string bikini that reveals a lot of skin. The picture was taken in South Beach, courtesy of my friend Amber.
“Oh yeah,” Hunter confirms, and I notice his eyes have actually glazed over.
“Are you trying to picture what I look like underneath the bikini?” I accuse.
“Yes.”
I lightly punch his shoulder. “Hey, I already offered you the rebound. You declined. Therefore you’re not allowed to fantasize about me now.”
“Fine,” he grumbles.
We select a few more pictures. Hunter insists I need a full-body shot, a face shot where I’m staring directly at the camera, and a shot in which I’m smiling with teeth, because apparently not showing teeth means I’ve got the mouth of an old British man. He also lays down the law about Snapchat filters, and any selfies taken from above. According to Hunter, that’s the “deception angle.”
“For the last photo, how about this one with me and my friends?” I suggest. “That way the guys can see I’m a social person.”
“You can’t use that picture. You’re with a bunch of guys. It’s intimidating.”
“Why?”
“Are you joking? They look like huge basketball players.”
“Well, yeah. Because they are.”
Hunter rolls his eyes. “By posting this, you’re pretty much saying these are the kind of guys you can pull. Any guy who doesn’t look like that will be way too scared to swipe on you.”
“You are scarily good at this,” I inform him.
“It’s common sense, Semi. Now let’s write your profile. We want to keep it short. My recommendation? Three letters. D. T. F.”
“No way.”
“Uh-huh. So I’m wrong about your intentions?”
“No, but I’m sure if we put our heads together we could find a more diplomatic way of saying it,” I say dryly. “How about this?”
I write:
Recently single. New to this and not looking for anything serious right now.
“Not bad,” Hunter relents. “And maybe we should add a few interests. Here, let me.” He snatches the phone again, chortling as he types.
When he passes it back, I can’t stop a laugh.
Fascinated by child psychopaths, unhealthy relationship with food, will break your PlayStation if you f*%k with me.
“That makes me sound like a lunatic,” I say.
“Look me in the eye and tell me that none of those things are accurate.”
“I fucking hate you.”
Then I delete what he wrote and change it to: crime show enthusiast, food lover, all-around awesome person.
One again, Hunter concedes. “I like it. All right, hit next to finalize the account.”
I obey his command, then offer a nervous grin. “Now what?”
“Now we swipe.”
20
Demi
I had no idea there were so many men in the world. Obviously, I was aware the global population is in the billions, but how are there this many guys on this app, all within a sixty-mile radius of me? It’s way too much data. I’m on sensory overload as my finger flicks past profile after profile.
Like Dan, who enjoys kickboxing.
Or Kyle, who’s here for a good time, not a long time.
Or Chris, who wants me to “just ask.”
Or another Kyle, who describes himself with three eggplant emojis.
And another Kyle! This one likes to eat out. Hint hint, nudge nudge.
“Ewww! Why are all the Kyles so repulsive?” I demand.
Hunter thinks it over. “Coincidence,” he finally answers.
“Coincidence? That’s your best guess?” I can’t stop laughing. This is the most fun I’ve had in ages. I swipe to the next profile and gasp. “Oooh, I like him. Let’s swipe right on Roy.”
Hunter examines the potential suitor’s photos. He whistles softly. “Fuck yeah. Check out those obliques. I’d do him.”
“Glad we’re in agreement.” I grumble in disappointment when Roy and I don’t match. The last three guys I swiped right on, I matched instantly with.
“Don’t let it get to you,” Hunter says helpfully. “A guy with a body like that has options.”
Literally two seconds later, a bubble pops up announcing I matched with Roy.
“Ha!” I say in triumph.
Hunter grins. “Looks like you made the cut.”
“What about this guy?” I ask about the next profile.
“He’s wearing sunglasses and a hat in every picture. He’s either bald and ugly, or a murderer. Though I’m sure the latter would be enticing for you.”
“Oh, for sure. I’d sell my firstborn to be able to psychoanalyze a killer.”
“It worries me that I can’t tell if you’re joking.”
We swipe for a bit longer, but all the faces are melding together. I’m starting to get bored and the messages are starting to pour in. “Let’s talk to some of these matches and weed out the ones we don’t like,” I suggest.
But it doesn’t take long to realize we’re dealing with a