Best Internet Dating Stories

Your not 42, your 47!

I am Lisa Davis, and I trepedatiously joined the thousands of others going to online dating… Being 47 at the time, made me an unlikely candidate for doing anything online, yet, convinced by my friends, and cousin, I took the plunge.. I made my profile, and had my friends take pictures of me.. (and had to have the young girl in my office post my picture, since I didn’t know how to do anything technical.). I was lucky I had just learned how to navigate the match.com and jdate websites…So, there I was.. getting hits, making winks, emailing people, answering others…and setting up to meet people if they passed the talk on the telephone test I made up for myself…

I made sure to meet everyone close to my office at an upscale restaurant, so that I felt in charge and safe… I was at it almost 8 hours a day with checking for messages, and emailing people, talking to them and then meeting them for a drink… It was exhausting, but I was determined… I had just ended a twelve year relationship a year ago, and was not interested in being alone.. I love the idea of a best friend, partner and teammate…..But working fulltime, and training for a triathlon made it quite difficult to stick in this full time dating thing…

After many dates, some booked one after the other,…I winked at a guy on match. He winked back and we began the emailing… His profile was unique. He said he was in touch with his feminine side, was an avid reader, skiier, and rollerblader, owned a children’s business and lived in Paris for three years…

Since I was a feminist, and loved those sports, and read, and spent many vacations in Paris and skiing in France, he seemed to be an interesting candidate… His picture wasn’t so great, but I was willing to talk to him… I said so in the email. But I didn’t want him to call me, since I thought that was giving out too much info, I would call him… So he gave me his number. I lost it, and I got an email from him that said, you didn’t call….” please call me” he wrote. I emailed him back and said sorry but I lost your number… He gave it to me again, and again I was reluctant and nervous to call him. Then again he emailed me and said come on call me…but had he not sent that second email, I figured, let me keep at it, talking on the phone to this guy seems too much and what the heck, big deal, he’s just one of the cazillion that I have to choose from,. Yet a couple of days later I did call him. He was so charming and sweet on the phone, and a great conversationalist… so we made a plan to meet at my restaurant, of course,. He said let’s meet for dinner on Saturday night, I said oh no, Saturday is booked, (it wasn’t, but who says yes 4 days before Saturday? I didn’t want to look like a loser…) I said Sunday is available, but not dinner, just a drink, because honestly, what if we can’t stand eachother, and then we have to endure a dinner…He responded, I will be hungry at 6pm and I will want to eat, you can watch and have a drink while I eat, but I will be ordering dinner…I was astounded that he very cleverly put me in my place….I forgot to mention that I put my age as 42, instead of 47 so I would be considered younger…This age part of the story does rear its ugly head later on in the story….

I was there first, sitting at a table watching the door… A man came in with large glasses dark hair and I said to myself, ugh, I knew his picture was awful, now there he is. ugh.. but the man went over to a table of 5 other men, and then I looked at the door again, and in walked this gorgeous dark haired guy, looking for me!!! He came over sat down and we talked and laughed.. and shared some personal stories.. He paid the check, and said can I drive you home? I said, no, what if you are an ax murderer? He said I am not, but my car is terrible, a loaner, so maybe you wouldn’t even want to sit in it? I said nah, I am not a princess, I would like you to drive me home… He drove me to my door, in Brooklyn Heights., and kissed me on my cheek… I was smitten!!!!!!!!

We had several other dates, and I was on cloud 9. On date number 3 we went to meet his friend who was married with two children. I was introduced and pleasant conversation ensued. At one point it came up that the friend was a local jazz musician. I asked him if he knew my friend Julie who was also a local jazz musician.. Well he did know Julie and said they often played together. I thought that was such a good thing. I secretly held that info till I got home and immediately called Julie to find out the real dirt about this Bill guy I was just dating.. Was he an ax murderer? Was he secretly nuts? Or was he what he seemed to be, a really nice guy? She got the dirt from her music friend… and lo and behold, Bill was a really great guy. He passed the ax murderer test!

On date number 4 we went to a bar after a movie and the bouncer asked to see my ID. Bill asked to see my picture on my ID, and then yelled out,” you are not 42, you’re 47!!!..” I said “busted”… But it seems he was also smitten, and the age didn’t matter.. (he was 51 then.) He asked why I lied on my profile, and I said a friend suggested that everyone lies because men like younger women and when they search, they do so in increments of five… ages 35-40 or ages 40 -45, so therefore I would come up in a search more easily… I bought the rationale, and lied..What is funny is that “Mr. How could you have lied” ended up lying on his profile about being an avid reader and rollerblader. It wasn’t until conversation about books came up after we were living together, that I realized he never reads a book, only ;the NY Times… When I asked where were his rollerblades were when he was moving in, he said he couldn’t stand rollerblading and gave them away… Now he was busted! He laughed and said “now we are even.”..

We dated for 5 months, and during that time I was training for a triathlon in Florida, my first…He said he would like to come see it., I said okay… He did come to see me cross the finish line., and when I did, he asked if I wanted my watch, bracelet, and ring back… I said I need water, and I am nauseous, I don’t need my jewelry this second… he said not even this? And pulled out a black box, with a ring in it, and asked me to marry him… I was still dazed from swimming a mile, riding a bike for 25 miles, and running 6 miles… and was trying to comprehend what he just said… I started crying, and hugging him and said yes yes…

After the triathlon, we came back from Florida, and he moved in to my apartment with all his things, and we had a tag sale to sell our things of doubles. We started to plan for an October wedding and everything seemed to fall into place. We introduced eachother to family, and friends, and never looked back.

We have been married 6 years., and so far it is wonderful, successful and fantastic…. I think I am so lucky to have this great guy Bill as my husband… and to think I found him online!!!! I never thought this online phenomena thing would work, and frankly I thought it was embarrassing, and awkward, yet it does open up so much greater possibilities than hoping you will meet someone in the supermarket…I would reccommend it to everyone, yet there are tips that would make it successful.

1.Careful what you lie about.,You can be caught so easily.

2.Don’t post a picture with your arm around someone else, or other people in the photo, it is very disconcerting, and makes the other feel like they would never be able to penetrate that group of people or get past that person with his arm draped around you even if it is your brother….

3.Pictures of you with an animal are very acceptable and most often charming, if the other is an animal lover…

4.Be open minded, go ahead and try the older guy., I was on dates with men who were 45 and seemed old and creepy, and some dates with men at 62, who seemed robust and fun… So, you never know..

5.If you don’t feel like going foward with someone after viewing their photo or what they have emailed, say no thankyou but good luck in your search.. its a very gentle way of letting someone down easily..many said it to me, and I found it very sweet..

6.And you can actually have fun with this, meeting people and learning about others, making it almost like a study in anthropology..

Those are my pearls of wisdom with this online dating thing that seems like it is here to stay….

By Lisa Davis-Viloria

Vera & James…Re: Best internet dating stories

In the beginning, it was Vera’s daughter who prompted her to start online dating. “She said, ‘I’m tired of you sitting around the house,’” says Vera, “’it’s time to get back out!’” Vera, 51, on the other hand, wasn’t as sure. “I said, ‘No, that’s not how you meet people!” Eventually, Vera gave in and created a profile at BlackPeopleMeet. “I was hesitant about it,” she says, “but I actually enjoyed it.” With a smile, she adds, “You know what? It was almost similar to shoe shopping.”

When Vera went online, she had a clear idea of what she was about, and for what she was looking. “I wasn’t looking to just date someone,” she says. “I wanted to find someone who really wanted a committed relationship, but I also wanted someone who wasn’t ready to sit on the porch and look at the cars go by.” An active woman, Vera was looking for a man who could keep up with her – and maybe even take her dancing.

“We just clicked,” she says. “It was amazing.”

Vera spotted the profile for James, 56, early on but waited awhile to contact him. “I kept reading it, really trying to understand the intent of what he was saying,” she says. Eventually she sent him a message, and they started e-mailing back and forth. In their first phone conversations, they discovered a shared love of reading and travel. As their phone conversations grew longer and longer, Vera suggested they meet in person.

Last May, James drove from Asheville to Charlotte for the couple’s first in-person meeting, and the two went to dinner. James bought Vera a book he had recommended to her. As it turns out, Vera bought the same book for him – he had lost his original copy. “We were in a corner with great live jazz, the food was wonderful, the conversation was amazing, and eight hours went by,” says Vera. James intended to go home that evening but instead stayed in a hotel in Charlotte, and the two met up the next day for golf. “We just clicked,” she says. “It was amazing.”

When prompted about her experience on BlackPeopleMeet, Vera is honest and straightforward. “It’s a little work,” she says, “and just like anything in life, you’re going to have some not-so-good experiences, and you’re going to have some good ones. It’s a great way to meet people without being out in Home Depot and trying to pick up the guy in the tool area.”

Vera and James now see each other every weekend. She is an area manager for a hotel chain, and James is in real estate, but they don’t let their careers get in the way of dancing and live music. James plans to join Vera in Charlotte sometime in the next few months.

Shoshana & Toure…Re: Best internet dating stories

Neither Shoshana, 29, nor Toure, 29, was actually signed up on BlackPeopleMeet when they met. They were both trying it out when Shoshana sent him a “Flirt.” To talk more, they both joined the website so they could IM and send messages.

About a month after Shoshana made the first contact, they decided to meet in person. They were supposed to go out on Friday, but Toure called her Wednesday to see if she could come meet him. “I actually had another date,” says Shoshana,” but I cancelled it. I had on my workout clothes and he had on some old basketball shorts,” she says.

“We ended up spending Saturday, Sunday and Monday together,” she says. From then on, they were inseparable.

Their informal first meeting turned into a movie, and Shoshana says they talked the whole time. “That was one of the things that drew me to him,” she says. “I didn’t have to pull teeth to have a conversation.” On Friday, when they went out on their actual first date, they were a little more bashful and a little more dressed up. “We ended up spending Saturday, Sunday and Monday together,” she says. From then on, they were inseparable.

Shoshana, a researcher at a local university, had done online dating before, but she hadn’t found anyone who was really genuine. Ironically, Shoshana had sworn never to date an athlete again; Toure, for better or worse, was a pro ball player. “But he was your average Joe,” she says proudly. “I was looking for someone who wasn’t over the top, whose pictures didn’t look like glamour shots.” She also had height requirements that Toure didn’t quite meet. “Sometimes what you think is ideal isn’t for you,” she says in retrospect.

Shoshana went out of the country on a trip to Southeast Asia for a few weeks, and says the separation brought them together. “I could tell in his e-mails that he was expressing a lot more, and he really wanted to be with me. In our second conversation when I was abroad, he asked me to move in with him.”

The couple’s path to marriage was slow and thoughtful. They started discussing the idea on the way to a football game, and began premarital counseling at their church. In October, during a housewarming party, Toure surprised Shoshana by popping the question in front of all their friends. They were married in Lake Tahoe in August 2009, after they had been dating for about a year and a half.

Shoshana and Toure now live in Fremont, and Toure is getting ready to go play for the Arena Football League’s Utah Blaze. Shoshana is staying in California for the time being — proud of her husband, the athlete.

