Our new issue looks at what we’ve learned about sex, love, ghosting, our faces, men in Brooklyn, and that forever-damaged corner of our prefrontal cortex that keeps us swiping on Tinder. Here, AllisonPDavis writes on app's enduring allure
I first downloaded Tinder in the spring of 2013, seven months after it launched. I’d heard about it as a concept but felt exempt from needing it until one evening at the tail end of a drawn-out breakup with someone I’d told myself I would marry. We were at a restaurant in San Francisco, having one of too many brutal good-bye dinners that led to this-is-the-last-time-I-swear sex, and I put the app on my phone in front of him.
On the cover — Photo-Illustration: Photo-Illustration by Pablo Rochat for New York Magazine. Photograph by Marcus McDonald ➼ A Mini Tinder Time Capsule➼ A Few Words From a Professional Profile-Pic Whisperer I’ve rejected people for bad grammar, racial slurs, boring first questions, aggressive and immediate sexual overtures, overly earnest chat, GIF usage, delay of IRL meeting, or an inexplicable ick, often involving their choice in footwear. I’ve forgotten I dated and slept with someone and rematched with renewed interest. I’ve been lightly catfished and probably almost scammed. I’ve received dick pics without warning, solicited dick pics, sent nudes.
At the time, you may recall, Silicon Valley venture capitalists threw money and adoration at hotheaded unicorn kings, and the only accepted ethos in tech was “move fast and break stuff” and “disrupt”: be it laundry or the taxicab industry or helicopters to the Hamptons. Tinder wanted to disrupt sites like match.
Each date proved me to be both incredibly brave and the biggest wimp. Even as I tried to be a game theorist, it was hard not to read genuine possibility into every encounter. “I think I just found the love of my life,” I dramatically Gchatted my friend Liz one afternoon during work . We hadn’t exchanged numbers yet, but I was certain he’d be mine, I told her. “Oh, really, how do you know?” Liz, who was not on Tinder, challenged.
Even as I got used to inventive new ways of rejecting and being rejected , swimming in the murky waters was still fun. This was before profiles showed the scars of too much time on dating apps or boasted “necessary” virtue signaling or became ads for people’s open relationships . At the time, I knew it was doing something to me, but I didn’t see the impending dating apocalypse that Nancy Jo Sales wrote about in Vanity Fair. The article suggested, for the first time, that Tinder was irrevocably fucking up our ability to date normally. To prove it, she followed a handful of insufferable 20-somethings in New York as they navigated Tinder, chronicling how “Fuckboys” and “Tinderellas” dated one another and slept with one another.
Sometimes, though, I wondered if my desire was being manufactured. In 2016, then-CEO Rad explained in an interview with Fast Company that Tinder matched members based on “desirability” using the same scoring system that ranks chess players: When you’ve played an advanced player with a high score, you gain more points than if you’ve played someone with a lower score. On Tinder, then, if you matched with someone hot, you got hotter matches. The marketplace wasn’t wide open.
The urge to delete and redownload and delete for me never really feels instigated by one horrible incident. Something can go wrong and I’ll double down on swiping, trying to update photos or tweak my bio for better results. Another time, one little snag, a dropped conversation or a match with someone who unmatched me as soon as I messaged “hello ✌️, or getting excited for a date and finding the real-life version smelled overwhelmingly like corn, and I’ll groan in disgust and delete my account.
The years since then are a blur of swiping and matching and talking and stopping and then deleting and downloading and seeing Jared, 40, on Tinder every time I do and feeling sad that he’s probably stuck on the same emotional roller coaster I am, but I won’t swipe right because he likes Crossfit.
Given the outcome of most pandemic pastimes , it should not surprise anyone when I say PJ was less next-level spiritual soul mate and more shit. In fact, he was married with two children and using Tinder to cheat. And that November, when it all came to a head, in my devastation, I reverted to using Tinder the way I knew how. Seamlessing a man: a librarian with a big dick who Rollerbladed to my house just when I needed the emotional distraction and left exactly when I needed him to.
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