It’s often said that the quickest way to get over a breakup is to put yourself back on the market — or, as Canadian electropunk icon Peaches so eloquently put it, fuck the pain away. When I first broke up with my boyfriend of three and a half years, though, nothing sounded less appealing. Instead, I opted to wallow in self-pity and bedding covered with Dorito crumbs. But after a few months, I realized I couldn’t continue on like that.
Much like how a babybird instinctually knows when to leave the nest, I knew the time had come for me to have sex with a bunch of people I didn’t like that much to get out of my slump. But in the wake of heartbreak, I wanted to avoid the messiness that comes with genuine connections. Although apps like Tinder have earned a reputation of being anything-goes meat markets, I knew way too many friends who had met a serious partner on there to even consider it. No, what I needed was something far more utilitarian.
One day, while dicking around on Reddit, it hit me. While I mainly use Reddit to discuss seasons 3 through 8 of The Simpsons in depth or post spicy depression memes, I’d heard tell of a subreddit — a forum, essentially — called r/r4r, or Redditor for Redditor. Inside were posts from lonely souls seeking internet pen pals, buddies to bring to the latest Men in Black movie that no one else wanted to see, and—yes—sexual partners. This was especially true for r/SFr4r, the San Francisco-specific offshoot. Most people were either seeking casual, no-frills sexual encounters or a partner to help them fulfill a longtime fantasy.
“28 [M4F] In town for Dreamforce and looking for fun,” you might read, or “19 [F4A] Always fantasized about being tied up.”
For several weeks, I debated whether I was actually the type of person who could anonymously solicit sex from internet strangers. A couple of times, I wrote an entire ad, only to delete the draft seconds before clicking Post. It wasn’t that I thought it was bad or wrong — it just seemed like the type of thing that somebody much more adventurous, self-confident, and attractive than I was would do.
But on a Wednesday night in late April, a combination of loneliness and horniness got the best of me. I drafted a quick post describing myself and my desire for a no-strings-attached hookup. While it wasn’t particularly explicit, it was far more direct than I would’ve ever felt comfortable sharing on a dating app. As I clicked Post, a surge of adrenaline coursed through my veins.
For the first time in my life, I realized, I had the luxury of being as picky as I wanted.
I tried to go back to my usual Reddit browsing, but I couldn’t help but check for replies every few minutes. Two hours later, though, my inbox was still empty. I secretly wondered if the denizens of r/SFr4r could somehow sense that I was not the beautiful, self-assured, sexually liberated woman I so desperately wanted to be —and that I was a fraud. I went to bed hoping that I would get a few responses over the next couple of days. When I checked my inbox at 7:00 am the next morning, I had nearly 100 messages.
The responses ranged from one-word “Hey”s to eye-roll-worthy pickup lines (“How do you like wine and orgasms?”) to detailed messages that read like résumés, complete with references. One married man with a financial domination fetish even reached out, offering to meet me in a public place, hand me $20, and then immediately leave. I briefly considered it before deciding that the awkwardness of the situation necessitated more than the cost of two good burritos.
Faced with a sea of inquiries, I developed a systematic response process. Anyone who had an attractive-enough photo and bio got a pic of me and my username for Kik, r/SFr4r’s communication platform of choice; anyone with an intriguing bio but no photo got a message from me requesting one; and anyone with an unattractive photo or no photo coupled with a drab or creepy bio got radio silence. For the first time in my life, I realized, I had the luxury of being as picky as I wanted.
After a few days of small talk with various Redditors, a shy but sweet social worker asked me out. We agreed to meet at a moderately upscale wine bar in my neighborhood. I felt a hint of nervousness when we first made eye contact but quickly recovered during our conversation. Whenever I’m forced to step up to the plate, I somehow always deliver — so for the first time in months, I found myself making jokes, sharing anecdotes, and teasing playfully. As we chatted, I saw a side of myself that I hadn’t seen in too long: an effervescent, outgoing woman who could be downright charming, a far cry from the mopey schlub who just weeks ago binge-watched Parks & Recreation for hours a day to numb the pain of her failed relationship.
At the end of the night, my gentleman friend asked if we should head back to my place, catching me completely off guard — I had been so impressed by myself that I forgot why I was there in the first place. Flustered, I stammered through a lazy excuse about my recent breakup and not being ready yet. We hugged awkwardly and parted ways. While the date didn’t go as planned, I got a brief taste of something intoxicating. So when another man invited me to grab drinks the next day, I said yes without hesitation.
With tentative confidence, I arrived at the dive bar Redditor #2 and I had agreed to meet up at. Wearing a dress and a full face of makeup, I was sorely out of place among the middle-aged winos who regularly gathered there on Monday nights.
“You’re in the wrong place, honey,” the bartender told me. “Salsa dancing is next door.”