Jim & Yvonne..Re: Best internet dating stories

“When you know it’s right,” says Jim, 61, “distance isn’t very far.” Indeed, Washington State to Wisconsin is no simple jaunt, but as a man who lives 15 miles from the nearest grocery store, Jim has plenty of experience when it comes to long distances. After an online dating experience that “scared the heck” out of him, Jim was more than ready to call it quits. It was his daughter who pushed and prodded him to get back online. In fact, she simply signed him up herself. A widower and retired warehouse manager, Jim’s family was worried about him living alone in rural Washington.

First looking at Yvonne’s profile on SeniorPeopleMeet, Jim was convinced she would have nothing to do with him, and was shocked when she actually messaged him back. It turns out that what really mattered to both of them was how much they had in common: Each was widowed, devoted to their respective two children and, coincidentally, had been married for about 34 years.

In a move that would shock both sets of children, Jim and Yvonne opted for a Vegas wedding in December 2008, two days after meeting in person.

Yvonne, 62, had never tried online dating before but credits SeniorPeopleMeet with establishing a common basis in the first place. “I like the fact that you aren’t dealing with thirty-year-olds,” she says. “As you get older, you have more in common. I just felt more comfortable.” Yvonne also credits the privacy and profile questions of SeniorPeopleMeet with the success of her experience. A former hospital housekeeping supervisor, Yvonne had no plans or high hopes for finding anyone online. After meeting Jim, though, all-night phone conversations were suddenly a crucial part of her life.

After talking back and forth for two months, the couple decided to meet in Las Vegas. “Then we knew,” says Yvonne simply. In a move that would shock both sets of children, Jim and Yvonne opted for a Vegas wedding in December 2008, two days after meeting in person. “It was totally cheesy,” admits Yvonne happily. “We even forgot our rings in the car.”

The married duo has lived together in Tacoma ever since but they’ve been making grander plans: they’ve put the house up for sale and plan to travel the American West in a 5th Wheel with Jim’s Harley fit into the back. Blues festivals are especially high on their list of must-sees. Even more important than newlywed roadtrip bliss, though, is the way they’ve successfully combined their families. “Both of our families were ripped apart by the loss of a parent, and now we’ve brought together another family,” says Yvonne. “My daughter thinks the world of Jimmy and my son is coming around.”

And so someday, her children might stop giving Yvonne such a hard time about her Vegas wedding.

~ Online Dating for “Mature” Dummies ~

“Keep in mind that no matter how cute and sexy a guy is, there’s always some woman somewhere who’s sick of him.”

~ Carol Henry

So I did what any other 50-year old woman with a red vibrator and a toddler to care for would do…you guessed it…online dating.   What was I thinking?  I obviously wasn’t.  Don’t get me wrong…it wasn’t all bad…but there was a lot more bad than good!  I’ll only relate a few details of this experience for you…but for the most part, the names have been changed to protect the innocent –no,  not them, me – to protect me from humiliation.

I visited the site I had heard about most often…seems innocent enough…right?  You create your profile, post a few recent photos of yourself and voila…your dating problems are over!

Now…you did hear me say “recent” photos, right?  That’s what they tell you to do, but some people obviously can’t read.  And many don’t post photos at all; what’s THAT telling you?  They just post a generic silhouette of a man’s upper torso with words that say “Ask me for my photo”.  You didn’t have to ask me for mine; why should I have to “ask” you for yours?   What are you hiding…a big old wart in the middle of your forehead…3 eyes…what?

Let’s take just a moment to meet some of the “players” in the online dating “game” and talk some more about being a single grandmother, trying to date, with a toddler in tow.  I must warn you that this is some scary stuff…you may not want to read it on a full stomach…oh – and please – shield the children.

First of all, the photos.   I cannot believe that 8 out of 10 guys actually take the picture for their profile in the bathroom mirror with their digital camera or camera phone…unbelievable!  One guy I came across actually held the camera right in front of his face, so all you saw was his body (which you really didn’t need to see) and a big, old camera on the top of his neck where his head should have been.  You couldn’t see any of his face (probably a good thing).  Yeah, I definitely want to date that genius!

These are the worst pictures you can imagine!   Please, guys…come out of the freakin’ bathroom…you spend enough time in there!!!!   Do you have at least one friend or neighbor who you could ask to take your picture for you???   No?  Oh…okay…let me act as if I’m shocked to learn that!

Then there’s the “screen name”…the name they choose for their profile.  This is where it gets scary…very scary!  I have compiled the following list of my “Scary Top Ten” online names and my comments for them.   (Please keep in mind that these men will never get within miles of my sweet grandson…or me.)

ISATISFYNMULTIPLES (I’m sure you mean you satisfy yourself in multiples…right?  Please say “yes”!)

FERAGLICIOUS (Isn’t that a female singer? What’s up with THAT?)

BILLYGOAT69 (I can’t even comment on that one…my mind congers up images of “Fun with Barnyard Animals”.  That’s going to be a hard visual to erase!)

DELICIOUSLYNAUGHTY (Now who do you think is turned on by that name? Nobody but you!  I think you’re into spankings.  Maybe you even like spanking your “deliciously naughty” self…yeech!)

MAGICALTOUNG (Okay…guess that’s supposed to be “tongue”.  Why don’t you learn how to use the “magical” spell check function on your computer?)

TOUNGEWET (Okay…does anyone know how to spell “tongue”?  And please, put your tongue away…that photo is disgusting!  And whose “tounge” isn’t “wet”??)

BONEHARD – “Lesbian trapped in a man’s body.” (Okay…he’s not coming within a continent of my Marcus…or me!)

BILLYBNASTY (Billy probably is nasty…really nasty!  Billy sure looks nasty…probably smells nasty…definitely talks nasty!)

DOMEBBABY (“Do” you????   Your profile says you’re seeking women from 18 – 110!!   Did you even look at which box you were checking or are you just a sicko?  The only thing I’m going to ”do” with you is hit the “delete” button!)

But the “most disgusting” award goes to:

MUFFEATERAY69 (Okay, Ray…you aren’t getting anywhere near my “muff” or anything else.   Who are you…who even calls it that????   YOU are so disgusting!!)

The profiles these men post are amazing…wait a minute…you’re 41 years old and you’re seeking a “woman” between the ages of 18 and 52????   Give me a break!   Do you know how to read???  “Hot women only”?   Well what does “hot” mean to you?  Doesn’t “hot” mean something different to everyone?  Judging by the looks of you, my grandmother would have looked “hot” to you, right before she passed away…or maybe even after she passed away.

And what’s with the “long hair” thing?  Every man I’ve ever been with has liked women with “long hair” and so do so many men on this site!  Please take it off the list of “preferences!!!   I want a handsome billionaire who wants to spend his fortune on me, but I don’t see that option on your list!   How about “short hair” or “shoulder length” hair…this is discrimination!

BIG Dating Tip:  if your name is John L. Smith, don’t come to pick me up (or meet me somewhere) in a car that has a license plate that reads:  JLS (heart) MKS.  It’s a dead giveaway.

Another tip…if you are sticking your tongue out in your profile photo, you can lick away any chance you may have had with a “real” woman.   And if your breasts are bigger than mine…put them away…don’t expose them in your photo!!!  That’s a sure deal breaker.  Oh…and once again…put that tongue away!!!

“I have learned the novice can often see things that the expert overlooks. All that is necessary is not to be afraid of making mistakes, or of appearing naive.”

~Abraham Maslow

So the site I logged onto lets you conduct a free “search” for a male/female between the ages of whatever and whatever in your area.  Hmm….what have I got to lose?  So…I did one.   I quickly scanned my options and laid my eyes on one beautiful man.   From reading the portion of his profile that was exposed – designed of course to make you join – it seemed like we were a perfect match…and he lives in my city!

They definitely knew what they were doing…I couldn’t get my charge card out fast enough!   Without further investigation, I immediately signed up so I could gain access to the privileges that allow you to communicate with other members and quickly signed in to view his entire profile.  It was a match made in heaven!

Being the anxious amateur that I was, I quickly composed an email telling him about my likes, dislikes, etc. to determine if he was interested.  (Keep in mind that this was prior to me completing my profile, so like the other people I described above, I had no photo posted and very little background about myself.  He probably thought I was the one with the wart!)

Then I waited…and waited…and waited…and waited some more, until days had gone by.   Still no word…hmm…wonder if I should send him another message just in case he didn’t get my first one?  Sure…what have I got to lose?  So I did it again, but still no response.  My bubble had been burst…pop!   At this point in the dating game, I have two words for myself…”rookie” and “loser”.

Upon returning to the site to continue my search, I quickly discovered what I had done wrong!   I never looked at the “Last login” date.  If I had, I would have seen that he hadn’t logged onto the site for over 6 months…he was probably happily married by now and preparing for the birth of his child!  Ho hum…back to the drawing board!   Yes, this was going to be an interesting “adventure” into the unknown.

So I got to work building my perfect profile.   I chose a screen name that I thought was befitting of me – “funinthelbc” – and the information I posted was honest, the photos that I chose were recent.    I posted photos that I thought would appeal to men who would be of interest to me.

Wow…how does that old song go…“the freaks come out at night”?   Truer words were never spoken.  Maybe it was the part I put in there about doing a “threesome”?   I meant my grandson Marcus as the third party…geez, guys get your head out of that porn flick you watched last night!!

“Do not bite at the bait of pleasure, till you know there is no hook beneath it.”

~Thomas Jefferson

I did eventually accept a date with someone I had been talking to for a couple of weeks.  I agreed to meet him in a public place (of course) for a drink.   That way, if I didn’t like him, I’m not trapped into eating with him…or I could just excuse myself to go to the bathroom and sneak out the back door.  Okay, that may not sound nice, but what’s a single Gramma to do?

When I arrived and caught sight of him in the lobby, I thought, hmm…not bad…at least he looks like his photo.  He was well-dressed, hands looked good…this could be really interesting…I like dating!  Why was I hesitant to come on this date and meet him?

I breathed a sigh of relief as I followed him to the bar area.  We sat…he asked me what I wanted to drink…we both ordered the same thing…wow!  I was ready to get this “party” started!  I gave him my full attention and engaged myself in his conversation.

Ten minutes (that seemed like ten hours) into the “date” I felt no chemistry…none…in fact, I felt less than none, if that’s possible.  But I could tell he was really into me…maybe it was the way his tongue was wagging and the constant references to “us” and “we” and all the things “we” were going to do together.

Suddenly, I hated the way he drank…I hated the way he talked…I hated the way he looked at me…I even hated his fingernails!  So, I chose the back door scenario…hey, don’t hate the player!   This is not good…I don’t like dating…I know why I was hesitant.  How did I get here…on a date????

Okay, this was the first “date” I’ve been on in 11 years…what did I expect?  Did I expect the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow on the first date?   Yeah…guess I did.  That would have been so easy…too easy.

