After the discouraging results of my first leap into the otherworldly world of on-line dating—a land rife with English-disabled prostitutes and certifiable whack-a-doos—I took a deep breath and decided to give it another go, this time on a site recommended by several people who seem to have gotten the hang of the whole internet romance scene. The fact that it’s a free site was another point in its plus column. Not that I’m a cheapskate or anything, but why pay good money for the dubious thrill of interacting with people you’d ordinarily cross the street to avoid interacting with?
So, I posted a profile with as honest a collection of data as I felt comfortable divulging, uploaded a couple of pics, set up my match criteria, and set about alternately searching and waiting to be found. And, wouldn’t you know it, within a couple of days I was enjoying an email conversation with a lady who shared lots of my interests, was old enough not to be completely fucking stupid about the world, and, judging from her posted photos, was even pleasant to look at. Lucky me.
We decided to get together for drinks. I picked her up at her house, met her charming fourteen-year-old son, and off we went. She picked the bar, me being still unfamiliar with all the bars here in OKC. Good place, too. I drank shots of Maker’s and pints of Guinness, while she had lemon drops and Cape Cods, and we shared a plate of tasty nachos. The talking was good too, drifting freely across our mutual recent divorces, music, politics, etc. Soon we were full and happily tipsy, at which point the conversation turned to wine, all of the good things about drinking it, and how we should go buy a couple bottles and adjourn to her house to enjoy the fine weather on her back patio. And this we did.
I’ll pass over the remainder of the evening, except to say this: nocturnal erotic congress.
The next day proved to be an interesting one. She sent a text calling me a “very handsome man” (awww…shucks). I responded with one saying what a fun time I’d had, and that she has a very pretty smile. Her response to that one was, “Oh, ha ha.”
Ha ha what? I asked.
Never mind. Long story. Tell you later.
And I didn’t hear another peep for two days, and when she finally did peep, it took the form of a phone call.
“We have to talk about the ‘pretty smile’ thing.”
“Couldn’t you have just come right out and said you think I’m fat and ugly?”
“I mean, like ‘I think you’re fat and ugly, but I have to think of something nice to say, so I’ll say you have a nice smile.’”
“Uh—I said you have a nice smile because you have a nice smile, and I don’t think you are fat or ugly.”
“Uh-huh. Sure. Whatever. But I talked to all my girlfriends and they all think that was an assholish thing to say.”
“Saying you have a pretty smile makes me an asshole?”
“Why can’t you just tell the truth?”
By this point, my eyes were rolling like this was an audition for a Warner Bros. cartoon and I was clenching the phone so tightly it whimpered. Time, I thought, to chop this chat off at its ankles.
“Look,” I said. “Based upon this conversation I believe that the two of us will NEVER communicate in any sort of logical way. So, it’s been nice knowing you. Have a nice life.”
She called me a “fuckin’ jerk” and hung up.
Sitting there on my couch, mulling over what had just taken place, it hit me that I should’ve seen it coming. Not because I’m currently having a run of bad luck. And not because the words “Rich” and “Relationships” usually find themselves together in the same sentence only in the pages of psychology textbooks. No, I should’ve seen it coming, should’ve known she was a freak, for one very specific reason.
You know those audio-therapy machines people have? They play soothing sounds while people sleep? She had one in her bedroom. Ordinarily you expect those things to burble whale calls, or ocean waves, or the breeze wafting across grass, and shit like that. What did hers play?
The sound of frying bacon.
So, if you have any cute, single female friends in the OKC area, please…tell them to stay the fuck away from me.