Tri-colour Sex Diary: Bumble, Mr. Brightside, & ball hockey

My first—and last—experience with dating app hook-ups

A locked diary on a desk.
Credit: 
Journal File Photo

Most Queen’s students have dramatic dating app stories to swap, whether they used the platform to find love or simply ward off boredom. My only dating app experience was eventful enough that I won't consider anyone’s profile beyond a casual swipe ever again. 

One Saturday night, trying to recover from an emotional encounter with a guy I liked, I decided to get a fresh start. Tired of letting men control my feelings, I tapped my information into the female-friendly app Bumble, which requires women to message potential partners first. I was ready to set my age limit higher and assert my autonomy. 

I was ready to set my age limit higher and assert my autonomy. 

After a few “How’s it going?” messages, I zeroed in on Trevor.* Four years older and a certified Queen’s hockey bro, Trevor was quick to ask for my number and hit me with a “WYD?” 

Bored and still hungover at 10 p.m., I strategically told him I was staying in that evening and asked about his plans. When he replied saying his night studying could use a distraction, I was more than happy to oblige. 

One snowy taxi ride later, I texted Trevor letting him know I was at his front door. I got a quick introduction to the seven other men in the living room and was brought up to the low-ceilinged, unfinished loft on the top floor of the house. 

Faced with nothing but a bed, a television, and a mini-fridge, Trevor gestured for me to sit and asked if I watched Game of Thrones. When I shook my head, he explained that he was going to offer me a GoT-themed beer, but seeing as how I didn’t appreciate the show, it’d make more sense if we shared it.

Through our drinks, I learned more about Trevor. He was confident he and his friends gave the now-closed Kingston night club Fluid (R.I.P.) its fame and was horrified that, unlike him, a Health Studies major, I didn’t do party drugs three times a week. 

Being a woman on a mission for a hookup, none of this deterred me.

His next question was whether I liked The Killers. When I said yes, Trevor turned on a YouTube playlist dedicated to the band, drained his half-beer, and went in for the kill.

A word from the wise: no matter how talented you are in the bedroom, it’s difficult for your partner to remember anything else if you leave “Mr. Brightside” on repeat. Especially when the song repeats for two hours non-stop. 

Everything went great in Trevor’s room for the next while—as sanctioned by The Killers’ electric guitar. You can imagine my surprise when he propped himself up, pausing the action, and said, “I’m sorry tonight couldn’t be what it was supposed to be.”

When I asked, “Pardon?” I was met with the following explanation: 

“Yeah, so, I was ripping intramural ball hockey last week when my buddy nailed me. My dick hasn’t been the same since, so I can’t finish. I know. I should see a doctor.”

My shirt went back on faster than Brandon Flowers can sing, “It was only a kiss,” but Trevor didn’t seem to mind. For every piece of clothing I tossed him, I was met with a respectful, “Cheers.” 

My shirt went back on faster than Brandon Flowers can sing, “It was only a kiss,”

After a too-long wait for an Uber, I was on my way home with nothing to remember the evening by but fond memories. The next night, I was greeted with a text from Trevor asking for a make-up session. I politely declined without asking if he’d seen a doctor. 

While I’ll always hold this story close to my heart, it taught me something special about modern love. First, dating apps aren’t all they’re cracked up to be and I’ll stick with the in-person introductions from now on. Second, explaining a story like this to your housemates gives them implicit permission to make fun of you for the rest of time whenever “Mr. Brightside” comes on at a party.

* Names have been changed to protect the anonymity of students.

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