You look intelligent but your writing is pretty dumb. Your second photo doesn’t look too bad. Are your lips real? You look utterly fuckable. Want to swap dirty pics? Are you down to fuck? No, these aren’t the ramblings of a madman, or a drunk guy at 3am, but some the messages I have received since reactivating my dating profile earlier this month. On the rare occasions I’ve clicked through to these charmer’s profiles, out of morbid curiosity, these people have seemed to be well rounded individuals with hobbies and jobs. They have photos which contain people I assume are their friends or exes, and yet, this is the way they decide to start a conversation. The scariest thing is, these aren’t the exceptions, these make up about 80% of the messages I receive. 10% are total nonsense, 5% are either people inviting me to their band’s show/latest exhibition as if this is Facebook, and the final 5% are well composed messages from decent well meaning people.

As someone who hates whining, I thought rather than sitting back and being a silent part of the problem, I would be part of the solution. And so here we have an easy peasy guide to sending the first message on a dating site, and hopefully getting a response. I say hopefully because you know I really can’t guarantee that, sorry!

1. Read their fucking profile!
Your first message should show that you made an effort to learn something about them. That you took 3 minutes out of your furious fapping to stop and see whether they’re a reader, a Muslim, a burlesque performer, a vegan, or all four. Notice what kind of tone their writing takes: is it playful or serious? Are they looking for a fling or a life partner? Finally think to yourself: now looked at all their photos, read their profile and put both hands on the keyboard, do I want to message this person? Think hard, friend. Think hard.

2. Pick one interesting point from their profile and ask them a pertinent question about it.
Hell, share an anecdote if it’s relevant and interesting! Just show an interest in something they deemed important enough to type into a text box and share with a bunch of horny/lonely strangers. It makes you look like you care and everyone loves people who care. If you choose something beyond the first paragraph you get extra points for the effort you put in. The question is really just there to help them reply without feeling awkward. Remember asking questions like “You’re a girl and you like comics?” or “Why do you eat meat? Don’t you realise how cruel it is?” is both rude and patronising. Do you want to date this person or get them to click the block button?

3. Compliments should be sparing and courteous.
Here’s an example of a good compliment: “Your profile was hilarious! I couldn’t stop giggling, and I’m so glad I’ve found another Jason King fan in this world!” Here’s an example of an inappropriate compliment: “You look like a filthy bitch who’d love a good spanking.”
Remember: this is a first email, not a comment shouted from a moving van.

4. This is not the time for ‘tips’ or criticism.
That girl with short hair doesn’t care if you think she’d look better with long hair. That guy who is wearing a jacket two sizes too big doesn’t want you to go Gok Wan on his ass. That cute girl who really hates Belle and Sebastian doesn’t want to hear about how you cried yourself to sleep listening to this every night for 4 years. And the Baptist stud doesn’t care that you think he’s an idiot for believing in God. No matter how wrong you think someone is, take a deep breath and move on. Your exclamation mark laced ‘humorous’ tirade is not going to change anyone’s mind.

5. Unless someone’s profile entirely revolves around sex and has photos of them in a state of undress do not proposition them.
There is nothing worse than someone treating you like an extension of their wank hand.

Read this, print it, laminate it, stick it next to your computer screen, and stop sending people messages that make you look like an asshat. Ok?

To be fair, I haven’t exactly gone for a soul searching write-up, instead starting with the phrase ’Let’s not fuck about here: I’m pretty fucking awesome’ because I was sick of getting earnest pussies messaging me. Because that’s what dating sites seem to be filled with: sob story saddos writing about their pets and how their mum doesn’t love them. And if it’s not that, it’s guys asking you to look at their cock or join them and their girlfriend for a threesome, and occasionally dotted amongst these charmers, is a real star.

At one point my profile mentioned that I have an awesome reversable 60s woollen cape (which I do!). A lot of people seemed to get stuck on the cape thing, and I got a lot of messages about it. Including this one:

Subtle, nuanced, prose it was not. It was however sent at 3am by a what appeared to be (upon closer profile inspection) an attractive normally erudite man. I figured we all say stupid stuff at 3am when we are, presumably drunk, and thought I’d give them a chance, rather then leave them stewing in the juices of their own tipsy shame. Also it was the only message I’d received in a week that didn’t use text speak.

