Tinder Horror Stories (#2)
My Tinder Date: The Perpetual Child
Her Parents Treated Her Like A Pre-Teen
After my first unpleasant experience on Tinder, there was a part of me that desperately wanted to delete the app. Perhaps, being single wasn’t so bad after all? Maybe—unlike many of the lesbians I knew—it would be easier for me to meet a woman the old fashion way?
Who was I kidding?
I lived in an incredibly small—incredibly straight—town where the closest thing you would find to a thriving LGBT+ community was the deli downtown that was owned by an older lesbian couple—and, spoiler alert: most of the patrons were old, straight people who called the couple “friends” or “business partners”. But, you get the picture.
No. If I was going to meet someone to date, as a queer woman, I was going to have to embrace the proverbial wasteland that was Tinder.
But, this time, I kept my eyes peeled for red flags. I had allowed myself to ignore them the last time, but, this time was going to be different, I promised myself. I was never going to let myself overlook the slightest hint of red ever, ever again.
Well, as I’m sure you guessed it: that absolutely did not work out. Maybe I happen to be colour blind when it comes to shades of red. Maybe I’m just blissfully unaware. Or, maybe I really was that dumb. Who knows?
Well, lez-be-honest…we’re all aware of the reason. And, yes, that reason was absolutely because I was dumb. But, let’s not focus on that right now, shall we?
Instead, let’s focus on my newest match at the time: we’ll call her Beth.
Now, Beth was typically not my type—far from it, in fact. She was very feminine, and I tend to be drawn to more masculine women. She seemed quiet, and shy from her bio, and I prefer a more confident, and outgoing partner. We were also the same age—both 25—and, I was typically more drawn to older women. But, maybe a change was in order. Maybe there was a reason I had a hard time maintaining relationships with my usual type. Maybe someone more like Beth would be better suited to me.
Between her write up, her pictures, and her stunning bubblegum pink hair, I decided Beth had piqued my interest. Well, at least piqued my interest enough to swipe right.
The second I slid my finger across my phone screen I was greeted with the: It’s a Match! pop-up, notifying me that we had both swiped right, and prompting me to initiate conversation.
So, I did—I sent her a short message introducing myself, and complimenting her hair. And, boy, do I really wish I wouldn’t have opened that can of worms.
Later that day I received my first message from Beth. Her text was sweet, and engaging, and I found that conversation flowed easily between us. We spent the rest of the day, and into the evening, chatting, swapping phone numbers, and getting to know one another.
This went on for several days: texting, video calls, laughing, and, of course, flirting. It was enjoyable, and easy, and I was really beginning to like Beth.
A lot.
No, she wasn’t my standard type, but she was adorable, quirky, funny, beautiful, and was very quickly becoming someone I truly wanted to know, and spend time with.
After about a week of daily correspondence, and no signs of red flags, I decided to bite the bullet: I asked her out on a date.
Beth agreed enthusiastically, and we immediately made plans to meet up in her city—she lived a half an hour drive away from my small town. Between our two schedules we set a day, and time, and the rest is history.
History, in the sense that this date was going to be the start of my interest in Beth rapidly declining.
The big day arrived, and I was beyond nervous. I spent the entire morning deciding on what to wear, what type of make up I should use, and don’t even get me started on the nightmare that was my hair. But, I eventually made my decisions, climbed into my car, and began the short drive to meet Beth.
I reached Starbucks with a few moments to spare, and spent that free time pumping myself up in my car. To onlookers I’m sure I looked like quite the fool, but in my heart I felt more suave, and dapper than I ever had in my life. With my nerves in check, and my mind set on the goal of making a good first impression, I headed inside.
Beth was already seated at a table, and I cooly—definitely not awkwardly—walked up to her and introduced myself. She smiled, we hugged, and I died on the inside.
The coffee date went well, so well in fact, that we decided to head back over to her house to hang out more. And yes, it was just to hang out, you perverts.
On the drive there Beth informed me that she still lived with her parents, and her younger brother. She was nervous, and hesitant, and I’m sure a bit embarrassed, but luckily for her I, too, still lived with my mother, so I was more than receptive to this new information. It was yet something else the both of us shared, and it honestly made me so much more comfortable.
For now…
The second we arrived at Beth’s house we were bombarded by her mother. She wanted to know how our first date went, and wanted to get to know me better. Both of which were relatively normal requests, albeit not what I was expecting, but normal nonetheless.
I liked Beth, and I wanted both her, and her mother to like me—especially her mother, as I desperately wanted her to approve of me.
So, the three of us grabbed some coffee, and headed into the living room to chat. This is where things started to get pretty weird.
The three of us talked for about an hour and a half, and the whole time—yes, the whole time—Beth, and her mother were holding hands. Now, I’m a very non-judgemental person, and I always try to be very open-minded, so I brushed it off. I figured Beth and her mother were just really close, and expressed that closeness via physical touch. That’s not weird, right? Right?
