Updated: Nov 16, 2020
So after divorcing my husband of almost 28 years, I joined Tinder, because a girl can always use just a little more bitter disappointment and regret in her life ;)
When I told my friends and family about joining a dating app, they were concerned for me about one thing at this time of deep healing and self-discovery: serial killers. And they’re not wrong.
I mean, you know in that movie Silence of the lambs when the main killer, Buffalo Bill, grabs a lovely plus-size young woman off the street, throws her in a van, forces her to eat carbs in a hole in his basement with the intent of using her skin to sew himself a human leather coat?
Well in 2020, you just know that my girl would have swiped right on Buffalo Bill, right?
She would have:
neatly trimmed her bush,
applied mascara and long-lasting lipstick,
popped into the SAQ to pick the perfect "Fruity and Vibrant" Chianti to pair with crushing despair, and
driven herself to his isolated serial killing lair wearing her best Torrid slutty negligee.
… and she would have been thrilled when he invited her to climb down the trap in the floor with the promise of the best basement sex of her life.
And I’m not judging. I think about the phrase ‘’It puts the lotion on its skin’’ a LOT nowadays. And I can’t help but think that this rocking plump goddess bod of mine would make just the fetchiest human skin jacket.
So... the first order of business when setting up a date with a guy is asking him whether he’s a serial killer.
Their answer determines whether I will meet them only for a coffee (wants to kill me but I’m 50 and a match is a match!), a drink (has likely killed before, but he has such a kind smile and is into yin yoga!) or dinner (likely not a killer, although he knows a shit ton about duct tape and Making a murderer).
Now, I do realize that there is a slim chance that I really need to worry about becoming a teeth necklace around the neck of one Gerald Lee Whitebread, but at the end of the day, it’s true that you don’t know who you’re dealing with, right?
On the other hand, when I’ve asked guys whether they’re worried that I might be a serial killer, there’s not even the tiniest of pauses.
Their thinking is simple: “you have boobs and most of your teeth in the front, and you are not my right hand. I will take my chances. I will willingly come to your house, demand booze and snacks, and not even notice the extensive collection of boating rope on your night table. I’m that confident that my penis is a gift that I need to share with you, and the world, really.”
And I say good on you, Steeve with two “ee”s, 33, who likes setting shit on fire, blow jobs and Slipknot. Good on you.
But, Steeve with two “ee”s, just know that after we match on Tinder and you show up at my house, after you are done sampling my delicious parmesan rosemary shortbreads and giving me multiple orgasms, I will:
chain you to the radiator in my laundry room,
make you fold my seasonal whites, while
I listen to you read the handwritten 387-page letter I wrote to my ex-husband detailing all the times he was terribly wrong during our marriage.
You see, Steeve with two “ee”s , I may not be a serial killer, but I sure know how to make a man desperately hope for a quick death.