Snappy eh? It only took me a day and a half to come up with. Now the second I sent it, I wondered if it was worth giving him the time of day, or whether he was beyond help. I also wondered if my reply was a bit too terse. But my worries were soon to be assuaged when this came as a reply:

Willy. Up. My jaw quite literally dropped open. Dude, I threw you a bone and what did you do? You used the word willy. Who the fuck calls an erection a willy-up? What grown man uses the word willy? There are three year olds that know the correct nomenclature for their genitals, and while that is a tad precocious, it is better than you using the unsexiest word in the universe. Now not only do I have the word willy-up flashing through my mind, but I also have to think about how some rather innocuous pictures I uploaded gave you an erection and caused you to message me about sex at 3am in what I thought was a possibly sweet moment but what I now realise was a break from your furious fapping.

Needless to say I did not bother replying this time, I felt like this was probably not going to go down well at all. And anyway I didn’t want to converse with someone who used the word willy. And then this happened:

You don’t see why not? Really? Are you fucking with me? Has this worked before? You know what? I just can’t even think about this rationally anymore: you are fucking insane and I would rather attempt to wank myself off with driftwood than go near you. Splinters be damned.

Hiya! Me again!

Now, I’ll understand if you’re upset after that last letter, I wrote it while I was a bit pissed off with you. It was a heat of the moment kind of thing I guess. If heat of the moment means more than two months later on an otherwise quiet evening in front of the TV. Look sometimes the truth is hard to hear and sometimes the only person willing to tell you it is a jerk. Sometimes that jerk is someone you put your genitals in. Sometimes that’s just how it works out. Sorry.

So it was like this. It was late, the lights were all on, I was not drunk enough to be into this as much as I would have liked. For some reason I found myself going down on you. It was all going well, at least, I thought it was going well – you’re welcome to write me a letter of my own if it wasn’t. That’s fine. Where were we? Oh yeah, I was going down on you and thinking, “Why am I still here? Am I enjoying this? How long is this going to go on for? Are we done yet?”. Obviously I didn’t communicate that, admittedly I didn’t communicate much; it’s hard to in that position. I was giving it my all, doing my best to make this a memorable evening for all the right reasons and you asked me, “Do you like pineapples?”

I stopped, looked at you, and raised an eyebrow. “Pineapples?” I replied. “Pineapples.” You answered in a breathless voice. “They’re ok.” I was now leaning back on my haunches, worried. “Cool. Hang on a moment.”

The ten seconds you had your back turned to me felt like an eternity. The idea of running, naked, through Hackney until someone discovered me breathless in London Fields jabbering “Pineapple… pineapple…” seemed like an enticing prospect. I started to wonder what kind of pineapple this was: a real one? Pre-cut cubes? Tinned? What can two naked people do with a tin of pineapple rings? Wait. Wait. I see what you can do. But I didn’t want to! By the time you turned around I was in a cold sweat.

When I saw the bottle of lube, rather than an enormous sprouting pineapple, I was at first placated. You’ll never understand how wonderful it is to not see a naked man holding a pineapple. However that relief quickly turned into fear again. This was even worse than a pineapple itself. You handed me the bottle and directed me to put it on your bits. I looked at the bottle. It said ‘Piña Colada’. I knew then that my favourite cocktail would never be the same again.

Some tastes are burned into your brain forever. The crab salad I had on my 25th birthday is so crisp and clear I like to imagine it late at night and fall asleep with the taste on the tip of my tongue. My first cigarette in the alleyway behind St Albans train station, and the musky minted taste it left on the air. The jar of potted shrimp I ate with my Dad just before Christmas that I wished would never end. As a glutton I know that at any moment I can conjure a recipe from thin air and relive it through my imagination alone. Never did I think such a skill would be so sorely abused.

As I squeezed a drop of it into my palm it released a coconut smell so strong my eyes watered. Then I squeezed another drop into my hand, now there was a sour note, not unlike gummy sweets left in the sun; something I assume was trying to approximate pineapple. The ‘pineapple’ you had so huskily whispered to me seconds before. With a tentative hand I began to smear it on you and then with great trepidation I dove in.

