great. You high-five each other and go home to fuck all night.

    Reality: Dating as a millennial means he drunkenly invites you to his house, and you hit all the clubs with him and his friends. You remember that you’ve always wanted to try a threeway, so both of you start picking out chicks. You get stupidly protective when females actually seem interested. Actually, you don’t want to share this one and quickly abandon that idea. You get a cab and go home to fuck all night. No one asks anyone out, but it’s pretty clear that you’re his ‘girl’.

    Scenario: Rejection

    Expectation: Who cares? Not me. We only met a handful of times and it’s not like I’ve even mentioned him to my friends yet. He’s just a blip on the radar, so what? No one knows that he exists, and that’s the way it will remain. Forever. What was his name again?

    Reality: Fuck. Fuckitty fuck fuuuuuuck. It was the cock fright, wasn’t it? Shit, I’m sorry. It wasn’t the cock fright? Well, thanks. It’s not like we exchanged hundreds of messages just for you to gradually ghost me. Real cool, dude. Real cool. Dating as a millennial is hard. #fuckboy

    *And it turns out the dog wasn’t his either.

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