“I’m actually meeting someone here,” I told her. She looked surprised but went back to mixing the cocktail in front of her.
My date entered 15 minutes later with the cool swagger of somebody who knew they could get away with it.
“Sorry,” he said, a crooked grin on his face. “I was just finishing the series finale of Game of Thrones. Shit was crazy.”
I couldn’t tell you why, but at that moment, I knew we would be going home together.
Once he left, all I could think of was how I could feel that high again.
Once we got back to my apartment, my heart began to race. I wasn’t used to being seduced — after enough time with a long-term partner, you have the routine down to a T. When he suddenly pulled me in for a kiss, I was stunned. In a moment of inexplicable nervousness, I began babbling.
“Have you ever met up with anyone from r/SFr4r before? Is it weird to kiss if we’re not dating? Maybe I should call a Wag walker so my dog doesn’t barge in on us,” I rambled.
He gave me a weird look, laughed, and kissed me until I let myself get carried away in the moment.
“That was fun,” he told me, when all was said and done. “We should do that again.”
“You want to meet up again?” I asked.
“Of course,” he said. “You’re not one of those hot girls who hooks up with someone then immediately ghosts them, are you?”
“Hot”? I’d been called funny and sweet, even been told I had pretty eyes — but never hot. As he hugged me goodbye, I tried to hide my giddiness. Once he left, all I could think of was how I could feel that high again. The only logical next step, I figured, was to do the same thing over and over.
I was addicted to feeling like the person I became when I was trying to seduce a fellow Redditor.
The next couple of months were a blur of flings lasting anywhere from one to four dates, with an average of two to three new people each week.
“Girl,” one of my friends told me, “I think you’ve stumbled onto straight-woman Grindr.”
Whether I was meeting up with a middle-aged single father, a thirtysomething couple or a cocky 23-year-old Frenchman, the playbook remained largely the same: meet up at a bar in my neighborhood, grab a couple of drinks, and, if there was even the faintest flicker of a spark, go back to my place. Each time I hooked up with somebody new, a part of me wondered if they were only doing it to be nice or perhaps grinning and bearing it for the sake of an orgasm. After a while, though, I realized it couldn’t be fluke after fluke.
I feel I should make it known that I believe sleeping around just to boost your self-esteem is typically a recipe for failure. More often than not, you encounter so many creeps and douchebags that you feel worse about yourself than you did before. But for whatever reason, my sexual renaissance had the exact opposite effect. My attempts to charm someone into bed brought out what Oprah might refer to as my best self: the most gregarious, charismatic, and — dare I say — sexy version of me. I was addicted to feeling like the person I became when I was trying to seduce a fellow Redditor. But alas, all good things must come to an end.
Sleeping with people I would have previously considered far out of my league was exhilarating the first dozen or so times. But meeting somebody through an open call for casual sex means that the only way it won’t happen is if one of you majorly fucks up, and without that element of uncertainty—the thrill of the chase—you realize that you’re just shooting fish in a barrel.
One of my last Reddit hookups was with a no-nonsense engineer whom I had nothing in common with. He was a techie; I’m a creative. He was into sports; I would rather go to a concert. His drug of choice was professional advancement; mine is 2.5 milligram cannabis mints. After an unremarkable date, we went back to my apartment—it had become routine. The only thing I could think while we were together, though, was “God, I can’t wait for him to leave.” And if I was being honest with myself, he wasn’t the only one to make me feel that way. I felt a sudden dread at the thought of the two upcoming dates I had scheduled in the next week—going out night after night had become exhausting, and I wasn’t sure I had the mental energy to sit through any more lackluster conversations. At that moment, it dawned on me that my brief, torrid love affair with r/SFr4r had run its course.
With a little sadness, I signed onto Kik for the last time, sent everyone I was chatting with a vague message about “going through some things,” and wished them well. Without waiting for a response, I logged out and deleted my account.
After nearly three solid months of nonstop rendezvous, being alone felt weird at first. To be honest, I missed the constant validation. But after a while, I realized that the person I had become on dates didn’t disappear when the Redditors did. Maybe it was nothing more than the knowledge that I could be that person, but each time I met a new co-worker or ran into a neighbor, I noticed myself walking a little taller, speaking a little louder, and judging myself a little less than I had before—and that was a far more satisfying feeling than external praise.
These days, I haven’t completely sworn off dating. I’ve moved on to Tinder and Bumble — a girl’s got needs, after all — but I no longer pack my schedule to the brim with dates just to fill the void. Catch me on any given Friday, and I won’t be at a bar flirting with an internet stranger. Odds are, I’ll be on the couch working my way through a sleeve of Oreos, blasting Spotify on my speakers, and singing along to the immortal words of Lizzo: “I’m my own soulmate.”
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