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Dernières news You then hit the red love heart if you want to connect and wait to see if its mutual. Image copyright Her When Robyn Exton first launched her dating and social networking app for lesbians and bisexual women, a lack of cash for advertising meant she'd go to nightclubs armed with bottles of spirits. With over 140,000 members - it's THE place for people aged 40+ to meet.\
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Photos by Lily Rose Thomas This post originally appeared in VICE UK. My immediate reaction was exhaustion. Londoners, not satisfied spending their entire weekends photographing street art in parking lots or eating cronuts in onesies, seem to have roped their love lives into the endless quest for novelty. Even in my most intense relationships, the idea of someone fixing me with some dreamy, thin-lipped pout-gaze does something to my acid reflux. But then I am also very conscious of dying alone. So off I went. I love predictable conversations! Small talk is my foreplay. I want to know what supermarkets you have in your hometown. I want to mull over the day's precipitation. I would be boarding the love train at the Jam Tree in Clapham, which is called that because the cocktails have little blobs of jam in them , which is precisely the kind of thing that has seen Clapham essentially secede from the rest of London and become a kind of caliphate run by Time Out. I bought myself a beer. Enter Adam Taffler, the heavily lip-bearded ringmaster of this circus of solitude. He summoned the men into the room with his whispery voice; it sounded like paper. The dating games were about to commence. While I was hoping to get straight down to some eye-ballin', Taffler wanted to get our juices flowing with some office-away-day-style exercises. He got us all to stand on one side of the room before telling everyone who has had a one-night stand to walk to the other side of it. Off we trotted, leaving three little mice all by themselves on the other side. The rest of us looked on, relieved. In this shaming exercise, I found myself lying a lot. And off I scuttled, betraying my uptight comrades like a sexually advanced Judas. Light ritual humiliation out of the way, we got down to the good stuff. To the soothing tones of Zero 7 we shuffled around the room in a sort of rehabilitation exercise for dead-eyed commuters. A rather frisky lady in a wrap dress got right to work on my tight shoulder knots. I'm not gonna lie. It was very sensual. I laid my own clammy paws on the bloke in front of me and gave him my signature spine thumbing. Back rubs complete, I was feeling relaxed and ready to get gazing, but there was yet more finger fun to be had. Taffler asked us to close our eyes and try to connect a digit with a member of the opposite sex, while he cranked up Pachelbel's Canon to full volume. I opened one eye and spotted a young girl with one arm folded across her body, eyes open purposefully trying to get a purchase on the finger of the hot blonde in the room. For me, there was a lot of rejection. Taffler asked us to thank our partners a lot, and there was much hugging. I didn't get the hugging memo and was routinely left hanging for a high five. At one point, I also miscalculated the end of a game and was left blindly pivoting round the room with my index finger in the air. Say what you like about Taffler's methods, you couldn't deny the good vibes. The room was rippling with the kind of warm awkward laughter you get when someone gets their head trapped in the tube doors. Though these flirty games felt like a cross between a GCSE drama warm-up and a pilates class, there was an intimation that this was rooted in science. The daters of the Jam Tree gave no fucks either way about science; they were just there for the whacky. After the end of the first half, we were advised to hush our beaks until part two kicked off, so daters legged it to the bar to order large white wines in Parseltongue. By the time the bell rang, I'd sunk two pints of Kronenbourg and was ready to eye-fuck the living daylights out of a stranger. He seemed to be finding the whole thing a right laugh until I fixed him with my glassy booze gaze. Looking for meaning, I ended up transfixed on the fleshy bits in the corners of his eyes—the pink, wet bits that look like the skin of peeled fish—while his eyebrows tried to engage me in conversation. After a sobering minute, number 12, a zany character, used his paper for a game of noughts and crosses. The next one burped and blew it towards me. I don't think the next guy realized his face was twitching at the mouth. Or maybe he was just chewing a hangnail. The surprise of the night was a cologne-soaked man in a suit who somehow managed to look me in the eye and lick his lips without grossing me out. I was absolutely sure he was excellent in the sack. As he rotated round the room, the Mexican wave of giggles from the girls suggested more knicker twitching was occurring. Double ticks for the lip-licker. Just as I was starting to feel more loose in the hoose, the playlist took a cruel turn. He smiled; his eyes were straight-off-the-bat good guy vibes. He looked like a nice, normal, attractive bloke politely asking for love. He looked like someone who deserved my respect, and I felt really cross with London as a city for putting us both in this humiliating position. I wondered if he wanted to build a home with me. Then I felt sad for not wanting to build a home with him. Then I wondered who the fuck I was going to build a home with. But suddenly, I felt more profoundly single than I have ever felt in my entire life. After the staring, it was back to awkward mingling where I checked with Rachel, 29 who was giving it all a go after giving up on Tinder , to see if I was drunk. Apart from his—frankly inexcusable—paisley pants, he's a nice guy trying to address, in his own gimmicky way, a vain, cold dating culture. I suggested to him that however good your eye-gazing, like any dating concept, attraction still boils down to desperation and bangability. He called me shallow. The only problem was that it was the overwhelming feeling of being alone. It was like I'd flipped a lid off something and was now about to emotionally congeal like warm hummus at a picnic. Any single person in London is bullshitting you if they don't admit they're operating somewhere on a sliding scale of loneliness. It all boils down to how readily they'll expose themselves to the kind of visceral vulnerability that comes with speed dating and intense eye contact. In an age where we all pretend we're not looking for the real thing, there's something perversely pleasurable in airing your clean, single laundry, letting your status wash over you instead of pretending you're too busy for love, or too successful, or were just having too much fun to have noticed. If joining Tinder acknowledges a socially acceptable discontent with flying solo, then taking the same feeling by the horns in public can't be bad for us.