The next time I accepted a date, I was not so lucky…and it cost me.  I saw this man on the site while doing another search (and destroy) mission and found him to be extremely handsome…too good looking to be interested in lil’ old me.  So I clicked off of his profile and continued my “search”.

Well – again, being an amateur at this – I didn’t realize that a person knows when you visit their profile page – you can see everyone who “views” you…how scary is that?   I went into some of the profiles just to laugh at some men’s attempts at being sexy!  Oh…now I get it!   That’s why those guys kept emailing me…they saw that I had “viewed” them and thought I was interested!  Okay, if I look at your profile and don’t contact you, I’m probably not interested.   This is too much to think about.

So anyway…Mr. Gorgeous emailed me a few days later and asked why I visited his profile but didn’t contact him.  (I won’t mention his screen name here because you’d think I was insane for ever even talking to him, let alone agreeing to meet him!)  “Because you’re too gorgeous for me” I thought to myself.   So we began a dialogue and soon I found myself anxious to speak with him, which we did every day – sometimes a number of times a day.  I was intrigued, to say the least.

He said his birthday was the following weekend, so I offered to buy him dinner to celebrate it.  For some reason I had good vibes and didn’t think I’d feel “trapped” if I was to have dinner with him…the back door plot never entered my mind…until I actually met him, that is. (Where is the back door in this place anyway???)   May I just say here for the record – in my defense – that my female “vibe” hadn’t been used in 11 years and was a bit rusty?

“My feelings went from concern to grief to anger, and then to embarrassment.”

~Joe Lieberman

We agreed to go to a restaurant near his house in Los Angeles.  So Saturday night, I excitedly got dressed and drove to his place.  He wasn’t home yet, so I waited anxiously in my car.   After a few moments, I saw a car drive up behind me and park in the garage under the apartments where he stayed.

“That can’t be him” I thought…from the way he described his flourishing, high-profile career, he must be driving something a little newer, but then again…he is living in an apartment in this neighborhood.

But the man got out of the car, closed the garage and walked toward my car.  Okay…this is not the “best” neighborhood, so I slid my hand over and pressed the “lock” button on my door.  I turned my head and there was a face in my window and he was telling me to put my window down.   Hell no…I don’t know you!!!   “Judy, it’s me” (and he actually called himself by his screen name, which again – pardon me – I refuse to divulge).

In hindsight, that moment was my biggest mistake…right then and there I should have started my car and put the gas pedal through the floor.

Now, I like to think of myself as someone who doesn’t judge a book by its cover…and I try to be a nice person who is sensitive to other people’s feelings.  But if I see a book online and am intrigued by it enough to order it and it arrives looking totally different than what I had ordered…I think I’m allowed to “judge” it, among other things…like return it, throw it away, scream at it…you get my point.  But my sensitivity got the better of me and I opened the window.

After exchanging niceties, we decided to go to dinner at a favorite spot of his right down the street.  “I can’t get over it…you look just like your beautiful pictures”, he said.  “I can’t get over it either…how much you don’t look one iota like your pictures…how long ago were they taken?????” I screamed to myself.  (Eventually I found out that they were taken 15 years – a lifetime – ago.)   Okay, first the screen name, now this….can you say “issues”?

Then he asks if he can drive my car to dinner because he’s been thinking of getting a car like mine and he wanted to see how it handles.  What???  You’re finally gonna take that giant leap and trade in your 1978 Pontiac Fiero for a new Lexus?  Okay…whatever….I just want this evening to be over…”mommy…I wanna go home!!!”   “Where’s the key” he asks…to which I respond “the “key” is in my purse…my car has a push-button starter.  Just step on the brake and push the button”.  He is equally amazed at that and at the navigation system…”look, it shows exactly where we are!” he exclaimed.   (Get out much?) I cannot control the urge to roll my eyes…and I don’t even care if he saw it.

The drive to the restaurant is endless even though it’s “just down the street” as he said when we left.   We finally get there and the valet comes out to park the car.

Now comes the most embarrassing moment…he emerges from the car and actually says to the valet:   ”Hey, man…my car has a push button starter…are you sure you know how to operate it?”   I look at him incredulously, while stifling my urge to scream…”he’s a freakin’ valet, for heaven’s sake – in Los Angeles – he sees these every single day!!!!”  The valet just sort of smirked, but I couldn’t even raise my eyes to meet his…the humiliation was too great.   And by the way…”your” car????

Just when I think I can’t be any more embarrassed than I am at this moment, he asks the valet the same question again, preceding it with “no man…I’m serious”.    I find myself once again in a Southwest Airlines commercial…”wanna get away?”.   “Oh, my…do I wanna get away…somebody wake me up…this is a nightmare that must end now!!!”

Horrified by what I had just heard, I walked with him – numbly – into the Chinese restaurant…can’t and don’t want to even remember the name of the place.  But I am somewhat comforted by the fact that it’s a Chinese restaurant…this should be fast and relatively inexpensive.

Once inside, the waiter seats us and asks what we’d like to drink.  “Anything” I shriek!!  (Oops, did I say that out loud? Yes, I believe I did, because they both turned to look at me questioningly.)    “Oh, I’ll just have a glass of white wine” I murmur nonchalantly.  He, of course, ordered champagne because it was my “treat”.  Okay, maybe this night isn’t going to be relatively inexpensive…or relatively fun …or relatively ANYTHING!!!   Let me calm down.

“Disappointment is the nurse of wisdom”

~Bayle Roche

As I stare blankly at the menu, I realize that I can’t do this…I can’t eat a whole meal looking across the table at this foreign face that I have never seen before.   Where is the man who made me swoon just by gazing at him on a computer screen?  Where is the man I couldn’t wait to talk to…the man who gave me butterflies just by saying my name???

My eyes start to scan the room for the back door…yup; here we go again…this time I don’t even have to think twice about it.   I excuse myself to “go to the ladies room” and I am stopped in my tracks in horror at the memory of who drove here and whose car the valet thinks that is…he’s never going to give me the car, no matter what he thinks of that guy…he’s not going to risk his job!   My shoulders drop and I shuffle dejectedly towards the ladies room.

I got it…the old “emergency” call…yes!!!   I excitedly throw open the door to the ladies room, which has water running all over the floor into a drain in one of the stalls – the only empty stall, of course.  So I wade through it, place 7 (or 8, I can’t remember) seat protectors down and take a seat to begin calling someone – anyone – everyone I know – to find a friend who can call me back in 10 minutes to interrupt me with an “emergency” that requires my immediate attention (and presence).

As I excitedly dial the first – of many – numbers, I’m smiling wickedly while rehearsing my lines…”I am so sorry…I have to leave…right now…my best friend is in trouble…no time to explain.”   I called everyone I could think of who would be willing to do me this monumental favor, but I was foiled again…it’s a Saturday night and no one answers their phone.  My smile was quickly, brutally turned upside down.   I guess God really doesn’t like “ugly”.

At this point, I look down at the water running into the drain between my feet and just wanna cry…no…I want to sob hysterically, but I resign myself to the fact that I must return to the table and eat with this stranger…ugh!

Where is that freakin’ Calgon genie to “take me away”???   No…bad idea…if I were in a tub right now, I’d probably drown myself.   And it wouldn’t be a slow process.  I wouldn’t slowly sink dejectedly into the tub…I’d throw my head under the water and hold it there with my own hand!

I’ve got it…I’ll just click my heels together 3 times and return to Kansas!!!   Yes, I love southern California, but right now, Kansas is ever so appealing, because Mr. “Gorgeous” is not there!

When I get back to the table, the waiter is there and my “date” has just finished ordering.  He turns to me and says “what would you like, Baby?”   Baby?   When did we take that quantum leap that I was unaware of…did that happen while I was in the ladies room, trying to get away from you and no one told me???

Without the strength or desire to even pick up the menu, I think I mumbled “lemon chicken”…I don’t really remember, because this evening is turning into one long blur of images.  After an eternity, the waiter brought the food…then more food…then more food.   I looked at the waiter questioningly, as if to say…”why are you bringing all this food?”  He feels my pain and just shrugs and walks away.  Thanks, man.

Again, the evening is a blur (probably purposely), but I think I counted 6 entrees that he ordered…I am not kidding.   He ordered enough food to eat for the rest of the week.  I was so upset that I could barely eat.  When he was finished eating, he asked the waiter to wrap up the leftovers to go.  And…he took my leftovers too…without even asking me if I wanted them!

Of course I didn’t want them – I may never eat again – but that’s beside the point.  I think I saw a look of pity in the waiter’s eye when he handed me the check…he didn’t even offer it to my “date”, because he knew who was paying for that dinner…in more ways than one!!

“The story of life is quicker than the blink of an eye, the story of love is hello, goodbye.”

~ Jimi Hendrix

We finally left, after they bagged up his ton of leftovers and placed them in a huge carry-out bag.  I was livid as I watched him load the bag into the backseat of my car, wishing it would slip from his slimy hands and wind up as one big Chinese mess on the parking lot concrete.  I’m sorry, but I was.  I think the valet had a look of pity in his eyes too, when he offered the keys to him.  “No…that’s okay…I’ll drive my car back” I said, quickly removing the keys from his outstretched hand.

The drive seemed even longer on the way back!   But finally there, I waited (against my better judgment) for him to retrieve his huge bag of food from the back seat, then as soon as he closed the door, I pushed the gas pedal to the floor, causing my tires to squeal and rubber to burn, leaving him standing on the sidewalk.  I would swear that when I looked back, he wasn’t even looking at me…he was looking into his bag of food.  Good night and good riddance!

The worst part of this whole episode?  I suspect that it wasn’t really even his birthday.

“This taught me a lesson, but I’m not quite sure what it is.”

~John McEnroe

So let’s take a moment to recap what we’ve learned here:

1.  The photos:  don’t contact men who post those horrible cell phone pictures that they obviously took of themselves in their bathroom mirror; they don’t have any friends.  And ask them – point blank – if their photo is current.

2.  The screen name:  never contact a man who uses sexual words in his screen name OR who uses words like “magnificent”, “handsome” or “exquisite”; they are perverts or they simply view themselves as irresistible “love gods”.

3.  The profile:  always, always check the “last login” date; if it’s been a long time, they’re probably off the market and you’ll appear desperate.

4.  The meeting place:  always meet the first time in a public place and don’t offer to pick them up to drive to your first meeting together; they probably don’t even own a car and – most importantly – if you ride together you’re stuck with them until the bitter end.  Never ever let them know where you live early on in the dating process.

5.  The venue:  always plan to meet the first time for either drinks or coffee – not an entire meal – it could turn out to be the longest meal of your life.  If things go really well, you can always stay to eat.  And make sure the place has a back door!

6.  Backup:  always tell at least one friend who you’re meeting, what time you’re meeting and where you’re meeting.  Give them all the information you have concerning the person you’re meeting.  And have a number of friends on speed-dial standby in case you need that “emergency” call.

7.  Dutch:  it’s fine to offer to pay for yourself if you don’t want to feel obligated, but never offer to pay for their drinks/food; it sends the wrong message.  Can you say “Sugar Mama”?

