The Trouble With Sending Naked Pictures Of Yourself To A Tinder Match

Flickr / jamelah e.
Flickr / jamelah e.

We’ve all done it, haven’t we? Sent a picture of our boobs to a man we’ve never met. Well. Actually. Until recently night I hadn’t, actually. But I’m assured by the results of an informal poll amongst my more slutty friends that it’s like, a totally normal thing to do.

I was four drinks in. Eyeing-up a 21 year-old at the bar. Thinking inappropriate thoughts that no matter how many times I said to myself this is not real emotion, you are horny because your period is due and you always dry hump table legs when your period is due (and just whilst I’m here, addressing this issue, SINGLE LADIES OF THE INTERNET! Does this happen to you, too? The pre-period horn?)

I was drunk. Horny. Aware that I recently got Tinder and if I really wanted to, I could arrange a shag within about twenty minutes.

So… I did.

Tinder is basically boy shopping: lots of people look very good in the best picture they’ve got of themselves, but generally have very dull conversation that either goes along the lines of “DTF?” or “Hi. How are you?” YAWN! I CAN’T ANSWER EITHER QUESTION BECAUSE I FELL ASLEEP I AM SO BORED.

I scrolled through the “matches” I had stored, and saw a black and white picture of a cutie who’d been provocative when he messaged last week.

What are you doing tonight? said I.

This is my number, said he.

Long story short: we established that no, I didn’t have any other girlfriends who might like to get involved. I’ve never had a three-way, he said, which d’uh. Nobody has ever had a three-way, not as many as you think, anyway, because your porn is lying to you.


And then came the request. Send me a picture.

That’s a lot more tricky than you’d think. Rihanna makes it look so easy. It’s not. Not if you’re over a size 6 and want to maintain any anonymity. And how does one send a dirty photo message anyway? I’ve always avoided it because one day I will be a known novelist, and I don’t want some grainy, drunken picture message I sent ten years ago haunting me on the internet when I’ve got kids.

I was bending and contorting in front of the mirror with various lighting effects and angles and poses and all the while I was getting frustrated and a bit tired and suddenly sex with a stranger didn’t seem as exciting as a wank and a nap did because: love handles.

I tried putting different filters and contrasts on my tit pic, all the while TERRIFIED I’d accidentally Instagram the image to the world, and in the end plucked for a half boob/half face “artistic” shot that could have been anybody, really.

I ummmmed and ahhhhed for ages about whether I really wanted to send it, and cringed as I did. 

Your turn, I said, already feeling dirty…but not the good dirty. The “so over this” dirty that made me feel gross and a bit ashamed.

I got a picture back and urm. I can’t talk about it.

I want a full body shot he said, which I knew he would. With my libido mildly piqued by his… throbbing… interest, I obliged. But again, it took me about thirty minutes, sixty-three different photos and a quick Laura-on-Laura pep talk that “You are a woman! This is totally fine! You have needs, and you are beautiful, and people do this all the time!”

It wasn’t fine. I freaked out. I freaked out, and then sent the picture, and then realised I was bored, then went to bed, and when I woke up in the morning I got my period and deleted his message and basically I just never want to talk about this again, okay? Okay. Thought Catalog Logo Mark

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