by Lisa Daily
“That’s crazy,” I say.
“Oh yes,” agrees Sam. “Your poor date is instantly transported into a hallucinogenic nightmare where you rip off your normal date-night outfit to reveal full-on wedding gear, complete with the white gown cascading in layers of tulle, glowing devil-eyes behind a veil, complete with steel-toed wedding shoes.”
*
“And then you shackle him,” laughs Darcy, “and not in the good way, and drag him down the aisle, where he suddenly finds himself clad in a sky-blue tuxedo and ruffled shirt. The orchestra is warming up to play “Can You Feel the Love Tonight” and a clan of onlookers cackle as he is dragged to the altar, where he, who was expecting nothing more than linguine and clams, and maybe a movie, will be sacrificed to the She-God of Matrimony.”
“I should write this down,” I say, grabbing the iPad from my tote. Don’t be desperate.
“Don’t tell them that your husband cheated,” says Sam. “It makes them think that you hate all men.”
“Seriously?” I ask. “Wouldn’t they just assume I hated the guy who cheated on me?” Michael’s face fell. “No offense,” I say.
“No, they’ll think you’re a bitter man-hater. Be fun. Laugh a lot,” says Darcy.
We haven’t quite finished the second bottle of wine when Michael announces he has to leave. “I’ve got a trip scheduled tomorrow.”
“How long will you be gone?” I ask, trying not to sound at all like his wife.
“Three weeks,” he says.
“I should get going too,” says Darcy. “I’m heading back to D.C. tomorrow, and I need to finish packing.”
Darcy, Sam, Michael, and I hug goodbye at the door. Over on the dining table, my laptop continues to ding every few seconds.
“Sounds like we’ve got some winners,” says Darcy as she heads out the door. “Stick to the Naughty Nine types. Start with the bad boys. Not only will they suck you right into the present, but they’re easy to spot because all they post are shirtless selfies.”
“Save any hot selfies for me,” Michael says, kissing me on the cheek. “Good luck, sweetie. Remember: no crying on your dates!”
“You’re hilarious,” I say to him. “I never should have told you about Ferret Guy.” I wave goodbye to the three of them, both anxious and nauseated to see who’s contacting me online.
“Don’t forget,” yells Darcy from my driveway, loud enough for everyone in the neighborhood to hear, “Your user name is SEXY911 and your password is BOOTYCALL!”
I’m horrified. “Seriously?”
“Nah,” she laughs, “it’s SEXY941.”
22
There are 940 other SEXYs? I’m completely mortified and search frantically in the help section of the dating site to figure out a way to change my username before anyone sees it. Well, anyone else. I’ve already gotten five messages and another four “winks” and every few seconds a new window pops up on my screen with an instant message request. 50_Shades_Of_Hay, InsuranceSellr, AmericanGladE8R, and STDmuffin all want to IM. So does Batman. So now I know what he does on his nights off.
Between all the ads for makeup and condoms, and the gazillion IM windows that keep popping up, covering my screen and now layered three deep, the online dating site feels like the digital version of Las Vegas. I’m completely inundated and icked out.
Seriously, there is no way I’m going out on a date with someone who’d send a wink to SEXY911. Or SEXY941, or whatever. Oh God, I don’t think I can do this.
I’ll be deleting them once I figure out how to change my username, but the site’s help window keeps getting covered up by more IM request windows.
Fifteen minutes later, I’ve learned that it’s practically impossible to change your username unless you open an entirely new account, and by now it’s way too late for that.
I change into a camisole and soft pajama pants, disable the IM feature so that my brain doesn’t explode from the onslaught, pour what is left of the bottle of wine into my glass for courage, and peruse the profiles of the men who’ve contacted me, looking for matches for my Naughty Nine checklist.
Apparently Darcy put no parameters whatsoever on what I’m supposedly looking for in a man in my dating profile. No age limits, height requirements, educational minimum—nothing. Basically she’s cast such a wide net that no one in possession of a penis could possibly fall through. I keep reminding myself that this is all necessary so that I can move on with my life, get over my gay ex, and meet my forever person. I’m not looking for Michael or someone to spend my life with here. I’m just looking to check some boxes. Hot foreign guy. Sensitive artist. Lead guitarist. I wonder if I can just type that into the little search box. Like shoe shopping. The answer turns out to be yes, yes, you can.
I’m not certain how well the search for “bad boy” will go, unless they all choose to self-identify right there in their profiles.
