I swipe left a lot these days. It's marginally better when I'm in Atlanta, but Utah is, you might say, not the gayest-friendliest of states.
It’s different when I'm on the road for National Camp, and TBH when I get in a couple days early I usually do some swiping with a hookup in mind. But even when that doesn't happen it's just so damn nice to be somewhere with a queer scene for a minute - to admire all the cute-ass queers posting their cute selfies from queer-ass events. This year the femme women of Chicago seem really into this super-sexy version of Grilling Dad style; I've never enjoyed big jeans more.
The next profile I get to reads like someone with a conservative job or some other kind of privacy concern (it's a lot like my profile, actually). Snappy bio, no face pics, obvious thought given to her Spotify picks to compensate a little. She has a couple cool travel photos, the obligatory full body shot (but she's wearing a beanie and has her face buried in a tiny fluffy dog), and a niiiice photo from behind on a beach somewhere. If this chick surfs we definitely have some chatting to do.
Then I swipe to the last picture and, well, fuck me sideways. I’d know those feet anywhere. Feet with the tan of someone who trains wearing no-show socks like a doofus just asking for turf burn. Feet with the shadow of a bruise across one ankle like she runs into people for a living (ok, ok - it takes one to know one). Feet with bright yellow polish on the toes, careful dark blue polkadots in the centers (Utah! Royals! FC!). That paint job was by far the best prank of our last National Camp. I should know - I painted those masterpieces on Emily Sonnett's toes myself.