It’s hard to describe the taste without resorting to hyperbole, and it’s making me feel nauseous thinking about it, so I want to break it down to it’s bare components: saccharine, glue, and ball sack.

As I walked home in the morning I could still smell it, as though it had become part of me and was seeping from my pores. It began to rain and I hoped that it would wash away the smell but like an XXX rated Lady Macbeth that pineapple was everywhere. While I wasn’t quite close to tears I did wonder if being sick, repeatedly, in a shower would wash away the memory of it. Sadly I didn’t dare try lest it reawaken the half digested sugar substitute festering in the gaps between my teeth.

If you’re reading this far and you still don’t get it. If you just think I’m a picky bitch who didn’t like you, or who should have spoken up during the evening, or that you don’t know what the big fuss is all about: smear some Piña Colada lube on your fingers and suck them for 20 minutes then get back to me.

Actually don’t get back to me, but still do that. It’s the very least you deserve.

Bisous,

Vanessa

Hi,

First off: don’t worry, I’m not writing to you because I have crabs, and I’m not pregnant. No, this is nothing so exciting as any of that. This is more like a report card, less stressful actually, imagine a tv show review in the Radio Times. Basically I want to go over with you what happened and give you some pointers for next time because you need them. Also that next time? It won’t be with me.

First of all, it was really cute how you hadn’t shaved, dressed up, or tidied your house before I came over. While normally I’m happy to chalk this up to an unexpected moment, this was a premeditated event. We planned this shit and you couldn’t be bothered to shave? I shaved! I shaved parts of me I can’t fucking see! I’m not asking you to be freshly sheep dipped in Brut, air dried and poured into a Dior Homme suit. I’m just asking that you treat this as a special occasion because that’s what it is. It’s the grand unveiling of my naked body and you’re going to get the full buffet.

The lights. We need to talk about the lights. It is very important we talk about those lights. I appreciate that you might want to see what we’re doing. So far, so sexy. What isn’t sexy is squinting. Nor is holding your hand up to shade your face from the kleig light looming over you. These sorts of things work best in twilight or a warm glow. That evening suddenly gave me a new appreciation of candle lit virginity taking scenes in teen movies. Maybe you’re suffering from some kind of low light specific blindness, I don’t know. I’m an all inclusive shagger – next time just say. Wait, we’ve established there will be no next time. Sorry again.

Now I can see if you’re reading this you might be cross with me. These complaints have been fairly minor so far. Bright lights, sloppy dressing, facial hair that isn’t quite to my taste, whatevs. The thing is I’ve been drawing you in slowly. Because mate, friend, one time lover, you made two pretty big mistakes. I’m going to give you a moment to think about this. Have you got them yet? Are you still scratching your head? Do I have to spell this out for you? Fine. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

Your first cardinal sin was trying to bend me like a pretzel. I’m all for sexual gymnastics – it’s fun doing something other than lying back and thinking of England, of course it’s fun! Fun fun fun. You know what’s not fun? Someone pushing my legs in a direction they do not go. More importantly you don’t get to ask, shittily, “You don’t like that? Everyone else likes that.” My first thought was to respond with “Go fuck everyone else then.” but I gave you some leeway. I was nice about it. Through gritted teeth and splayed legs I replied “No. It’s uncomfortable. Sorry.” and what did you say? Do you remember what you said? No? I do. This is what you said: “What’s up? Did your last boyfriend have a small dick?”

You said that to me. While we were naked. While we were having sex. WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU? What the hell were you thinking? You said that to me and I looked at you and your face was utterly void of emotion. You really did want to know if the problem was due to your humongous dick. Firstly: my ex’s penis is nothing to do with you. Secondly: are you for real? Your penis was ok. It was a decent size. Waggling my legs behind my head might make it uncomfortable but that’s not because you’re suddenly banging on my oesophagus but because it’s just not enjoyable being forcibly folded in half.

Had I any self respect I’d have left then. But I don’t and more importantly: I was naked and it was 3am. So I rolled my eyes and wriggled into a better position. I think I may have suggested that we have a quick break. Thankfully we took that break, and I told myself “This will be fun. We are going to have fun.” I told myself it over and over and over till I started to believe it. More fool me.