8.  Honesty:  If when you initially see him, he looks nothing at all like the photo he posted online, leave immediately without feeling an obligation to explain…just leave!

I leave you with these first-hand words of wisdom.

“The doorstep to the temple of wisdom is a knowledge of our own ignorance.”

~ Benjamin Franklin

Bonus chapter from J.L. Smith’s book entitled Reporting for Doodie (www.ReportingForDoodie.com).

He Must Really Love You

Typically I could careless about dating. Don’t get me wrong; I love men. My social life is very active, but I have developed some disdain for the ritual of dating. One Saturday afternoon I got a wild hair and decided to branch out a bit . . . get away from my normal, or somewhat normal, circle of friends and find a real date.

First let me qualify, a real date is a little different for me. The dinner and a movie thing just does not interest me . . . never has, never will. I don’t know why the search to a reason to explain it ended years ago. As a woman with affection for bad boys, namely bikers, a real date means getting up at the crack of dawn and hitting the road. But alas, things seldom play out in reality the same way you have the pictured in your head.

After a few days of surfing the ever popular biker personals Web site, contacts from a few folks started showing up in my inbox. In the mix was an email from a man who intrigued me with his glib prose, confident attitude, and righteous opinions. His name was Alan. We chatted via IM and text messages for a few weeks, talked on the phone and over the course of time, decided it was time to meet. Since one of the big rallies was just a few weeks away, we made plans to meet there. He would stay at one of the campgrounds and I would stay my normal place simply known as “The Resort.”

Alan had led me to believe he was ‘the real deal’ . . . the son of a son of a biker. It was in his blood. For me, that translates into a highly intelligent devil may care rebel. Period. So far, so good . . . he had my attention and I was looking forward to meeting him. He ran a family business, was educated, could carry on an intelligent conversation, and had a good sense of humor. What more could a girl want?

Alan walked through the doors of The Resort about two hours after my arrival. What a cutie!!!! He was hardly the swaggering hardcore biker, but he was kind of endearing with his baseball cap on backwards. He sat down on the bed while I finished getting my things together to ride. That’s when I noticed his hands were shaking. “Aw, how cute! He’s nervous.”

Two hours and 10 beers later, his hands were as steady as a brain surgeon. He was in a good mood, laughing, flirting with all the girls, lavishing me with spontaneous and passionate kisses. He rode that buzz for a good while and admittedly, it was fun for me too. Just when I thought he had finished drinking for the evening, he grabs my arm, pulls me through a crowd of people to a beer stand 200 yards away . . . because it was twenty five cents cheaper over there and the beer wench was prettier. She servers him with a smile, flirts a little, and moves on to the next customer.

He stands back, guzzles his beer and yells at her, “Hey Bitch! I tipped ya, now show us your tits!!!!” She attempted to ignore him but it didn’t work. He got back up to the bar and continued to yell at her. Only when he realized I had walked off did he stop to compose himself and rejoin me. It was getting close to midnight and his phone was starting to ring every 10 to 15 minutes. He ignored the calls at first but then he excused himself and walked off into the crowd for 30 to 45 minutes. I sat down on a picnic table, watched the band and waited for him to return. Finally, he stumbled back up, sat down, swilled two more beers, and proceeded to fall asleep. I mean, this idiot, was snoring.

I sat there weighing my options . . . be nice and sit here while he sleeps it off or leave his sorry butt. It wasn’t safe for him to attempt to ride as inebriated as he was and there was no one else who would make any effort to stop him. So you guessed it . . . my maternal instinct kicked in. Two hours later, he wakes up and is ready to go.

We ride rather slowly to an all night restaurant. The bike is wobbling from left to right as we slow down to look for a parking spot. He parks in a handicapped parking space. Since he isn’t handicapped, the waitress asks him to move his bike shortly after we are seated at the table. I didn’t see her hand slip down his back and flip the ‘idiot’ switch, but evidently she did. Alan stood up in the middle of the dining room, belches, and starts pacing back and forth. He is having an argument with himself on whether to move his bike or give in to the F#(R*in$ Democrats who gave this country away.

He walks back over to the table where I am sitting trying to pretend this really isn’t happening and sticks his finger in my face. “You’re not a f#9R*n$ Democrat, are you?”  With a straight face, I answered just like a seasoned politician, “Do I look like a Democrat to you?” His eyes narrowed as he said, “No, maybe not, but you’re starting to act like one.” I started to giggle, in spite of it all that was a pretty clever comeback.

He finally moved his bike and settled down long enough to eat. However, my patience with the whole ordeal had long since passed. Even in a bad situation, managing to maintain my composure seems to be my forte. The Resort was within walking distance and plans were made to extricate myself from his company. The waitress called a cab. Over coffee, I told Alan a cab would be arriving for me very shortly to take me back to The Resort. “The campground gates will be locked in 10 minutes, so you should head on back that way as well. You don’t want to get locked out.” We parted ways with a kiss on the cheek and a promise to keep in touch.

Two days later, I rode over to the same diner for lunch. The waitress sat down with me just a few minutes after arriving. She said, ‘Honey, you must have the patience of a saint. You’re husband slept here all night. Every once in a while he would call your name . . . Katrina, Katrina . . . He must really love you. Started crying because he couldn’t find his wedding band. Finally, he found it in his saddlebag then went right back to sleep over in that corner.” I started laughing, told her my name is Victoria, and ordered a sandwich.

By Victoria Guess

Love in the Time of John Stossel. He is 38, She is 16

His Story

I am 39 now, last year I was 38, unsurprisingly. Back in 2002, I moved to Tucson from New York City with my then girlfriend who was an acceptable age in her early thirties. After we broke up I turned to the Internet to find someone who was better suited for me.

I am very hard to find a match for, not your average anything. There are not holes of any shape that I fit into readily. I set out with low hopes to find a woman who would be happy with a short financially challenged atheist vegetarian opera lover, and sometimes singer, who bicycles everywhere and disagrees with pretty much everyone when it comes to politics. On top of that, the lucky lady would have to be smart. Even though I have no degree and never have taken a single class in psychology, for example, I have presented my work in the field at an academic symposium. But I work in a toy store as a clerk. She must not smoke or be obese, and she should want to have children at some point in her life. Preferably with me. And it would be great if she was not an extremist, some PETA member, “anarchist,” or a feminist of the “girls rule, guys drool” variety.

You all are thinking exactly what I did, “No way in Hell is there a woman for that guy!”

But the strangest thing happened. After months of no one being interested, suddenly I was getting messages on both sites that I had a profile on. First Jennifer, names changed and all that, contacted me and within a day was at my front door. Great woman, very adventurous, gorgeous, great kisser. But she smoked, and at 25 I felt she was a bit young for me. After five dates she suddenly moved to San Francisco and I took that as a sign that we were done. I still messaged her several times just in case. No reply. I was bummed out.

But several weeks after Jennifer left, Susan wrote me a nice little email telling me that she thought I seemed like a great guy and that I should be cloned and sent off to colonize distant worlds. She just wanted me to know. I looked at her profile. What a lousy photo, could barely see anything of what she looked like because of the flash. But she was obviously an accomplished writer, her prose saucy, rich, and aromatic. She said so much in such a brief way, made you know who she was more from how she said it than in what she was telling you.  And she was original, there was no effort to be creative, and there was no need for effort.

Her profile said she was 20 and lived in California. Very young for me, but her email had been very kind and it deserved a reply at the very least. Even if, as it seemed likely, there would never be anything but friendship between us she was clearly one of those people that you feel very lucky to have in your life, the real and kind people who have original thoughts in their heads and a joy of life in their hearts. Plus, she was an atheist vegetarian. So I wrote her back. And waited. Nada. Well, what would some 20-year-old want with a withered old man of 38 anyway?

Then there was an email finally, her computer had been down. From there a blizzard of ever longer emails followed. Have you ever found yourself sitting in a movie theatre thinking that the dialog is brilliant and it is too bad that your own romances can never be like that since it takes a team of writers several years to produce that kind of romantic poetry? No? Well, I have. Exchanging emails with Susan was like taking hits of literary coke. If I had been wealthy and thought it possible, I would have gladly paid large sums to have a person write such brilliant, joyful, poetic, funny, and surprising emails to me. It was like being part of that movie, having those amazing things said to me. Finding myself saying things that were pretty good too really, amazing what inspiration will do.

But three weeks in there was something that was troubling me. She was shockingly smart, obviously driven and ambitious, and seemed to be living at home, not going to university, and not working. Must be something I am missing here. Perhaps she is a stripper or in prison? Would be just my luck. I was already in love with her so I was very concerned. How doomed was I?

I asked her about it. “See, the thing is, actually, I am 16. Look how bad that looks.”

Heehehehehe. Oh, I am sure a lucky guy. Yep. Sixteen.

Yeah, all of you sitting out there being all smug and more moral than thou, than me, do you really know what you would do in this situation? If you found a person who had the same way of looking at the world, the same taste in food, the same aesthetic tastes too, who made your mind spin with joy and made laughter roll out of you would you reject them simply because they were 16? Easy to assume you would if you never have had to make that choice. Could you break a person’s heart, and your own, just on the assumption that 16 means too young in all cases? Would you not be tempted to at least give that person the chance, to look for evidence one way or the other whether they were mature enough?

I spend a lot of my time studying evolutionary psychology; I know that the cultural norm here is far from the norm around the world or even over time in European societies. The whole idea of sweet sixteen parties and quincenieras, of coming out parties, was to make it official that this person was now an adult and fair game. This was done at 15 or 16. And men my age with women her age would not have been seen as anything to mention.

And yet one cannot avoid feeling some angst, some guilt, when the onslaught of TV shows pounds the drum that men who want to sleep with 16-year-old women, when the men are my age, are slime and should go to jail. The label of pedophile is slung. But come on, there is a huge difference between wanting to sleep with a child and wanting to sleep with a person who has a woman’s body, and may well have a woman’s mind as well. We are all individuals, we all mature at our own pace. Many in today’s society seem not to mature at all.

Susan is more mature than my last girlfriend, who was in her early thirties but threw infantile tantrums and smashed things. Yet society smiles on my dating an immature woman in her thirties and frowns on my dating a mature woman in her teens.

So yes, I am still dating Susan. More than a year has passed and in three more months she will be 18, finally, and we can do whatever we want. Finally we will be able to be together, no laws have been broken so far and none will be. Then we can marry and begin our lives together. I have met her parents. We are not having some secret romance, hiding our shame in the shadows.

Shamefully, early on I asked her “What if, actually, I love you?” Here is how she replied: “If you actually love me . . . If you actually love me, and if we eventually took it somewhere, it would be terribly inconvenient for you. You would have to risk my 260-pound father beating the life out of you, eventually; but to be honest, he moves very slowly, and he’s rather lazy and probably wouldn’t care after a week anyways. You could fake him out easily. And my mum would probably have a nervous breakdown, but that’s unavoidable considering her views on things. You probably would eventually get bored of thinking, ‘Jesus, she’s in that stage of the 20’s’ or ‘And here we go, the phase where she dyes her hair purple’ if you still loved me years later. Then there’s the whole inconvenience regarding how, where, when, etc. But on the positive side, you would have me for my most . . . voracious . . . years. You would never have to bite your tongue as I sigh over how I miss the good old 70’s. Or even 80′s. And, either I’m having heart palpitations every time you email, or you’ve got a really good chance of having the feelings reciprocated. Which is just such a bonus. Between unrequited love and mutual love, mutual is so much more fun. No offence, but I super hope that you’re not a serial killer that lures women with nice words. That would suck a lot.”

