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I'd grown weary of porn and masturbation. Sure, they served their purpose while the only pussy I was getting near was my 17-pound orange tabby, but I was ready for more. Internet dating seemed like the next right move.
The successes of the couples appearing on the front page of every dating Web site — with their candy-coated quotes of undying love and devotion and the speed at which they were united with their true loves — weren't to be for me. The reality of what was actually happening at these sites soon stabbed at me like an ice pick in the testicles, indescribably painful but attention grabbing nonetheless.
After several months passed without even one date I met a woman, a child psychologist I call "the OC" for her obsessive and compulsive behaviors. Sick children shouldn't counsel other sick children.
She induced a dating coming-of-age. I soon understood that people will say — or omit — anything to get what they want.
Within a few weeks I found out OC was several years older than she originally said. She hadn't posted a picture on the Web site, but she sent me one via e-mail that was taken 15-plus years earlier.
I'm an understanding guy, but the penicillin shot I had to have (thanks to OC) forced me to shove understanding off the balcony of a penthouse apartment.
I dumped her. That was like pushing her obsessive button, unleashing a litany of desperate acts.
She looked up my ex-wife's phone number and called her one night, needling her for information. Thankfully, my ex-wife and I are good friends and she told OC to get her own information, only not that nicely.
Then OC left a 17-page, rambling, handwritten homily of her philosophy on her philosophy in my home mailbox; she left me more than 40 greeting cards in one week; she sent me flowers at work. Twice.
She finally went away.
I swore off dating Web sites. I made it almost a year, too.
But I re-enlisted in the name of companionship and the hope of hedonism. This time I had two date prospects in the first week.
The first, whom I'll call "Disciple," was a brunette who sent me a picture of a hot redhead. (No wonder I didn't recognize her on our first date.)
I decided not to rely on retouches and Glamour Shots. Turns out she, too, was older than she initially said.
During our second date she spoke up about spirituality, so I shared my borderline atheistic views on religion. She tried selling me on a trip to her church.
"It's different," she said. Right.
We didn't talk after that date. A few months later, she sent me a God spam chain letter. I don't think she heard anything I said. Fortunately I haven't heard from her or God since.
The second, whom I like to call "Undate," didn't even make it to date status. She was older than 35 but so painfully shy that it was five days after I asked her out on the phone before I received an e-mail from her stating that she might indeed fancy a date.
I fancied for her a career in the funeral home industry. It's hard to be shy around the dead. I'm far from perfect, but I began to feel the need for pre-date background checks.
I started wondering if I weren't getting in my own way. Love should be painful, not distasteful. Shouldn't it?
I call my last attempt at dating "Passport." She was very smart. She told me.
We met for a drink so she didn't have to commit too much time. She asked if I realized that we were probably the only two people in the joint who had a passport, and she told me how happy she was to meet someone who had an unexpired passport.
She said she would be happy to talk more and go out again. So she never returned my phone calls.
Had I learned nothing in my two passes through online dating hell? Nope, I only called her twice.
Ultimately, I swore off dating — online or otherwise — and began a new, if solitary, journey. I would be happy alone.
I'd made my final ruling on dating. I was maybe a week into my newfound freedom when a friend called to set me up on a blind date. He'd been trying to set me up, and I felt like I owed him the courtesy of going.
I was apathy personified, but I went anyway. When I arrived, I was introduced to my date, sat down and turned my attention to the cigar list.
She leaned over and asked if I'd be having one of the Playboy branded cigars. I laughed but had a Partagas Robusto.
I liked her. I still do.
Now adult films and self-gratification aren't requirements. They're the whipped cream. ©
