chapter 1

The lampposts on the bridge flittered by as Harold eased into the backseat of his Uber. As always, his date went well. At this point in his online dating career, Harold had honed his routine to the level of a masterclass. He prided himself on the smooth machinations of each step, which lead to the inevitable climax: drinks at his favorite gastropub, a hole-in-the-wall frequented only by those in-the-know. Just the right level of obscurity made him appear as a cultured local, but not so much so that his date might suspect snobbery.

He would pull her seat out with practiced grace, and at a knowing glance, the bartender would send a bottle of Harold's preferred red to the table, in synchronicity. After seating her, Harold would glide to his own side of the table. Still, all the while blanked out, taking care to nod along at the right moments in their pointless conversation, murmuring approval or disbelief with a blithe disregard for his date's inane stories.

Having dated so many, he had familiarized himself with the full gamut of their complaints about work, love, and life. Without fail during each meal, his date would bleat about boys' pigheadedness. His trained ears honed in on the particular cadence of these complaints, always preceded by a long exasperated sigh and deep gulp from their wine. He waited for this flag each night, and like a hunter whose tripwire had snagged some tasty morsel, he would present his best mask of feigned grief, to conceal the instinctive yank of his face muscles pulling at the corners of his mouth into a sloping sneer. He would wince, almost as if in physical pain, at being implicitly associated with the dastardly dogs they bemoaned. The mask of wounded indignance would cause his dates to blush in embarrassment at having volleyed an insult at Harold, cueing him to prepare his coup de grâce.
It was the same each time, but nonetheless, his masterstroke. He would place his drink on the table, a third unfinished to show that she held his attention, reach across with both hands, and grasp her own delicate ones within his. Gazing into their eyes, he would say with a level of rehearsed finesse that even gave himself chills when he recited it in front of his mirror, "[Insert date's name], those are boys, and I'm a man. I’ll show you the difference tonight." It hadn't failed him yet--at that point, they were his. Despite his script feeling like greasing a well-worn groove, he liked to believe what he said.

Harold never thought of himself as a player, a fuck-boy, or whatever pejorative Twitter used to refer to his lesser competitors. No, none of those things. Harold considered himself a gentleman that privileged women with a good time and was thus rewarded for his charm and attentiveness with an inevitable invitation into their interior.
In the car, Harold engrossed himself in his phone. As his eyes glaze over in the universal sign of someone lost in a social media feed, something snaps him back to attention—an advertisement on VisageTome for a new dating app. Harold was always on the prowl for a new platform and relished the chance to fish in fresher waters. It advertised Blndr, the tagline enthusing: "Blind yourself to the distractions of normal dating apps! Puree your perceptions and blend your biases here! Let us auto-filter your photos so that dates see your inner self, and judge you by your dazzling personality, not your pseudo-enhanced looks! Try our patented new filter technology to get to the heart of the matter, not just the surface!"

Harold muttered as he scanned and scrolled through the terms and conditions, the legal lingo, and the rest of the B.S. "Yadda, yadda. User shall not hold BLNDR LLC liable for blah blah, permanent alterations...yuh huh ok right, perception of reality, and alterations thereof to the fabric of space...Ok, finally."

Harold groaned as the pages of text flashed by in a few moments, as he reached the checkbox at the bottom. Typing in his new Blndr bio, he wrote, "Chivalrous gentleman caught in a barbaric age. Seeking my one-and-only enchantress. Only a beautiful soul can break these shackles of the modern era that constrain me.' He nodded along as he reread and edited it down to a satisfactory state. Then, he added the obligatory taglines: 'My second home is the gym! If you don't live there too, please move on. P.S: No fatties, feminists, or LIBs need reply!" Satisfied with his bio, Harold leaned back with an outstretched arm and applied the grainy black-and-white filter, tilting his head in his most flattering angle, which he liked to think made him look both sincere and confident, and shot himself gazing out the window. Perfect. Better than Bogart, he thought.

Within minutes he got matches, and with a tactician's eye and technician's flick, he navigated the sea of profiles. Most were standard fare: bikini shots with dogs, friends at the club, hiking, and looking over a mountain range. 'How droll,' Harold thought as he passed judgment on each at blinding speed. From the blurred scroll of profiles, one leaped out: Camilla.

"Hell-loo," Harold purred as he clicked on her smiling face. A petite blonde from Texas beamed up at him, her profile as he preferred—succinct. Harold believed in all sincerity that any profile with over one paragraph of text was a catfish, and besides—who had time to read on dating apps? She only had a few photos, most of them modest, but he could tell from the obligatory black dress at the club pic that the girl was stacked. Even though she was short, she was thicccc, with a firm body (No visible belly bulge detected, excellent) and what looked like one hell of a rump. Her simple bio said: 'Howdy, y'all! 🤠 Just a small-town girl from down South trying to make tracks in the Big 🍎. I'm a total foodie, and not one 👅lick👅 shy about it. Take me for some 🔥🐽BBQ🐽🔥, and you'll see I'm not afraid to get dirty. 😘💋I'm a simple girl, take me to dinner, and I'll take you to the rodeo 💑 🛏.
Harold squirmed and panted in short lust-filled gulps in the back seat, writhing in appreciation of her profile. This girl's spectacular! 'Just what I could use right now.' A no-frills date with a quick release. He added her, and within a few minutes, they matched on Blndr. Harold snapped off a speedy text to Camilla:

Howdy, baby. Are you ready to lasso this bucking bronco and be his reverse cowgirl? Let me show you the sweet juicy center of this city; just promise that you don't bite.

Harold read through the text and fired it off as he placed his phone down on his lap and waited for a reply. He looked down at his cellphone cockeyed, his displeasure clear on his face. Fool! He chastised himself as he grabbed his phone and opened the messenger again. Opening the emoji gallery with a sour twist on his mouth, how he hated these hieroglyphs of idiots, he looked for the right combination to translate his invitation:

😍😍🎥🎥🍦🍦😜� �🌭🍑🍑💦💦😍😍??

Within a minute, he received a reply from Camilla:

Awwe! Ur such a sweaty! Yea lets meet up

Harold recoiled at her nauseating grammar.

'Alas, such is the price I pay,' Harold thought with a solemn shake and lascivious grin. He rapped on the back of his driver's headrest. "Change of plans, take me to the theater on Greenvale and 4th—and make it snappy," Harold said while glancing at his phone. "I've got a hot date.”