After I was thoroughly questioned—more like interrogated, if I’m honest—Beth, and I decided to go to her room for some one-on-one time. But, the door needed to stay open, as per her mother’s request.
Need I remind all of you lovely readers that both Beth, and I were 25 year old women at the time. But, I digress.
I wanted to be respectful, and had no intentions of getting handsy with my date, so I shrugged it off.
No big deal, right?
Privacy on a date is overrated anyway, right?
We walked down the hall to Beth’s bedroom. She opened the door, and I was flabbergasted. Her bedroom looked like an elementary school girl’s dream bedroom. Sailor Moon bedding, Sailor Moon figurines, and Funko Pops! lined every shelf. Not to mention her floor was scattered with colouring books, crayons, and scented markers.
Was this a big, fat, Sailor Moon encrusted red-flag, and I was just too non-judgemental to make a big deal of it?
Yes. Yes, it was.
I’m not the type of person to judge someone based off of their interior decor choices. Maybe Sailor Moon was comforting, and nostalgic for her. Maybe she hadn’t redecorated since she was 12. Whatever the case was I wasn’t going to be that dick that made fun of someone for their aesthetic choices.
After the intital surprise, Beth, and I made ourselves comfortable in her bedroom—spending our time talking, sharing music, and just enjoying each other’s company. Well, mostly enjoying each other’s company, aside from every 15 to 20 minutes when her mother would pop in to make sure we were behaving ourselves, at least that’s what it seemed like.
It was inbetween one of her mother’s check-in’s that Beth asked me if I wanted to stay the night.
I should have said no. I should have known that spending an entire night in that house would make me feel even more awkward, and uncomfortable than I already did.
But, I said yes, regretfully.
The evening flew by in waves of Sailor Moon episodes, weird conversations with Beth’s mother, father, and brother, and occassional moments of privacy between Beth, and I.
The time I spent with Beth—alone—was great. She was animated, intelligent, and so funny. But, the more time we spent around her family, the more I noticed Beth regressing into childlike behaviors, and mannerisms.
This couldn’t possibly be a coincidence.
One minute, Beth and I would be alone discussing politics, social issues, and our life goals, and then in a split second—after being joined by her parents—she would seemingly revert to acting as if she didn’t understand the world, and instead only wanted the comfort of her parents’ supportive arms.
To say I was confused was an understatement.
By the time we were ready to go to bed, I still couldn’t seem to wrap my head around Beth’s weird dynamic with her parents.
How could a seemingly smart, independent woman be reduced to a co-dependent toddler when around her parents? And, in that same vein, how could her parents not only enable, but encourage this behaviour?
Y’all it was weird. But, not as weird as this next part.
Beth, and I decided to camp out in her basement, as it allowed for more space for the both of us. And, as I was rummaging through my purse for something even remotely resembling toothpaste, Beth’s mother and father both came parading down the stairs.
Now, don’t get me wrong, they were both incredibly nice—albeit nosy—people, but I was desperately hoping I wouldn’t have to deal with them for the rest of the night. But, sadly, that wish just wasn’t in the cards for me.
I was just about to head around the corner to go to the bathroom to wash up before bed, when I stopped dead in my tracks. Beth was being tucked in by both her mother, and father. All of whom acted like this was a ritual they acted out nightly.
Need I remind all of you lovely readers again that Beth was a 25 year old woman at this time.
Is it normal for a 25 year old to be tucked in by her parents? Is it normal for parents to coddle their adult daughter to the point that while around them she acts like a literal baby?
Who knows, because clearly I had no fucking clue what was normal anymore.
After they both kissed Beth goodnight they headed back upstairs leaving their daughter alone with me, and my jaw on the floor.
Beth fell asleep shortly after, and I was unable to sleep after the weirdness of the day. I laid in my cot, texting my friends a play-by-play of my time with Beth, and was gladdened to know that I wasn’t the only person who felt like things between Beth, and her family was incredibly off-putting.
Once the sun was up I was out of my cot, and dressed for the day. I waited for Beth to wake up before quickly telling her I forgot I had to work that afternoon so I had to head home right away—this was a lie, folks.
Yes, perhaps I’m a terrible person, perhaps you would have handled the situation differently. But, when I tell you that I still have nightmares involving Sailor Moon, and Beth’s mother, maybe you wouldn’t blame me.
But even still, this wasn’t the last time I would be seeing Beth. Oh no, because I’m a masochist who loves inflicting mental suffering on myself.
Sadly, this is just the very beginning of my and Beth’s downward spiral of casually dating each other.
And yes, you guessed it, it gets even more uncomfortable, awkward, and straight up weird.
Stay tuned for Tinder Horror Stories (#2.5) to find out why Beth and I spent another night together, why I can’t seem to break up with people, and read the absolute shit show that was my, and Beth’s final date.
If you liked this story, and haven’t read the first entry in my Tinder Horror Stories series, please consider giving it a read!
Xandra Winters ©️ 2021