You may have forgotten there were two things that you did wrong, that makes one of us a lucky lucky person. Writing this has been stressful; a painful trip down memory lane neither of us wanted to take. The second thing is so heinous, so terrible, so utterly unforgivable, that I think I’m going to have to come back to it another time. There’s only so much one person can take in a single day.

Bisous,

Vanessa

Photos by Alex Dram, and from the wonders of Mudwerks’ Tumblr.
Click here for Part Two. 

5. The one who won’t get away
Problem: They called and called, you ignored them over and over again. There were times you had the opportunity to kiss each other, but you decided it was a bad move. Their teeth stink and their hair is greasy but they’re just so sweet and they really really like you. Now it’s Saturday night, you’re going out alone and you’re so desperate it’s making you walk funny.
Solution: Call them if you must, but know that this won’t just be for tonight, it’ll take you MONTHS to get away from their greasy tendrilled clutches.

4.  The one you have nothing to talk about with but who is really really hot.
Problem: Your mouth waters, your eyes roll back in your head, and just the slightest glimpse of them zipping by is enough to make you need to sit down with your hands in your lap. When you first met you bonded over how noisy the gig was and funny the guy behind the bar’s nose is, but now, alone together it’s clear you have no shared interests, no common background, and they don’t know the difference between Martin Luther and Martin Luther King Jr.
Solution: Stop talking, start making out, and don’t stop till dawn.

3. The one who dated your friend last year.
Problem: Ashley said it’s cool if you guys went on a date, so it’s fine with her. But why isn’t it fine with you? Now every time you kiss you start thinking of Ashley and it’s killing your mood. Did Ashley touch him like this? Did Ashley like it when he touched her like that? It’s got to the point where you might as well be kissing Ashley.
Solution: Go home, it’s not going to get any better. Ashley’ll thank you for it later. That is if she’s still talking to you after you tell her that you made out naked with her ex.

2. The one who looks nothing like their profile picture.
Problem: They’re not fatter, or thinner, they’re just, well, less hot. The photo was from a good angle and well lit, but here, under the strip lighting you can see them from every angle and it’s starting to look a bit too post-modern. You bring up something you both said you liked, he can barely string a sentence together about it. He asks you if you’re going to have dessert and raises an eyebrow: you don’t know if he’s implying you’re overweight or that you should skip it and go straight to his. Both of these seem similarly repellant.
Solution: Go to the bathroom, text your friend and say they should call in five minutes saying something ‘very bad has happened’. Don’t feel bad that you’re ripping off a scene from Sex and The City. Pray that he hasn’t see SATC. Go back out smiling and wait for your call. Note: I find that a housemate losing their keys is always a good get out clause.

1. The one who’s already in a relationship.
Problem: Or is married or in an open-relationship their other half doesn’t know about. Seriously just don’t do it! I have and basically it sucked. It broke my heart in two and made me hate both myself and the rest of the world for a very long time. There are exceptions; people are frequently in relationships with people they don’t love and aren’t happy with but you are not the solution. You are worth being with, wholly and completely, in public, and on your terms.
Solution: If you want to be in an open relationship then do it- don’t sneak around and fuck up someone else’s life. And if you do then own up to it – whether you’re the cheater or the cheat-ee you did wrong. Apologise, stop fucking about, and make amends. And don’t ever EVER do it again.

I’M DOING FUCKING GREAT JEFF THANKS FOR ASKING!!

I really don’t get this. It’s such a random thing to offer to buy someone. I guess he just knows that since I have ovaries I love frozen yoghurt!

Firstly would you do that? And secondly am I the beautiful girl? Or is there a random beautiful girl who he is offering to me that will do anything? Is this sex trafficking?

In my profile I mention that I’m applying for an American visa, so I see he thought that the way to capitalise on this was with some casual racism.

Probably not send passive aggressive illiterate messages which contain backhanded compliments!

This message was sent to a friend of mine who is studying Japanese. Neither she, nor I, have any idea what he is wittering about, or what to reply to it. Suggestions?

This was sent to a heterosexual female. Classy!

Despite all these terrible, confusing, grammatically incorrect, messages sometimes there’s one that is full of win:

I hope he uses that line on every girl.

Do you have any better ones? Or, like me, do most of yours just say “Hey! Wanna make out???”