Internet dating can be full of surprises. One does have to worry about serial killers and nasty old men and psycho women. And people not being who they claim. But you can also find a person that you never would have in any other way, a person who brings love and joy to your life that no other person could bring. And you can take the time to get to know someone much more than you can with the pressure of dating, feeling like you have to kiss them within a few dates or they will think you are not attracted to them. Susan and I kissed after several hundred lengthy emails and hundreds of hours of IMs. If you keep an open mind and an open heart, you may find the perfect 16-year-old for you. Or, maybe even a 17-year-old.

Her Story

Why are we drawn to the people that we are? It’s a question that everybody has worked through, chewed over and spit out, and chewed over again; if not in idle curiosity, then in the midst of some tough emotional crisis. For some people, it manifests itself as a forlorn mantra—why, why, why? Love isn’t always the most convenient thing. If an exaggeration, it sure seems like half of the product churned out by Hollywood is produced to milk this fact of all of its monetary potential—raccoon-faced girls choking and gasping ingloriously over their love of Billy the Bad Boy is a classic movie image. But what happens when this bad boy, this forbidden commodity, is the best thing that could ever happen to you? What if you can replace a switchblade and motorbike for characteristics that, while initially as equal to make your mother cry, are simply baggage that we all accumulate in our shot at life—a couple of years’ wear?

The Internet has exploded in popularity, and as a member of the generation who grew up during the boom, I can’t claim to have been immune to its immense charms. Reaching maturity in a small town is difficult enough; I would hazard to say, for your normal Jenny or Ryan, captain of the gymnastics and the football team respectively. Growing up in a small town as your not-so-normal, avid member of the reading club Susan, however, is considerably more trying. The Internet, then, for this long line of freaks and geeks and those that buoy somewhere between the two is a beautiful neutral zone. Sure, our elders probably shake their heads at us and make scathing remarks on our unwillingness to venture into–gasp!–the dreaded realm of reality and clump us together as a class of Twinkie-eating, 1337-speaking psycho-nerds, incomprehensible as valid members of human society. But this is far from fact. I can personally attest to this, as not only would I jump to palm a juicy red pepper instead of a questionably consumable Twinkie (though, those things have a shelf life of, what, 57 years?), I was constantly plagued by the question of “What the devil is 1337?” until a techie friend of mind petted my head gently and half-patronizingly continued to inform his so totally un-hip friend about the intricacies of computer slang. The Internet is certainly a haven for the computer nerd elite. But to reduce it to that is a gross and unfair generalization. It is a universe of riches immeasurable for even Croesus himself to envy. It is an international community of every sort of person, poker player to biologist to minister, wherein we are all given the chance to touch souls with a myriad of other likenesses and perspectives. I guess this is my justification for one day finding myself joining the game/dating site which eventually led to my finding Carlos. Sixteen, “alternative,” and with a soul-deep ache for some kind of connection, I joined to find out, silly as it sounds, what kind of popsicle I was, but walked away with a romance that is as profound and unequalled as it is controversial.

What’s a girl to do, though, in my position? The first 16 years of my life living in a world of relative privilege, but with a constant sense of disconnection from the youth culture of my time were what I cheerfully refer to as a “painful but interesting social experiment.” Uncomfortably jarred between social groups, I fit haphazardly somewhere between the cliques of “the hippies,” “the artists,” and “the academics,” but didn’t quite blend quite well enough to have anybody from any of these three categories want to do more than stretch an unwittingly condescending half-smile in my direction and make a generic comment, such as “I like your shoes.” I’ve got a strict code of morals that forbids me anything more than friendship with both those whose personal limitations border a little closer to the muddy and dark side of the spectrum, and with some socially responsible yet contemptuous fools who, though admirable in principle, thwart their own efforts by rejecting realism. I dabble in everything, from the Velvet Underground to art deco. If a rubber stamp ever existed to mark in ink those who were doomed to a life of eternal loneliness, my smiling face would have been carved into it. My prospects, they just didn’t look so hot; in fact, I’d mostly given up looking at them at all.

But then, flipping half-awake through a series of neatly-coded pages, this dating site decided to slip me a bit of a treat and show me a profile of this man. He seemed to have a lot going for him. Okay, first thought: what a handsome little devil! But the others that followed were compelling on an entirely different and more significant level. Not some snob that was waist deep in bureaucracy, nope—he worked at a toy store. Warm fuzzies ensued at the image. An opera singer? Oh my. Once an aspiring actor. Obviously has great command of the English language. An activist, a vegetarian, bless my soul! And he reads! There are people alive that still read? I had to write him. It was beyond contemplation to not. People like that are already under so much pressure to conform, to change, to become less radical, and a lot more FOX. I had to do my part to preserve this beautiful, wonderful creature. A response came, too appetizing to ignore. I feasted, I responded. Letters were exchanged. Word limits were criticized. Email addresses were suggested—a little tentatively, feeling ourselves reach the highest arch of the rollercoaster and a little afraid of the steep drop that we sensed was coming, but ecstatically, too. Our fates were sealed from almost the first letter.

I was drunk on his wit; I was high on his self-awareness; I was wrung out, mopped with, and tossed into the garbage by his ability to conjure emotion, charm subtly, and maintain a strong personal presence in all of his tales, the bizarre and the everyday. And I loved it. Parts of me that I had never allowed out before found themselves slipping into letters, and as the cursor blinked on the screen, I bit my lip as my finger hovered over the delete button. But then, in determined flashes of courage and an undiluted need for a whole acceptance, hit SEND. Spots would dance before my eyes. But every time, the return letter still radiated that same feeling that I recognized in myself: joy. I had found, for the first time in my life, a person who was devilish and scrappy, gentle yet chock full of convictions, romantic but sincere, and with a good dash of need and mature desire. I was feeling us merge together into a mutually dependent relationship, but my conscience weighed more and more heavily on me until I hit that critical point where I cared too deeply for him to be able to selfishly absorb him while he unknowingly courted what he might see as a child. I had to tell him. The numbers were huge and black, and when subtracted, packed a hard punch. I expected anger, humiliation, backlash, and rejection—was this not what any adult would give? My heart closed its eyes and waited for the worst of it to be over, and it did hurt, but in a very different way than I had expected. He was gentle and reasonable, and everything else I should have expected him to be, but after his calm letter, my inbox blinked with the reception of another brief contribution. A little more hysterical. A little more Carlos.

So, am I a bad person?

Morality, to me, was always in great part a question of pain and pleasure. If an action causes only pleasure and injures no person or thing, where is the immorality? The question of whether a man of 38 and a young woman of 16 should be together, therefore, is not to me a question of “morality.” It is a question of to what degree we are drugged by our own customs. In that one sentence, my heart broke and was simultaneously re-forged. The fact that Carlos was willing to question his motives, question his situation, shows him for what he is: a man compelled by his own sense of morals. But there comes situations where a person is forced to think for him/herself, and not be willing to sacrifice something so precious merely to satisfy the external voices of society that push for what is “normal” and, thus, “right.”

I met Carlos that winter. It was white outside, and I was all sorts of colors inside—black with fear and white with happiness and with my head spinning purple with disbelief that this was actually happening. Carlos, he was my Carlos-man, not a fearsome butch guy out to swagger into my house, and shoot me a false smile, but the thoughts ran through my head despite what I knew—what would this person want of me? What if he wasn’t my Carlos-man at all, if I had misread everything? I had forewarned him that I might hide under the sink and refuse to come out, and I came surprisingly close to doing so. He was late, and I panicked thinking that he had driven into a ditch—he isn’t a big one for cars, and it’s rugged and dangerous up here in Canada, eh? I sat with Barbara Kingsolver in my lap and resolved to delve deeply into one of the only places that could distract me from my own problems: the Congo. I heard the door knock, and certain parts of my brain understood what this meant and set off fits of the trembles, while other parts were busy consoling my stomach by singing, “There goes John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt, lalalalalalala!” He came up the stairs, uncertain steps, and I half-stumbled to my door, not sure if I was going to slam it shut or throw it open, and I did neither. I closed my eyes, I held my breath, I re-opened them. And I saw him. The world was finally as it should be. He was my Carlos-man. I shook in his arms.

We spent a little while in the next few days exploring the sights and sounds of my city, but not much. The lampposts still held that “over-the-top musical” appeal, and the nightlife still hopped and drummed to interesting beats in hip cafes and local parks, but that wasn’t really what we needed. Most of the time was spent, instead, finding silly excuses to touch: hair in his face here, a wrinkle in my shirt there, and other times just not needing justification. His glasses, round little things sort of like John Lennon’s, which he wrote me about early in our relationship . . .

I . . . also wear glasses. Yes, I do. But I mostly don’t actually wear them, my eyes are not too bad really and I am vain, yes vain, and my glasses never recovered from the dance floor incident.

. . . swung open and closed like a skittish barn door, and met my nerdy black frames with a metal-meets-plastic clash as we touched faces that made us giggle a little, and made me look away with a shy little grin, but wasn’t at all a matter of, ‘Oh, how embarrassing,’ but instead was cherished as another sweet little imperfection in our clumsy and wonderful relationship. I would ruefully run my hands through my hair, brown and all “sticky-outy” and he would laugh and say it was sweet; his curls would bounce tantalizingly as I gazed up from his lap and I would pull it, eyes all a-shining, and pepper his head with worshipping kisses. There was no middle ground, and our meeting was short but furiously emotional. Saying goodbye was the hardest thing I ever did.

Carlos and I are still together. We celebrated our “one year of super happy relationship goodness” a few months ago with enough cheesiness and affection to choke a Siberian tiger, and amongst our little chats about the Big Topics like politics and religion, we happily exchange Internet kisses and I coo over him with nicknames like Mr. Pookie. He’s getting the grand goodbye today from his friends and family as he gets ready to leave for a distant land much closer to me, and I’ll be hanging onto the receiver and consoling his poor social sphere through the telephone as they chow down and live it up in celebration of what could be called, though kind of stale, “a celebration of a new stage in our relationship.”

I can’t say that having an Internet relationship has been easy. There are moments I’ve had where I’ve suddenly felt a world away and times when I’ve felt the need for soothing words and embraces when I couldn’t have them. What I can say, though, is that having this Internet relationship has been worth it, a thousand times over. It has also allowed for things that any short-distance relationship would have made impossible. Extensive letter-writing meant that we never were forced to resort to chatting about the weather or the new Wal-Mart down the block—we were given endless opportunities for deep, meaningful conversation. I found somebody who I, as they say, can’t just live with, but can’t live without. I have full intentions of spending the rest of my life with this man, and, as an atheist, I have not God or some divine spirit to thank for it, but the Internet.

