Five Four Dressed Me For Three Tinder Dates & I Took Girls On The Lamest Dates Ever To See If They’re Keepers
It’s been a year and a half since I went on my first Tinder date in New York City. I wore my favorite striped-shirt, my tightest pair of boxer briefs and not one thread of Five Four garb on my body. Before the date, I took three shots of Tito’s vodka with my roommates, grabbed a 5-hour energy and a pack of gum, and, in an attempt to silence the fluttering butterflies in my stomach, I told myself I was a “Sex God” in my bathroom mirror. Audibly. That is the first time I’ve admitted that to anyone. And the last. That confession will likely spark a group text between all my exes commiserating over how objectively false that claim is. Just let me have this, girls.
My date’s name was Brittany. She looked like the store brand version of her Tinder pictures, which was initially a bit disappointing until I contextualized the lie I was selling:
She’s probably seen police sketches more closely resemble reality. The poor thing was expecting a Coach bag and got a Douchebag. Sad.
Upon arrival, we went through that whole charade where we ask the standard questions strangers ask to each other: “Do you like your job? Have any brothers or sisters? You into butt stuff?” A year and a half later, I can only remember the answer to one of those questions. I’ll let you finger out which one.
Once we settled in, I realized Brittany was way more attractive than I initially gave her credit for. I was positive she was going to make some other guy very happy one day. But, I was fresh off a breakup and there wasn’t one day I woke up when I wasn’t stressed out about my ex beating me to rebound sex.
I had fun. She had fun. We had agreed to see each other again.
That was the last time I saw Brittany.
Since then, I’ve been on no less than 50 Tinder dates—all races, shapes and sizes, some with an Adam’s Apple, most without. I’ve spent thousands of dollars and have successfully fought off countless farts. Some girls I’ve maintained extended flings with and some I wouldn’t recognize if they showed up to my birthday party with a name tag. I’ve had lots of sex (fist bump me, bro) and learned a lot about what I’m looking for in someone.
But, I’m 29, and believe it or not, writing ‘N/A’ in the +1 section of your friends’ wedding invitations takes a toll on the psyche. Tinder has been a hell of a wing man, but ultimately I’m still spending my Valentine’s Days on PornHub and still trying to convince my grandfather I’m not gay.
Plus, there’s only so much emotionless sex and obligatory cuddling a man can take before the routine loses its luster. The Webster’s Dictionary definition of insanity is swiping right over and over and expecting a different result, so I have made the decision to delete the app to challenge myself to meet people organically and also because I need to make room for the new iOS update.
BUT, like any addict, it’s not always healthy to go clean turkey. So I’ve allowed myself to go on three final Tinder dates before I delete the app forever. Or until next week when I’m bored and thirsty.
I wanted to make these dates more memorable than the last 51, so I decided to bring in the fine folks over at LA-based brand, Five Four. For those unfamiliar, Five Four is a membership-based clothing company who sends its members individually curated clothes monthly based on their style preference and the current season. It has been a godsend for people like me who hate shopping and want to look cool but just don’t know how. Not to play salesman here but if you got an extra $60 a month and want to have grown-up clothes sent directly to your door, I’ve found no better option. BUT, you can get your first month for only $30 using the code BROBIBLE at checkout. Don’t say I never did nothin’ for ya.
So Five Four agreed to dress me in some fresh threads for the three dates, replacing my And 1 t-shirts and JNCO cargo shorts with some grown-up threads that give off the illusion that I have my shit together.
I didn’t want the final three dates of my Tinder career to be the standard “get drinks at an overpriced bar until inhibitions are lowered enough for me to confidently make a move.” I’ve adopted the mantra “If you can’t appreciate me in the worst of situations, you don’t deserve me at a speakeasy bar bankrolling your drinks.” That’s why I decided to take the girls on the lamest dates imaginable. It’s the only way to decipher what they’re truly made of.
Here are my findings.