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by D. Cashon Klein
My friend David is a cyber-dater. He has
been searching for the perfect mate from the comfort of his home,
no pheromones necessary, thank you very much.
One of my favorite pastimes used to be to
mock him and the whole scene. "SO, David... meet any sexy serial
killers this week? Should I be taking you to the mall to pick out
china patterns any time soon? Are you running out of Starbucks?
Need a coupon? Ever worry that you're at the WRONG Starbucks and
she's sitting somewhere planning your demise?"
He dared me to try a free dating web site.
I will not mention the name, but it has something to do with fish.
I decided I would, but ONLY because I write and it would be good
research. I had to post a picture (I chose a hamster shoving a
carrot into her pouch) and write a "profile" about myself. I
decided not to entice, but merely enlighten. Example: "I sometimes
remind myself of a sharpei when I'm naked in a badly lit dressing
room."
It has been three months and many letters
later. My last correspondence was from (do not let the children
under 18 read this part), a DOMME. A Domme, I learned, is a
dominatrix. Her accompanying photograph was downright scary. A
woman that age should NEVER sport pasties, especially the tassel
kind. She asked if I'd been to fetish parties in LA. She said I
seemed familiar. I wondered how many hamsters went to fetish
parties.
I learned that you never, never, never
suggest an "audition." That means sex in cyber-dating talk. I was
thinking of it more as an interview...
I've actually gone so far as to meet two
men in person for the ubiquitous cup of coffee. I actually ordered
a green tea frappe. I must admit, I attract interesting men. But
I'm purely in it for the research, and the free coffee/frappe.
David, on the other hand, wants to pick out a china pattern
someday.
Our conversations go something like
this:
"How many dates did you have THIS week
David?"
"Just three."
" Oh. Did you see
bicycle-lady-with-the-big-breasts, or
post-office-lady-that-drinks-too-much?"
"No, actually
bicycle-lady-with-the-big-breasts hasn't called me back. But
bicycle-lady-from-Ohio-with-small-breasts still wants to meet me,
and we've talked quite a bit."
"Is she the
Ohio-lady-with-the-cute-high-pitched-voice?
"No. Cute-high-pitched-voice is from
Indiana."
"I thought Indiana was
lady-who-sent-pictures-of-herself-in-underwear..."
"No, underwear pictures is from Michigan,
I think."
"Anyway, I'm meeting post-office-lady for
lunch tomorrow, and girl-who-was-in-the-hospital for dinner."
"I don't remember you telling me about
girl-who-was-in-the-hospital. Is she nice? Have you met her
yet?"
"I really like her. We've talked a lot,
but we haven't met because, well, she was in the hospital... I'm
not seeing the crying-Mormon-clinging-vine-from-New-port-Richey
anymore."
"I'm glad to hear that David. A person
shouldn't cry because you can't come to dinner after just one
make-out session. It would be ONE thing if you'd been sleeping
together for months, but that's just creepy. Plus, the leather and
whips thing...if you went there and never came back we wouldn't
know where to look for you. What about high-pitched-voice?"
"I think she's mad at me because I
haven't e-mailed her in awhile. But I've talked to
high-pitched-voice-with-a-lisp-with-red-hair who sounds
promising."
"Red hair is always good."
And so it goes. I see it's been over two
hours since I've checked the mail on my profile page. This
computer dating stuff can get addictive. Of course, I'm doing it
strictly for the research. I sure hope
tennis-guy-who-has-a-problem-with-snakes-and-doesn't-eat-meat
wrote back... or Buddhist-guy-who-sees-an-analyst.
Debbie Cashon Klein is a Safety Harbor
resident.
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