By Carmi Turchik

Offensive

I was sitting at the bar, drinking a dirty martini. Jake showed up at 10 past.

“You must be Jake,” I said.

“That would be me. Sorry I’m a little late. You’re Alice, I take it?”

“I’m Alice.”

“Ah, Alice, well, it’s good to meet you.”

That’s how it started. After that, things heated up. Hours and cocktails later, we went home together. Talked into the night. Had sex. Twice.

Okay, look. I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking, wow, what a slut. But the truth is, I’ve never done that before. Really, not ever. This guy seemed different, somehow. Maybe it was his voice. Or his smile. Who the hell knows?

Even from the beginning, though, Jake wasn’t perfect. For one thing, he blabbered about Jesus. Before and after the lovemaking. That should have tipped me off, right there.

I told my friend about Jake the next day.

“I never thought an Internet dating site could actually work. I’ve never even tried one before. But this guy is great. He’s great.”

My friend smiled. She’d tried dating sites; found a genius living with his mother and a sweetie drugged up on coke. It was a smile that said, “I know better.”

The next Friday, Jake suggested we meet at a bar called the Pumpkin Patch, one of my favorite bars of all places. I decided right then that we were, like, totally meant for each other.

I dressed provocatively. Wore my dress. It was a dress, alright.

At the agreed upon time, I sat in the bar, drinking, waiting. Fifteen minutes passed. I was pissed. Where the hell was he? I ordered another Cosmo.

Jake opened the door at half past. By then, I was three Cosmos in.

I smiled at him, but it was the kind of smile that says, “what happened?” I looked at my watch, too, in case he wasn’t getting it.

Right. That’s another thing. Jake wasn’t exactly the brightest crayon in the box, if you know what I mean.

“Sorry,” he apologized. “I got held up.” He was sweating. Seemed agitated.

“Held up?”

“That’s right. Look, I’m sorry. I couldn’t help it.”

I didn’t say a word. Finished my drink, tapped the bar to get the bartender’s attention.

“What do you want?” I asked Jake.

“I’ll take a scotch on the rocks.”

“And I’ll have a shot of anything good,” I told the bartender, flashing a smile.

Jake looked at me, his eyes a question.

“What, you think I’m a good girl?”

“I don’t know,” he smiled. He was done looking agitated. Busy laying on the charm thick as cream.

We got our drinks. I shot mine; he sipped his.

“So, what were you held up about?” I asked after a silence.

“Oh, nothing. Nothing important.”

“Fine, you don’t want to talk about it, that’s fine. How are you, anyway?”

From across the bar, some guy started motioning to Jake. Jake stared straight ahead like he didn’t notice a Goddamn thing. Let me tell you—you’d have to be blind not to see that.

“Some guy’s waving at you,” I said. “Waving like crazy, actually. Right there to your left.”

“Oh, don’t worry about that,” Jake said, straining not to look. “I want this date to be about us, not some drunken acquaintance of mine.”

“He obviously knows you. He’s really waving up a storm.”

“Where did you say you’re from, again?” Jake asked.

“What?” I asked, annoyed. Why the hell was he trying to change the subject?

Meanwhile, the madly waving guy was making his way over to our section of the bar.

He tapped Jake on the shoulder.

“Jake!”

Jake whipped his head to the left. Frowned. “Hi, Tom,” he said.

“What in the hell are you doing all the way over here?”

“I don’t know. I like this bar.”

Tom stared at me. “Hi, I’m Tom,” he said, giving me a look.

“I’m Alice,” I answered awkwardly. We shook hands.

Tom returned to Jake. “So, how’s it going?”

“Oh, fine.” Jake looked uneasy. Ready to puke.

“You’re really okay?  You don’t look so.”

“Tom, I’m fine! I’m fine,” Jake repeated, quieter the second time.

“How’s Sharon?” Tom asked.

“Sharon’s fine.” Jake avoided my eyes. “You know as well as me.”

I wanted to blurt out, right then, “Who the fuck is Sharon?” But I kept my mouth shut, for once. I waited to see how things would play out. Maybe Sharon was, like, his boss. Or his sister. I figured, better to know for sure before making a scene.

“Right, okay.” Tom looked at me and then at Jake, his lips moving like crazy. “Well, I’ll see you at your wedding next week, I assume? You are marrying my sister still, right?”

What the fuck. What the fuck. What the fuck. The phrase kept repeating in my head, but I couldn’t say a word.

“Yes. And Tom, Alice is a friend, in case you’re wondering. Obviously you won’t come out and ask, so I just thought I’d tell you.” Finally, Jake looked at me. I was too astounded to speak. My face was a beat.

“Right, well, sure, whatever you say, Jake.” Tom looked at me again. Returning to Jake, he said, “I’m on my way out. I’ll see ya.”

Tom left. Jake and I were alone at the bar.

“What the mother fucking hell was that?” I finally barked, once I’d recovered my voice. I was drunk.

“I felt a connection with you,” Jake bumbled. “I just needed to see one time, before marriage, if there could be someone else.”

“Are you mother fucking kidding me?”

I say ‘mother fucking’ when I’m drunk and agitated, in case you hadn’t noticed.

“No,” he answered, “I’m not.”

“Don’t mother fucking answer that, it was a hypothetical question. Jesus Christ! Why the mother fucking hell would you put out an ad for a ‘sweet woman looking for a possible lasting relationship’ two weeks before your wedding?”

“I don’t know. I’m messed up.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“Could you stop with all the profanity and references to Christ? I’m a Christian; it offends me.”

I looked at him incredulously. “Did you actually just say that?”

“What?” He seemed confused.

“You offend me. Your breathing offends me. Your existence offends me. You’re an asshole. A cheating, offensive, crazy-ass religious asshole.” I was yelling by then. People were looking.

I got up from the barstool. “Have a nice wedding. But just don’t get too comfortable, because one of these days . . .” I left the sentence open.  “Although, I guess it’s pretty certain your fiancé’s brother will tattle on you. So it looks like you’re fucked, either way.  Though not by me again. Not literally, at least. And probably not by your wifey-to-be either. You weren’t very good, in case you were wondering. I just thought you should know.”

“Alice, wait!” he started.

“So long, Jesus-loving jackass.”

And then, like a bullet, I was outta there.

By Alyssa Kagel

Snow Tires

I decided to set up a profile on Match.com. I wasn’t looking for a date—just someone with a four-wheel drive and maybe a pal for company on a ski lift. My boyfriend and I had split up right before a scheduled Mammoth snowboard trip. I was determined to still go. I just needed a driving partner with the right car.

None of my friends, or friends of friends, were coming through for that weekend. My last chance was finding a Match fit. Someone not completely strange or psychotic. Responsible would also be a plus. Younger than 35, older than 21, who liked the snow and had a way to get there.

I searched hundreds of profiles. No mention of skiing or love for the snow. And not a single reference to snowboarding. I switched to males age 23-28 and came up with two matches, but they didn’t look like they were driving age. I soon dropped the snow search and started a new challenge: find an original or unique profile. I’ll even excuse the typos. It didn’t even have to be funny—just one without explanations about never doing this type of thing and one without descriptions of Angelina Jolie and Scarlett Johansson as the perfect match.

Meanwhile back at my profile, I’m receiving winks from guys who didn’t spend any time reading it. Requirement: love for snowboarding, willing to travel to the mountain for freshies, now. I was receiving a wide range of odd introductions.

I finally pull up a profile of a blond guy from Del Mar, California. Close to where I live and there it is: a mention of skiing. That’s enough. I’ll lower my standards and travel with an ‘old school’ skier. Some of these guys are expert level skiers so that wins points and explains the refusal to ever switch to a board.

I shoot over a message; I think it went something like this:

Sphaal: (That’s me. I set my profile up late at night and received a lot of rejections to my first choices, already in use by others. I think I just hit the keyboard and came up with this combination in a last desperate try.)  You like to ski. Let’s go.

Hmmm, he replied pretty quickly.

Outdoorguy: Hello. Yes, you picked up on that. I love to ski and would love to join you some time. Are you a good skier? Where do you ski? Do you live in Del Mar?

Why Sphaal?

Sphaal: I have a Mammoth weekend booked the weekend after next. My friend can’t go. Want to join me? I’m a great travel companion and will drive part of the way. And it’s snowing up there now.

Outdoorguy: Wow. This is moving fast. I’d love to go, but we need to meet first! Maybe get to know each other? You’re serious about this trip?

Sphaal: We have seven hours on the 395 for that. Joking. Seriously, I’m just looking for some company on the drive and the chair lift. Want to meet for drinks one night after work so you’re feeling better about your driving buddy? I’m not looking for a date, uh, or a match. I have a one-bedroom condo booked, but I’ll sleep on the couch and you can take the bedroom, or we can flip.

Outdoorguy: Ok, I understand. Yes, let’s meet. Seven hours with a crazed lunatic may be a long drive for me, that is, if you are. Your user name is Sphaal, that’s odd right there.

Sphaal: I’ll explain when we finally meet. Did I mention I’m a snowboarder?

Outdoorguy: I knew it, a crazy snowboarder.

We made plans to meet at a Mexican restaurant for drinks and tacos in a few days. I spent the next days kicking myself for not asking about the condition of his car. I kept my fingers crossed all week.

The night of the fake date he sent me a quick email saying he’d be in the bar. Perfect. I remembered to look for a surfer—blond, tan, nice smile. But that wasn’t important. The last thing I needed was a boyfriend. The only thing I needed was snow tires.

I pulled into the parking lot and gave the lot a quick scan for trucks and SUVs. Good news. There were a few. A very good sign.

I was late and dashed into the bar. I saw him right away, or make that, he saw me and started waving. A surfer with blond hair, tan, and a nice smile.

I gave him a hug and noticed he could not stop grinning.

He leaned into my ear, “You don’t look like a psycho.”

“You’ll see my psycho side if your car slows down to 55 mph on the 395. Or we have to stop and put chains on. But other than that, I’m fairly safe.”

I glanced down at the bar table for any sign of keys. None. I couldn’t stand it. I had to know.

“You do have a car, right? A car that can handle the snow?” I tried to look as casual as possible, like this was only light conversation. Just pre-margarita chit chat. Not the one burning question always on my mind. Chalk it up to a few dozen very bad experiences on the highway in the snow, but I needed answers. Did surfer guy ante up for a solid auto?

“Yes, of course,” he said. “I have a truck outside. Is that all you wanted to know?”

Saved by our drinks. Did we order drinks yet? A platter of tacos and margaritas arrived and I quickly changed the subject.

“This is great, food and drinks right when I arrive. So how often do you go to Mammoth?”

He wasn’t going to let up about this psycho screening stuff. He smiled and tried again, “I think the question is how often do you drive with strangers to Mammoth?”

Damn, he was too sober for us both. I push his glass toward him and mention something about this being the best place for margs. Drink please and then agree to pick me up next Friday with the gas tank full.

