In late April 2020, Tinder Passport, the feature that allowed you to change your geographical location on the app, was free, a generosity inspired by COVID’s recent spread across the world. Prior to the shutdown, I was, like most people, dating in person.
I had moved to Indiana a year and a half prior, after 22 years away, to be in closer proximity to my elderly mother. Indiana: where Tinder profiles more often than not included an obligatory image of a giant freshly caught fish, and “craft beer” was listed as the other hobby.
A hypochondriac to the core, I wasn’t willing to risk contracting a disease scientists knew very little about to discuss craft beer, or fish, in person. Besides, I was like a camel when it came to sex ― I could withstand long droughts.
In order to practice the French I was studying, I set Paris as one of my locations. One of my matches, Étienne, was 10 years younger than me at 33. His profile stated he was a “fetishist” and had a photo of a woman’s calves and feet, so I understood at least one of his kinks. (I’ve always had a soft spot in my heart for anyone with a foot fetish.)
His message said he loved my feet and my legs, and I replied “merci.” We chatted a little longer and I said we could text more on WhatsApp if he liked. If he sent me a photo, I would respond in kind. I gave him my cell number and he immediately texted me on WhatsApp.
Étienne sent me a couple of photos, one shirtless, one with a shirt and no pants. He had short, dark brown hair and eyes, a slightly overgrown beard and hair …everywhere. He got straight to the point, telling me what he’d like me to do.
He asked me to dominate him. I described my whip and demanded he get on all fours (“Mets-toi à quatre pattes!”). He made it clear that he wanted me to penetrate him with the base of my imaginary whip, and I made sure to convey to him in detail exactly how I would do it.
The next time we sexted, Étienne asked me to wear my dildo. I had…
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