SWM, 34, bad boy, rides motorcycle and will try to screw your sister.
But I type firefighter into the little box, and suddenly my screen is filled with men in little squares. Jeez, are they all really firemen? It seems they are. With only one goal in mind, the process of elimination is much easier. I can choose on looks alone, which feels completely crass but sort of all-powerful and fun anyway. If I’m going to get myself over the hump, so to speak, all I need to do is find someone I might like to see naked.
No blondes, that’s too much like Michael. No one more than ten years older. I’m exhausted after twenty minutes, without having made any choices, other than eliminating a few guys because of blondness or middle age. There are too many options. Plus it feels too weird to reach out to some strange man. Instead, I exit out of that window and read through the profiles of the men who’ve contacted me while my inbox fills up with more responses. It’s immensely flattering and off-putting all at the same time. Maybe there’s a fireman or a lead guitarist in my inbox already. No such luck. It’s mostly MBAs and entrepreneurs.
Enough online dating for the night. I take a long bath and contemplate whether or not Project Naughty Nine is just a terrible idea or the worst idea ever. Damp from the tub with my hair wrapped up in a towel, I search out Morley in hopes he’s in the mood for a snuggle. I grab a spoonful of salted caramel ice cream out of the freezer just in case he isn’t. Morley, previously nowhere to be found, materializes on the bed when I yell the magic words ice cream. The cat can be bought.
I hold him on my lap as he licks the ice cream off the spoon, and stroke his black and white fur. When he’s finished, he claws me with his hind legs, hisses, and settles in on Michael’s old pillow, delicately cleaning leftover ice cream off his face with his paws. Not exactly what I was hoping for, but close enough. There seems to be a lot of that in my life lately.
23
The next morning, I’m slightly hung over, exacerbated by the fact that the FedEx man is ringing my doorbell at precisely 6:30 A.M.
From Darcy. Odd. I immediately rip open the packaging to find an economy-size box of condoms in an assortment of sizes, colors, and, ahem, textures.
The FedEx guy cracks up. “Somebody’s going to have a great week.” My face burns with humiliation.
“It’s for a client…,” I mumble. He gives me a formal salute and heads back to his truck, just as I realize that saying a monstrous box of condoms is for a client is about the most ill-conceived idea ever. Great, so now my FedEx man thinks I’m a sex worker or a porn star.
Trudging over to the kitchen, I toss the condom cornucopia on the counter, fire up the coffeemaker, toast myself a bagel, and slather it with cream cheese. Morley, a lover of cream cheese, finds his way to the dining room table and purrs against my leg just like a regular, mentally stable cat. I pull off a piece of the bagel and drop it in front of him, and he bats it across the tile floor like a hockey puck before pouncing on it and devouring it as though it were freshly caught prey. The adventures of an indoor cat.
I’m weirdly flattered that my dating profile has been getting some attention
while Morley and I were sleeping. Online dating certainly is convenient. That profile has been working 24/7. I peruse the messages, one more depressing than the last.
Ugh, my brain hurts. I definitely should not have finished that second bottle of wine last night. I have a client meeting at nine-thirty, and feel like I really need a long, hot shower. Am I the only divorcée whose alcohol consumption quadrupled post-separation? Or is lush-dom just a part of the healing process?
My inbox is brimming with firefighters. Magically, they seem to know that I was checking out their profiles last night, and six of them have contacted me first thing this morning, with messages ranging from “hey” to one long, heartfelt e-mail about how hard it is to risk your life every day when you have no one at home to love you. It’s sad, really. Not that I’m interested in being that person. It’s just, I feel for any guy who sits down at three o’clock in the morning to pour his heart out. Two of the six firefighters are good-looking. One, especially so.
After showering, I sit down at the table to review the messages and winks on my profile. I’ve decided that the winks are just too mealy and surely must be the strategy of someone who is too lazy or timid to reach out, and just wants to cast as wide a net as possible. The irony of this is not lost on me, but I delete them anyway.