He was giving me this intent stare. But this was better than the full head to toe check out he threw me when I walked into the bar. Men. Will they ever understand their role? Just drive me to Mammoth and be a good pal on the chair lift. No hassles.

He was really friendly and smart so I was pretty happy. We actually got along great and spent the next three hours talking about snow, our favorite runs, and dodging all of his personal questions.

I was so excited. This was going to be a great trip. I started drifting off a bit, thinking about what side of the mountain I’d ride first and what bar we’d hit the first night. I hope the condo isn’t too scary. It’s hit or miss at Mammoth. I had a good feeling about it and it was a referral from a friend. I think it had a kitchen too. I was in it now, making my morning tea and oatmeal and watching the goofy mountain access channel.

It was getting late. I think he just asked if he could call me tomorrow. He reached for my arm and said again, “Hey, can I call you in a few days to finalize the plans?”

“Yes, definitely.” He stood up and reached for my chair to help me, then walked me out to the parking lot. Why does this feel like a date? He was still staring at me with those intense eyes. This feels like a date.

We get to my car and he points to his truck, smiling. He is on to me and understands my phobia. Cute, but not date cute.

I gave him a hug. He hugged me back, a bit longer and tighter. He was probably just excited about the trip too. The snow, the runs. We both loved Mammoth.

As soon as I was in my car, I sent one girlfriend a quick ‘victory’ text and called another. This was going to happen and it was so easy. This was going to be a fabulous trip.

Two days passed. No call or email.

On the third day, I see his email in my inbox. Good, he was probably just busy getting his truck ready for the big trip.

Outdoorguy: Hey, I had a really great time with you that night. You are so funny and smart and so much fun. I feel like I’ve known you for a much longer time. You made me feel so comfortable and we get along so well. Maybe too well.

I’m really sorry but I can’t take this trip with you. That is, if you only see this as a ski trip.

I see it as much more. I’m not just a buddy to drive with. I really like you and want to see where this goes. I want to get married and I think meeting you was a sign. I think you and I could be really good for each other. I really want to mean more to you than just a ski pal.

I’m sorry for the short notice, but I have to know if you think of me as more than just a friend. If you and I could be more? I couldn’t go on this trip and stay in a condo with you if you didn’t. I can’t waste that kind of time. I have hundreds of ‘friends’ I could ski with—I want a wife. That’s why I’m on Match.

Oh shit. I grab a calendar and count the days to the trip. No cancellation without serious pain. Men. They never understand their role.

Sphaal: Wow, I thought I was very clear about this going in. I’m shocked and it doesn’t give me much time to change plans.

Outdoorguy: I know, I’m sorry. But I need to know. Do you think more of me than just a friend? Please tell me.

I felt sick. My perfect Mammoth weekend was falling apart and I couldn’t stop it. Men.

We just had drinks. It was so clear: you and me are driving to Mammoth to ski. Does every guy on Match want to get married? I thought that was a girl’s head trip (not this girl obviously). My online snowboard source was drying up and I still had a few weeks on the Match membership.

I took a deep breath and typed.

Sphaal: No, I’m sorry. I don’t want a boyfriend right now, any boyfriend. It’s not you, it’s me (did I really just type that? Ugh) Are you saying you really can’t go on the trip with me? You really don’t need one more friend? (I’m begging now and it’s pathetic).

Outdoorguy: No, I don’t need another friend. This is why I asked and now I have my answer.

I never replied back and didn’t take my girlfriends’ calls. I put my weekend reservation online and had a taker the next day and packed my board away. I wasn’t angry, just sad.

The weekend of the trip was all over the local news. Record snowfall, but skiers were snowed in and reports of traffic accidents all along the 395. I smiled. That was my sign.

By Shelly Burnside

E-Date from Hell

Last summer I had officially hit dating rock bottom. After 11 months of either hanging with girls or dining alone, I decided to take the plunge and explore Online Dating: The Final Frontier. Until then, I thought online dating was for weirdos, stalkers, perverts, and people too unattractive to get a date the good, old-fashioned way—by mingling at a bar. Although I was none of the above, my many efforts at securing a lasting relationship with a decent man (“decent” meaning tall, handsome, rich, successful, smart, and funny) proved to be fruitless.

I was only 24 years old, which was way too young to give up dating altogether. Perhaps Mr. Right—a.k.a. “Mr. Decent—was waiting for me somewhere in cyberspace.  Hey, if an attractive, single, female like myself was online looking for love, how improbable was it that my male counterpart was doing the same?

With so many e-dating sites from which to choose, what was a novice like myself to do? Though I was first drawn to the fancy, vibrant train advertisements of LavaLife, I must admit that I was a little intimidated by them. They seemed to be the “Bungalow 8/velvet rope” of online dating—a little pretentious for my taste. If I was in the market for a husband, maybe I would have considered Match.com. With all of those crazy tests and fees they had better been successful at finding one too.

After a few days of searching for an adequate dating site I finally settled on one that was simple and user friendly—Blackpeoplemeet.com (not to be confused with Peoplemeet.com, Latinpeoplemeet.com, or Littlepeoplemeet.com). For a mere $9.95 a month I had access to over 15,000 single men who were ready, willing, and able to date yours truly. Actually, before I paid my registration fee or posted my picture, I’d received several responses. Things were already looking quite promising.

Initially I was kind of apprehensive about posting my picture online for the world to see. I feared later finding it Photoshopped on someone else’s nude, spread-eagle body and resurfacing later when I run for office (whomp, whomp). Really, I just didn’t want some random guy ogling and doing God knows what else to my photo. Eventually, I put my phobia aside, threw caution to the wind and posted my picture online—that way, there would be no surprises if/when I met my date.

Although I was new to this online dating thing, I quickly figured out that the game was pretty much the same as “normal” dating. There were a bunch of horn dogs and clowns out there whose objectives were clearly to meet someone for a quick hook up. Those were usually the guys who posted their favorite topless picture and went by some moniker like “Chocolate Mandingo” or “Triple Thick Snake.” Sounded appealing, but I passed. I also came across a few stalkers and crazies. Part of the success of online dating is the fact that people have a chance to interact based on common interests and text conversation, as opposed to superficial attributes. However, being the looker that I am, I do prefer to date men who range from fair to strong in the aesthetics department; therefore, the “ugmugs” who responded to my posting were immediately dismissed. Yeah, that’s rude but I can’t help that I am a product of this shallow society in which we live.

After about a week and a half of chatting with random guys, I finally narrowed my search down to about three potential victims, er, I mean dates. For this particular story I will focus on one—George. I was immediately attracted to George because I could somehow pick up a high level of energy from his Web page. He had more than one photo of himself in what appeared to be various social settings (read: kind of popular, has real friends, likes to party. Check, check, check) and he donned a very impressive wardrobe in many of the pictures, which meant he had good taste. He was attractive—medium, dark and unconventionally handsome (two out of three ain’t bad), but most importantly, he wooed me with his fun, witty come on line about frequenting the site for “research purposes” instead of for a date. Okay, there’s a thin line between corny and witty.

George and I clicked immediately, and before long we were instant messaging and emailing one another on an almost daily basis. I was enjoying our “e-relationship” so much that I was kind of afraid to take it to the next level—talking on the phone. Inevitably, a phone relationship ensued which proved to be even more satisfying as our “computer love.” George was seemingly my kind of guy—funny with a dry sense of humor comparable to my own and he loved to drink and par-tay! Given our fairly close proximity and similar social circles, I was surprised we never bumped heads before.

After about two more weeks of connecting over the phone, George and I mutually decided that we were finally ready to meet face to face. In retrospect, I foolishly got a little too comfortable with George and, in my haste to really get to know him, made a few poor decisions. Please take heed and learn from my mistakes.

My girls and I were at a house party mixing, mingling and consuming mass amounts of free alcohol. Such behavior was not completely uncommon for us on a Friday night. I do not remember the exact time, but at about three tequila shots and two-mixed drinks-o-clock, George called me. Of course, George sounded like he too was having a blast elsewhere. Turns out he was leaving a concert and headed downtown to the after-party and wanted to know if I would be interested in joining him. Being the drunken party-whore who I was, I happily accepted his invitation.

I usually know better than to accept invites from men while I’m in a drunken state. I’ll just chalk it up to my eagerness to see George. Aside from the inebriation factor, this was as good of an opportunity as any other to meet him. Ideally, I would have preferred our first date to be at a nice quiet coffeehouse, but a less formal popular New York City lounge would just have to do.

I was dressed in my favorite “booty” jeans, a nice top that displayed some impressionable cleavage, and my hair was actually behaving. Both of us were with our friends, which could have either worked for or against us. If we met up and had absolutely zero chemistry, then at least we had our friends to entertain us. On the other hand, if we felt the same good vibes for each other in person as we did over the phone, then our friends could go to hell.  Coincidentally, the after party was being held at a lounge a mere five-dollar cab ride away from the house party. On the way over, I was nervously chatting to my friend, Lindsay, about my first meeting with George. This was it. I was actually about to meet the man who might very well soon be my “boyfriend.” A million “what ifs” plagued my thoughts. What if he didn’t look like he did in his picture? What if I didn’t look like I did in my picture? As a matter of fact, I didn’t. The picture I posted was a year-old black and white headshot taken BEFORE my drastic haircut. What if he doesn’t like me? What if he does? What if he likes me, but his stupid friends don’t? Oh, the pressure was too much to withstand.

When the cab dropped us off I was a wreck. Lindsay prepped me with a few words of confidence, and helped me regain my composure. The layout of the lounge was designed to resemble a two-story apartment. It wasn’t packed, but there were enough people there to make the task of locating some random stranger quite nerve-racking and arduous, especially doing so while drunk. I called George on his cell phone, but I kept getting his voicemail. Oh my God! I didn’t even think of that “what if.” What if he didn’t show up?

The lounge was not big, so I was able to cruise through it rather quickly. He was nowhere to be found. So, after my first lap around the spot, I attempted to relax by getting a drink. It had been about thirty minutes since my last drink at the other party, so I needed another to keep my buzz going. If George was MIA, then maybe I could meet another suitor for the evening—the old fashioned way. Lindsay and I sat at the bar, drank, bopped our heads to the music, and chatted for the next few minutes. I tried to maintain my cool by acting nonchalant about my missing “date,” but I still scanned the crowd for George on the sly whenever Lindsay turned her head.

Although I didn’t know George, I managed to develop some feelings for him out of either loneliness or desperation. I was a little hurt by his nonappearance. Lindsay, being the good friend that she was, sensed my grief and comforted me the way any good friend would—by buying shots.

Alcohol has a great way of wiping a slate clean. Within the hour I was toasted and back to my old flirting, mingling self. To hell with George. He was a loser anyway—cruising the net for a date and having the audacity to stand her up. At that point, I’d only wished he was there to witness me having a ball without him. I was right in the middle of a one, two step with another fellow when “BAM”—I spotted George staring at me from across the room. Where did he come from? How long was he there? When we made eye contact he did not divert his gaze, which led me to believe he wasn’t necessarily hiding. He even smiled at me, yet he made no attempt to come towards me. Did he know I was me? That was definitely him.

