How a relationship with Tinder can be a self-destructive obsession for some

Open your eyes. You are on your back, staring at a ceiling you do not recognize. The smell of incense fills the air. You hate incense. A pungent smoke coils out of the slender brown stick’s glowing red tip and floats up towards the spinning fan. Your lip is bleeding. Your Tinder date likes it rough.

This was me a few days ago. After my long-term girlfriend and I broke up, it wasn’t long before I downloaded the app. Maybe a week, maybe less. There is something meditative about swiping left and right on total strangers. Their existence is reduced to little squares on a screen: a flattering picture, a name, an age, maybe a job. I do this at night before I go to sleep, I do it in the morning when I am sitting on the toilet, I do it in my psychiatrist’s waiting room, I do in my car at red lights.

The most satisfying thing about Tinder is the instant gratification I get when matched with somebody I find attractive. It’s a surge of ego that rushes to my head, making me feel faint with adrenaline. I know a lot of people who use Tinder for this feeling and this feeling alone. Unfortunately, I take it farther.

The other night I met a girl I matched with on Tinder. I drove to her apartment at 10 p.m. on a weekday, I knocked on the door and was awkwardly greeted by her roommates. A dachshund named Irving started barking at me. When I bent down to pet him, he bit my hand.

“Irving doesn’t like boys,” her roommate said, snatching up the yowling dog. My date called me upstairs.

Her room on the third floor had minimal decorations. Its white walls were dotted with Christmas lights. There was a yellow oil panting over her bed and a large flat-screen TV atop a dresser on the wall opposite the painting. No desk, no posters, no bookshelf. She put on “Sing Street” and we talked over it.

We went through the basic formalities for a while, questions like “what’s your major?” and “where are you from?” Then I kissed her on the mouth. After making out for a few minutes, my date proceeded to bite my lip hard. Then my neck. I pinned her down. We got naked.

The sex was short-lived and uncomfortable. I didn’t know this person, and she was starting to look less like a girl and more like a gremlin every time I glanced at her.

I don’t mean to personally attack her. She was very hospitable and kind to me. There was no pressure here — it was my decision to get a Tinder, my decision to message her, my decision to drive to her apartment, and ultimately my decision to have sex with her. Yet, I hated it. I hated every second of it. This isn’t the first time I had sex with a stranger I met on Tinder and instantly felt icky about it either. So why do I do it?

This is by no means a condemnation of those who use Tinder. I can only speak for myself when it comes to casual sex. My problem is, I know I don’t want it, and yet I download the app and check it obsessively. I go on these dates with total strangers and have sex with them. I like to think these random hookups are fun and liberating before they happen, but they always end up making me feel sad. I guess my Tinder use is just another self-destructive habit I want to kick, like drinking, smoking or watching pornography.

Jeremy Haas is a UF English junior. His columns appear on Wednesdays.