Ryerson boy on Tinder wants you to know he’s a feminist

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By Uhanthaen Ravilojan

In the rainforests of New Guinea, a bird-of-paradise performs an elaborate dance to attract potential mates. In west-end Toronto, where fashionistas in culottes buy expensive skin serum from Sephora but still smoke cigarettes, a wannabe-hipster Faculty of Communication & Design student named Albert Davies makes his Tinder debut. 

His bio reads: 

seeking partner to overthrow capitalism

likes camus, wes anderson, and biking

ethical non-monogamist

toss your dirty shoes into my washing machine heart

Davies spent over an hour deciding which Mitski line to use. Quoting a big hit like “Nobody” might make him look like a poser. 

He felt that the exhausted surrender of that particular line gave his bio a cheeky sense of self-awareness, like he was saying, “Hey ladies, I know dating apps suck. I hate them too. Touch my butt because I get it.”

Because he did get it. He wasn’t like the other boys. He wasn’t a chest-beating jock. His inability to catch a football granted him endless moral authority. 

Davies bettered himself by reading feminist texts. After reading a Roxane Gay essay, he felt bad about cheating on his ex-girlfriend. After reading Judith Butler’s Wikipedia page, he wore eyeliner for a week. 

“Big numbers make my head hurt 🙁 Thankfully I have you.”

He was inspired by his photography prof, Mark Cheever, who once said during a lecture, “You know, there are too many white men in the industry. It’s up to you to take down toxic masculinity.” Davies often praised his professor when he spoke with the white male teacher’s assistant that Cheever had hired.

He was very in touch with his feminine side, imbuing the act of being comfortable with his masculinity with hyper-masculine braggadocio. He spoke of hugging his male friends the same way an investment banker talks about his luxury car. 

His profile featured a picture of him holding a succulent plant while giving a peace sign. His sweet boy persona reminded one of the marshmallow filling of a pastry purchased from an airport vending machine. 

In the picture, he wore a vintage Nike running t-shirt he bought off Grailed and Carhartt WIP trousers. He spent $200 to look mediocre.

He had a thick moustache modelled after Freddie Mercury’s because stealing the queer aesthetic is the straight man’s greatest achievement.  

All Davies wanted was a girl who’d tell him: “Wow, listening to you dissect David Lynch movies is so fascinating. Your record collection is so eclectic—you have The Microphones and The Mountain Goats?? Men who base their identity around the media they consume are so sexy!”

Davies set his age limits low because he preferred to date younger girls, seeing their inexperience as an opportunity to become their mentor. He felt noble and charitable teaching them about life.

“Thanks for teaching me long division! Big numbers make my head hurt 🙁 Thankfully I have you. You’re so smart and mature!” she’d text him.

He matched with a girl named Mary Phillips, a philosophy major from the University of Toronto. She had a septum piercing and a tattoo on her thigh, which he thought was “like, so sick dude.” They went to the Get Well for their date. Mary spoke for 45 seconds about Ocean Vuong before Davies interrupted her, launching into a 30-minute monologue about Infinite Jest.

When they had sex that night, he closed his eyes and imagined he was having sex with Ramona Flowers from Scott Pilgrim vs. The World. He did not go down on her. She did not orgasm.

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