After a witty opener (he, having studied at Oxford, asked if I was British because I somehow looked it) and exchanging our jobs and educational background, we were discussing our favorite Delaware beach destination.

He asked me if I wanted to hang out, and I said sure.

The ample matches I'd make would either a) never talk to me or b) always and incessantly talk to me and get upset if I didn't reply as rapidly or enthusiastically.

You're so nice, and I don't want to lead you on in any way.

So if that's an issue, we should probably just call it now."We did; he never responded.

I couldn't swipe right, partly because of an information shortage, partly because of the guilt I felt misleading the woman in the picture.

I associated more with her: She had zero chance with me romantically because of my sexual orientation, and I'd feel unethically deceptive talking with her even though I wrote "straight" in my profile and that I was just searching for friends. I always wanted an English friend, in part due to the accent and cultural intrigue.

Going in, I thought the experiment was limited: Because these were dating apps, I couldn't access the pool of straight girls, those least likely to see me as a romantic target.

Turns out the apps didn't create that restriction though: we did.

And he wasn't the only one who ghosted me after the big reveal.

During the month that I used social dating apps to find new buddies, I sent countless unrequited salutations, offered up priceless New York City travel recommendations, and even gave my number to a guy who wanted to discuss first amendment rights. When I started, I believed that, with millions of people just searching for company online, I'd easily find my new bestie or at least someone down for a platonic hang.

"Just want to give you a heads up, though," I wrote.