The NYC Dating Hunger Games
May my dates be sane, my drinks be strong, and the odds be ever in my favor
Last time on Flings & Other Things: One flight delay, a sea of European hotties, and a very successful swipe right. Lisbon, you’ve outdone yourself.
Read on for the reality check.
I know, it’s been a while, and maybe you thought I found my happily-ever-after with the Lisbon Lovah. Nope. But I have been wrapped up in launching Not Just a Trick Play—because who needs real-life romance when you can write about a football player who’s equal parts trouble and temptation?
Back in NYC
I get back to NYC riding high on confidence, radiating all the happy-happy joy-joy energy you’d expect from someone fresh off a Lisbon fling. What do they say? The higher the peak, the harder the crash? Well, we’ll get to that.
Tweaking My Profile
Like the seasoned Bumble expert I now fancy myself, I turn off Travel Mode and tweak my filters. Lisbon Lovah was eight years younger than me—acceptable for a foreign fling, but not a sustainable model. I tighten my age range—ten years up and down, though I only plan to date within five. The outer bands are strictly for science: one end to preview potential newcomers to my dating bracket, and the other to monitor the rate of decay of the current contenders.
I bulk up my profile. Occupation? Author. Interests? Theater. Travel. NYC. No kids. No desire for kids. I drink. I don’t smoke. I’m “active” (I think this refers to my fitness level, not my vivid imagination).
Now it’s time to see what the algorithm serves up.
The Swipe Begins
The first batch of profiles rolls in, and they are… uninspiring.
I know, I know—there’s more to dating than physical compatibility. But come on, I’m allowed to be shallow.
As I swipe, I begin noticing patterns.
Let’s start with the shirtless photos. In theory, I appreciate the preview of the goods, but any intrigue is immediately canceled out by the setting. Why are so many of these taken in public bathrooms? With visible urinals? Ick.
Then we’ve got the shirtless AND headless photos. Subtle. Really subtle.
And, of course, the fish photos. They’re not a deal breaker, but still… why?
The fancy cars make me pause. Are these pictures for real? Or rented props for a day of flexing? And the private planes—are they trying to say, “I’m a billionaire,” or just “I snuck on to the runway of this municipal airstrip for a selfie?”
Also, why does everyone seem to love hiking so much?
There are some good-looking options, sure—but so many profiles lack any actual information. Are these catfishers? Lazy people? Bots? They’re pretty, so I swipe right on a few. I figure I can always weed them out later.
Then we’ve got the bruhs:
Tech Bruh: Leaning against a Tesla I’m not convinced he owns (see fancy cars), captioned, “Disruptor.” Left.
Finance Bruh: “Work hard, play harder.” Bottle service in three out of five pics. Left.
Real Estate Bruh: NYC Skyline in every single photo. Okay, fine. Swipe right.
Consultant Bruh: Wharton, Harvard, Yale, [insert your preferred Ivy here]. Tons of travel photos. At least we’ll have something to talk about—if he’s ever actually in town.
Then there are the musicians, artists, and actors. Their natural habitats appear to be Astoria or Bushwick. My inner practical side chimes in: Do you really want to end up supporting someone who makes less than your Starbucks habit? Harsh? Yes. But also valid.
It’s not all bad, though. Some profiles catch my eye:
Lawyer Guy: Clever bio, great smile, and—thank the lord—no shirtless selfies. Swipe right.
Graphic Designer: Cool glasses, cute dog in the second pic, bio says, “Fluent in sarcasm and bad puns.” Swipe right.
Architect: Broody in a non-threatening way, bio says, “Building dreams one blueprint at a time.” Corny, sure, but I’m a sucker for an aspirational tagline. Right again.
Ready, Set, Match!
Matches start popping up, and those little circles of validation? Not bad for the ego. Now it’s up to me to take the first step.
I lead with my signature “Hi.” Evidently, I save all the suave opening lines for my characters. Besides, I’d much rather let the guys take the conversational wheel. Come on, gentlemen— woo me!
Most are meh. A few go straight for the shoulders photo:
“Hi sexy.”
“Yum. I want to lick you.”
“Love that pic—more?”
Turns out, Bumble’s default setting pushes my most popular photo to the top. No surprise, mine is the sultry skin shot. I change it to a more respectable one of me on the steps of the Met.
After exchanging the basics (job, hobbies, are-you-a-weirdo questions). Then, crucially, there is the location. New York is tiny, but every neighborhood has its own personality and most of us like to at least keep things to our side of the island. East, West, Uptown, Downtown.
Most conversations don’t go anywhere. Because my profile says “open to adventure,” everyone assumes that I’m into sexy adventures. Sigh. Men, so predictable. And the few chats that do make it past small talk? They fail at the “You’re a Romance author? Shall we do some IRL research?” phase. Bah.
I get a number of date requests (another ego boost), but there’s no one I’m truly into, because I’m a picky, picky person. Still, I figure it’s time to put myself out there. Who knows? Maybe the reality will surprise me. Perhaps I need to kiss a few frogs to find out if a prince is hiding under all that…frogginess. Or maybe I’ll just be kissing frogs to confirm they are, in fact, still frogs.
The Dates
Even if my heart’s not in it, my trusty “Fly Me to the Moon” bag of hope is always along for the dates. In addition to the essentials: condoms, sex wipes, mini perfume bottle, I’ve added disposable panties—let’s get real, who doesn’t fantasize about their underwear being ripped off via teeth? Dreams and practicality, all in one pouch.
The Sparkless Genius
He invites me to his neighborhood bar. The conversation is fine—he’s really smart—but there’s no spark. The next day, he messages asking me out again. Trying to be polite, I tell him I had fun but didn’t feel a romantic connection. I add that I’d be happy to hang out as friends, thinking I’m being kind.
His response? “Not down.”
Then he blocks me.
Classy.
The Tongue Guy
He suggests a walk. How charming. How wholesome. How completely misleading.
Because before I can even say “Hi,” he lunges. No handshake. No “Nice to meet you.” Just… tongue. Coming at me like a heat-seeking missile, locked onto my face with terrifying precision. I Matrix-dodge as if my survival depends on it, then pivot on my heel and abandon the scenic stroll for the nearest dive bar. Screw fresh air. I need disinfectant in liquid form.
Lime wedge. Straight tequila. Silent prayer. Throat, torched. Soul, scarred.
The Upstairs Strategist
He picks a noisy, overcrowded sports bar for our date—a place so loud I can barely hear myself. When I suggest we go somewhere quieter, he invites me to his place—which just happens to be right upstairs. Transparent. I can appreciate the hustle, but I counter with a wine bar down the street.
That’s when he suddenly becomes “really tired” and calls it a night.
Verdict? Points for trying, but next time, maybe just lead with, “Netflix and chill?”
Now what?
The high of Portugal is fading fast, replaced with the stark reality of dating in New York.
Why can’t any of these matches be like the ones who text/meet in Tapping the Billionaire? Or Let’s Get Textual? Or, my fave, The Friend Zone?
Was my Lisbon Lovah beginner’s luck? Or is this what dating in New York is really like? Or maybe I was just less picky with the international match because I knew it would only be a short encounter?
But do I stop swiping? No. But with each left swipe, the chipped Essie Eternal Optimist polish on my thumbnail catches the light, mocking my efforts. Optimism, like my manicure, started this adventure strong. Now? Both are looking a little worse for wear.
Next time on Flings & Other Things: D says less thinking, more ho-ing. I might actually listen. Stay tuned. 🔥
Swipe, swipe, swipe!!