I am not one for playing games unless I’m the one doing the “playing.” Mustering up a heap of drunken bravado, I marched through the crowd, right up to George and sassily asked, “Excuse me, is your name George?” I had to be sure I was giving a tongue lashing to the right guy. He coolly replied, “Yeah. Hey B.” Oh no he did not. Who did this guy think he was? Here I had waited one hour for his ass, and he had the nerve to act as if nothing was funky about this situation? No one makes me wait—especially no e-dating loser.

George sensed my imminent verbal abuse, and quickly tried to cover his ass by offering me some lame excuse about having been there all along waiting for me. Was he serious? There was no way he could have missed me. Yeah, it’s quite possible that I may have overlooked him because (a) I was gloriously drunk and (b) he was almost four inches shorter than his profile stated.

I gave George a piece of my mind, though I don’t remember exactly what I said. He took my negative rants with a grain of salt and kindly offered to buy me a drink. Excuuuuse me, did I look like I needed another drink? No, I did not, but I accepted one anyway.

Once again, I allowed alcohol to wipe away all that was wrong. As shady as the scenario seemed, I began to wonder if George really was there all along. After I accepted George’s drink and joined his party, George and I did not click as well as I had anticipated. He was antsy and distant. I feared that I was not all that he imagined. Maybe he did not like my haircut. This man who was charming, engaging and witty over the computer and phone was suddenly aloof and taciturn in person. Honestly, he was bordering being flat out rude.

I attempted to converse and joke with him just like the good old days over the phone. My usually jocose banter and enamoring personality were being challenged by the mass amounts of alcohol I’d consumed, so, I came off as loud and dizzy. George’s bizarre reticence didn’t make matters any better.

Frustration got the best of me since I was getting nowhere with George. I couldn’t figure out what the problem was, so I directed my conversation to his friend who actually paid some attention to me. The friend, who went by the name “Chicken,” explained to me that George was in some kind of a slump and apologized on his behalf. Bullcrap! I wasn’t buying that nonsense. He should have been ecstatic to meet me. If he was in such a “slump,” then he should have kept his ass home. There had to be another reason for George’s offensive demeanor.

I don’t know what hit me—yes I do, it was Jose Cuervo—but I suddenly got all sensitive and somehow managed to blame myself for the way George was behaving. I had looked forward to this moment for the last month, and this was the result? Was George rejecting me? All of my insecurities started haunting me. I couldn’t deal with it in a “healthy” way because I was terribly drunk, so I made a desperate attempt to make George jealous by flirting with “Chicken.” As the old adage goes, “negative attention is better than NO attention.”

“Am I ugly?”

“Is George dissing me because I’m fat?”

“Do you think I’m pretty?”

“Do I look fat?  Because you know I’m not . . . right?”

One right after the other, I hit Chicken with a barrage of “self-worth” questions. I had this crazy need for someone’s approval. Chicken was quite tipsy himself, so he told me all of the answers I wanted/needed to hear. But that wasn’t enough because it didn’t affect George’s response to me. George had to say it. George, who was now engaged in a conversation with Lindsay! Now I really felt like crap. I took my payback to the next level when I pulled Chicken up on the dance floor and seductively grinded him. Chicken was enjoying every minute of this game I was playing with George. As a matter of fact, he was the only person actually “winning” in this game.

Chicken enjoyed his stand-up lap dance and paid me with another drink instead of the customary dollar bills. I welcomed the libation, knowing I was already way past my limit. Something had to keep fueling the fire burning inside of me. My heart sank whenever I peeked over and caught a glimpse of George and Lindsay easily chatting it up. What the hell could they have been talking about? Although, I’d probably destroyed any shot of a chance at a relationship with George, I had inadvertently developed one of a physical nature with Chicken. He was all over me—doling out compliments and complementing those with gropes and kisses. I’d certainly gotten a rise out of him, instead of George.

I bumped and grinded to slow music with Chicken through a few more songs. By this time I was on my tenth drink, and barely cognizant of anything or anyone—not George, not Lindsay—only Chicken because he was practically holding me up on the dance floor (and with more than his hands). The alcohol numbed my main five senses, in addition to that extra one—COMMON SENSE. I was so low and lonely that the only way I thought I could placate myself was through the affection of someone else. Unfortunately, that “someone” was Chicken. His drunken fondling was just what a dejected, companionless chick like me craved.

As the night progressed Chicken’s sexual advances grew bolder. He was testing his limits to see just how far I would let him go. Desperation and booze prevented me from warding off Chicken’s curious hands. We must’ve been quite a spectacle in the middle of the dance floor. At some point, Chicken realized he could’ve gotten a lot further in a more secluded area, so he walked me over to a small, secluded corner next to the restrooms. We really got busy over there. Prudence went right out the window, and I’d freed all of my inhibitions.

Although most of me knew this was totally wrong and skanky, a small part of myself wanted this as much as Chicken did. For that moment, Chicken’s desire for my body made me feel incredibly sexy and provocative. He fondled my breasts underneath my top, while I more audaciously massaged him through his jeans. Nothing so terribly wrong ever seemed more right. I was so aroused that I didn’t dare stop, and Chicken obviously made no attempts convince me otherwise. A strange rush of excitement surge through me. So what if George didn’t want me—somebody obviously did. Before I knew it, I’d gotten more aggressive and began calling the physical shots. I whispered in Chicken’s ear to follow me into the restroom, to which he eagerly obliged.

I’m not sure if it was sobriety kicking in or the stench, but for a brief moment, I became slightly aware of where I was (gross) and what I was about to do (gross-er), and I got the urge to leave. Once I crossed that line, there was no going back. I turned to Chicken, who probably sensed my possible change of mind because he hastily pulled out a condom and swore to me that we would be quick and safe. If I’d pondered anymore on what was about to happen, I most certainly would’ve hauled ass out of that bathroom. Unfortunately, I turned the rational part of my brain off and acquiesced to the situation.

I will spare the gory details describing exactly what went down in the bathroom. It was probably just as filthy as anything else that occurred in there that evening. To put it bluntly, we had quick, sloppy, drunk sex. Thankfully, it was over in less than 10 minutes.  I am also glad that I barely remember it, or else I probably would not have been able to complete this story without hurling a few times in between paragraphs.

When Chicken and I finished, I did not feel much better. I had not gotten any closer to George as a result of my actions. As a matter of fact, I didn’t want anything else to do with George at that point. Chicken tried to make awkward, post-coital small talk, but I pretty much dismissed him. The only thing I wanted to do was go home. My alcohol-induced high was fading fast, and I was exhausted and emotionally drained. A small line had formed outside of the bathroom when Chicken and I exited. I’m pretty sure they suspected what was going on in there, but I had too many other things racing through my mind to care. They could not have thought any less of me than I thought of myself.

As soon as I returned to the main area, I ditched Chicken and ran into Lindsay. How convenient for her to show up now—when I LEAST needed her. Luckily, she was no longer with George and she was ready to leave as well. The cab ride home was a blur. I took a long shower to try to wash the night away before I crashed into a long slumber. That was the most at peace that I’d been all night.

The following morning I was jerked out of my comatose sleep by the annoying “Nokia” tune coming from my cell phone. I snatched up the phone just to turn it off, but much to my surprised I noticed the screen flashed “16 Missed Calls.” Oh my God! Had someone died last night while I was out acting like a fool? In a panic, I reviewed my call logs and to my dismay I discovered that 12 of those calls were from George.

The past night’s events replayed in my head, and a wave of nausea and embarrassment swept over me. Why hadn’t it all been a nightmare? There was no way in hell I was going to call George. Why was he calling me? From what I recalled, he apparently didn’t have any interest in me last night, and I damn sure had nothing to say to him. I didn’t even bother to listen to my voicemail messages before I erased them—along with George’s number. The sooner I got rid of all traces of that awful night the better.

By the weekend’s end, I was almost back to my “normal” self. I couldn’t completely forget about the “incident,” but I tried my best to push it into the far recesses of my mind. I try to live my life with minimal regrets, so I forced myself to get over it. Hey, we all make mistakes. Lindsay and I had been through enough embarrassing drunken episodes in college and beyond, so I felt comfortable telling her what happened without worrying about her passing judgment. I was more upset with her for letting me wander off with Chicken in my condition while she casually conversed with George. She claimed to have no idea where we disappeared to, and she said she searched the entire lounge for me. Whatever. I didn’t stress her because I was a grown woman responsible for my own actions—still it would have been nice if she had my back.

Throughout the remainder of the week, George was constantly blowing up my phone. I made it quite obvious that I was ignoring him, but he wouldn’t take the hint. He instant messaged me so much at work that I had to block and remove him from my buddy list. A part of me was curious to find out what he so urgently wanted. On the other hand, I didn’t want to confront George because I was embarrassed and pissed off at him for indirectly causing me to go that far with his friend.

George’s persistence was getting increasingly annoying. After a week of ignoring his phone calls, messages, and emails, I finally broke down and responded to him. He could tell from my tone that I was not thrilled to hear his voice. If he was calling to give me a refresher of that evening, he could save his breath because I did not want to hear it.

Our conversation started off very slow and awkward. George asked the obvious—if I was ignoring him. Duh! I snapped at George and demanded that he quickly get to the point. He said that he knew what happened between me and Chicken (duh, again), and that he felt really horrible about it. Surely he couldn’t have felt more horrible than I did? He apologized for his rude behavior that evening. Apparently, he was experiencing relationship issues with an ex-girlfriend and they went through some major drama at the concert prior to the party. He gave me some hokey about him being a downer at the party when he met up with me, so he let me have my fun with Chicken—unaware that “fun” would lead to sex. Although I did appreciate the apologetic gesture, the damage was already done and I did not want to pursue any kind of relationship with George.

I explained to him that I am not usually a drunken slut-bag who screws friends of friends. I was concerned that no matter how guilty he felt about his part in the situation, he would somehow always see me as the “drunk chick who boned Chicken in the club bathroom.” That’s definitely how I would feel if the shoe was on the other foot. Besides, how could he possibly try to carry on a relationship with both me and Chicken? We would be bound to cross paths eventually, and I would just DIE of embarrassment if I ran into that fool again.

My plan to sever all ties with George completely failed. Sometimes I hate myself for being so weak and naïve. Every time I gave George a reason why we just couldn’t remain friends, he would counter it with an even better explanation of why we could. He was way too easy-going about me sexing his friend in the club. I even thought for a minute that perhaps his M.O. was to see if he could get lucky too. No way, buddy—fool me once . . . Anyway, his old charm and wit was working its magic on me again, and before I knew it we were talking and joking again like nothing even happened.

George and I carried on a friendly exchange for about another month or so. We even met up a second time for a nice, SOBER lunch. Apparently, we were able to get past our dreadful first encounter. Our good times did not last long, though. As it turns out, George had a few unattractive “issues” that I did not want to tolerate—and believe me they were far more disturbing than my salacious rendezvous with Chicken.

By Blythe Dhia