I was sitting outside Temple Coffee with my friend — who asked that I use a fake name for this article to maintain her anonymity — on a sunny Saturday afternoon last spring when I broached the topic of Tinder for the umpteenth time.

I turned to my friend Shmaggie and told her that Serendipity was a terrible film and a made up concept, that she had to play the numbers game if she wanted to live her dreams and marry rich. It was 2016, and it was high time that I dragged Shmaggie kicking and screaming into modernity and the world of app dating.

After all, what’s the worst that could happen?

She began to list, in alphabetical order, all the things that could go horribly wrong when looking for love on the internet.

Somewhere after arson but before murder, I snatched her phone away, opened up the app store, and it was off to the races.

If you’ve never tried Tandem Tindering, I highly recommend it. Browsing the app with a friend makes it a conversation starter, almost a party game, instead of an act of solitary desperation.

Every leftward flick is another tiny reminder of your physical and intellectual superiority to the sweaty masses.

But there’s a flipside to these tiny ego boosts. Once every few dozen swipes, you find The One.

A careless, candid smile that could stop traffic, flawlessly unkempt hair and abs for days — or booty, or boobs, whatever impossible body standard you objectify in your partners of choice.

And it’s not like that swimsuit profile pic is vain or vulgar. Of course they’re on a beach with their shoulders back, chest out, stomach in and their head thrown back in raucous laughter. Why wouldn’t they be? They’re perfect.

After poring over their photos for several minutes, taking a few screenshots and planning your life together, you say Yes. You swipe right and wait with bated breath for…

Nothing. Nada. Zip. Zilch.

No wedding bells, no happy “It’s a Match!” pop-up on your phone.

For a while you tell yourself they just haven’t gotten to you yet. They probably never open the app. They’re too busy rock climbing, or metal working, or whatever it is a human does to get that yoked — or phat, or “thicker than a bowl of oatmeal.” I don’t know. All things hetero confuse and disturb me. I’m struggling to make this relatable.

Slowly the heartbreak sinks in, and you realize this beautiful person who’s too good for this world is also too good for you.

But there’s no time to sulk. There’s more matches to be made!

More sweaty plebes to swipe left into oblivion where they belong.

Eventually, though, you run out of people to swipe through. At least that was the case for this gay man in the podunk walnut farmin’ town of Sacramento.

That’s when it’s time to nag a friend into downloading the app, preferably someone as gorgeous as my friend is.

She has since deleted the app. No, she never found The One, only enough weirdos to scare her offline for good.

But at least for those brief, shining moments on Shmaggie’s phone, I could forget all about the strife of being a small town gay with big city dreams.