Excerpts From F. Scott Fitzgerald’s Tinder is the Night

“Actually that’s my secret — I can’t even talk about you to anybody because I don’t want any more people to know that our first date was at a club and you threw up on my shirt, and then when I took it off you started masturbating.”

—

Cloaked by the erotic darkness she exhausted the future quickly, with all the eventualities that might lead up to a kiss, but the bitch didn’t blow him even after he paid for drinks and pumped his sick guns.

—

Her love had reached a point where now at last she was beginning to be unhappy, to be desperate. So he dumped her and swiped a few girl who are way hotter anyway, and I mean just look at this one, bro, you know a chick who poses like that will let you do anal.

—

Dick tried to plunge over the Alpine crevasse between the sexes. Heh.

—

He used to think that he wanted to be good, he wanted to be kind, he wanted to be brave and wise, but it was all pretty difficult. He wanted to score some tight pussy, too, if he could fit it in between hitting the gym with his bros.

—

There is something awe-inspiring in one who has lost all inhibitions, who will do anything. If you know what I mean.

—

They talked aimlessly back and forth, each speaking for the other. That’s what happens after you do a shitton of Jagerbombs in a row.

—

“Think how you love me,” she whispered. “I don’t ask you to love me always like this, but I ask you to remember. Somewhere inside me there’ll always be the person I am to-night.”

“Yeah, and somewhere inside you to-night there’ll be my dick. Whoo!”

—

“Someday I’m going to find somebody and love him and love him and never let him go.”

“Yeesh,” thought Dick. “I’m not swiping that stalker. Dick Diver never sticks it in crazy, that’s what my father taught me.”

—

He desired her and, so far as her virginal emotions went, she contemplated a surrender with equanimity. Yet she knew she would forget him half an hour after she left him – like an actor kissed in a picture. She had been texting another boy who was way cuter and claimed to own a yacht, which was pretty cool, even if ‘owned’ probably meant it belonged to his wealthy uncle and he could borrow it once every few months.

—

He was in love with every pretty woman he saw now, their forms at a distance, their shadows on the walls. But none of them swiped him, so he had to content himself with nights spent on PornHub.

—

She was about twenty-four – her face could have been described in terms of conventional prettiness, but the effect was that it had been made first on the heroic scale with strong structure and marking, as if the features and vividness of brow and coloring, everything we associate with temperament and character had been molded with a Rodinesque intention, and uggggh, just tap her ugly ass and move on already, man.

—

Like so many men he had found that he had only one or two moves – that his little collection of compliments and dance moves contained the germ of all he would ever think or know about dating.

—

Her hair, drawn back off her ears, brushed her shoulders in such a way that the face seemed to have just emerged from it, as if this were the exact moment when she was coming from a wood into clear moonlight. The unknown yielded her up; Dick wished she had no background, that she was just a girl lost with no address save the night from which she had come. Because that’s where he was going to send her back to once he got some.

—

“You once liked me, didn’t you?” he asked.

“Liked you – I loved you. Everybody loved you. You could’ve had anybody you wanted for the asking. But now you’ve stopped exercising and you got that weird shoulder tattoo, so it’s like eh, I think I could do better.”

—

The voice fell low, sank into her breast and stretched the tight bodice over her heart as she came up close. He felt the young lips, her body sighing in relief against the arm growing stronger to hold her. There were now no more plans than if Dick had arbitrarily made some indissoluble mixture, with atoms joined and inseparable; you could throw it all out but never again could they fit back into atomic scale. As he held her and tasted her, and as she curved in further and further toward him, with her own lips, new to herself, drowned and engulfed in love, yet solaced and triumphant, he was thankful to have an existence at all, if only as a reflection in her wet eyes. He texted her a couple days later, but she had met some guy named Chet.

—

“You’re the only girl I’ve seen for a long time that actually did look like something blooming.”

“lol r u gay?”