The quick follow-though from swipe to sex is similarly instinctive for a generation with an appetite for immediacy.
Monday Turns out I've been signed up to Facebook as male, so Tinder is only matching me with women.
We held hands as we walked to his place, kissing on a quiet square in Clerkenwell and I felt like a spontaneous 17-year-old …
Well, right up until this morning, when he asked me how I rated the sex so far from one to 10.
I keep coming back for more cheap, mindless thrills throughout the day. Online, I simply opt-in to a flirt, and if I don't respond no one gets hurt. Thursday I'm headed to Yorkshire to visit a friend for the evening and take the opportunity to spin the Tinder wheel.
It seems northern men are better at smalltalk and far more fond of vests.
As a trailblazer of casual sex and being skint, I am allegedly the prime example of the demographic that is turning to the Tinder i Phone app.
If you believe the hype, a growing number of people like me are getting repetitive strain injury from swiping 'yes' to intimate invitations from relative strangers.
Too many people in their fifties and beyond have given up on ever meeting a new partner or new friends.
When you depart from more densely populated urban areas, you have to cast your geographic net wider. Bye." But up here I find myself more forgiving of the profiles, pouncing on any within a 30-mile radius who seem to have the slightest grasp of grammar.
Back in London it's more like "18 shared interests! “Richard” gives me the impression he has Tinder-banged so many women in his town that one in 10 children born in the next generation will be biologically his.
Tinder totally complements my lazy and attention-seeking personality. It usually takes me a few drinks to start talking to strangers but, thanks to my i Phone, I'm now virtu-flirting while I wee.
It's as compulsive as moodboarding baking projects on Pinterest: swipe, scroll, drool, click, reload. Wednesday The localised aspect of the app hits me tonight – at my local. I don't even need to leave my sofa to flirt, let alone risk liver damage in pursuit of enough Dutch courage to politely humour a clinger for 45 minutes.