I review the rest of the daters who’ve sent messages, basing my eliminations on looks and the Naughty Nine checklist alone. When I’m finished with the elimination round, I have two possible candidates—the hot, dark-haired firefighter who is thirty-one and recently divorced like me, and a twenty-six-year-old surfer-slash-bartender who only qualifies to date me because he’s gorgeous and has the body of a sex god. I almost push the button to delete his message but then I reconsider. This is just about the checklist and sex and getting a few experiences under my belt (why do all these kinds of expressions suddenly sound dirty?), I’m not going to marry the guy. Why not sleep with a twenty-six-year-old bartender, with the sandy hair, rocking body, and chocolatey brown eyes? I check out his profile to see where he works, just in case it’s a place I like to go. I’m incredibly uncomfortable with the whole Naughty Nine thing. I’ll die if he turns out to be someone who works at one of my favorite restaurants. Luckily for me, upon further examination of his profile, it seems he works at one of the tourist bars on Siesta Beach, the Daiquiri Deck, a place I almost never go. His name is Billy, which strikes me as sort of juvenile for a grown man with a job, but I remember my mission and give the guy a break. I’m not going to marry him, I’m just going to go out on a date and possibly try to seduce him. Maybe.
24
“I’m definitely not going to sleep with him,” I insist to Darcy. “He has the IQ of a sand gnat.”
“What does that have to do with his biceps?” she asks.
“Nothing,” I say.
“Exactly.”
“I’m not doing this,” I say.
“Oh, you’re definitely going on a date. Firefighter or the pretty-but-dumb guy. Pick one,” she says. “Pick one or I’ll pick one for you.”
“Fine,” I say. “I will.”
“Great,” says Darcy. “You have twenty-four hours to make a decision.”
“I’m not one of your politicians,” I say.
She laughs. “If you were one of my politicians, I would have already made the decision for you.”
The next day I wake up to a text from Darcy: Who’s the lucky guy?
25
The lucky or not-so-lucky guy is Jeffrey, the thirty-one-year old, recently divorced super-hot fireman. At the last minute, I leave a note on my refrigerator written in red Magic Marker with a printout of Jeffrey’s profile photo: Dear Police, In case you find me in a ditch, the person you should interrogate first is Flashpoint77 on Match.com, 555-941-2221.
We meet for dinner at Carigulos, one of my favorite Italian eateries. Michael and I used to come here on a pretty regular basis, so I figure somebody on the waitstaff will notice if I end up bound in firehose in the trunk of some guy’s car. I’m the first to arrive, and I take a seat at the corner of the bar. Research shows bartenders gravitate toward the corners, so it will be easier to keep the drinks coming. My nerves are shot, so I go ahead and order a glass of white wine. It’s half gone before a gentleman taps me on my back.
“Alex?” he says.
“That’s me,” I say. “Thank you, but I’m waiting for someone. We’re not ready for our table yet.” He’s very short, maybe five-six on a very tall day, and from my perch on the barstool I have a lovely view of his oddly shaped bald spot. It’s very dim in the restaurant, but it almost looks like there’s something painted on his head.
“I’m Jeff,” he says. It takes me a second to comprehend that he’s my date. This is mostly because he looks nothing at all like his hunky photo in the firefighter uniform—he’s a good fifteen (or thirty) pounds heavier, couldn’t reach five-eleven with a step stool, and there’s no way in hell he’s thirty-one. Maybe fifty-one. His height really throws me, and I wonder if he was standing on a couple of phone books in the group photo he’d posted. Or maybe he just has a lot of really teeny-tiny friends.
He pulls up a bar stool next to me, and I try not to gawk as he struggles to mount the seat. There’s more of the black paint stuff on the side of his forehead, and I’m just about to hand him a napkin when I realize it’s artificial hair.
Like the kind you see on late-night infomercials—the kind you spray on from a can. Like bug spray. Or Mace.
“So,” he says. “You look exactly like your profile. That’s a nice change. Most of the women I go out with have been photoshopped, if you know what I mean.”
“I know exactly what you mean,” I say, trying very hard not to stare.
“There’s nothing like showing up for a date and finding out she’s fifty pounds heavier and ten years older.” He smiles broadly and I can see he’s missing a tooth. He’s supposed to be a firefighter. Why is he missing a tooth?
“Yes,” I say. “I imagine that’s a shocker…” I’m not sure whether to order another round of drinks and laugh my ass off, or just break into tears. We’ve only been here a minute and a half and I’m already speechless. It takes a massive amount of concentration on my part not to stare at the tooth hole.
“So,” he says, signaling the bartender. “Your profile says you were divorced?”
“Yes,” I say. “My husband is gay.”
“Well, then he’s a moron,” says Jeff. “If you were my wife, I’d never go gay.” I’m only mildly intrigued about the level of attractiveness Jeff believes to be a requirement to maintain one’s sexual orientation, but there’s no way I’m getting into it. I’m going to finish my drink and get the hell out of here.
“You’re divorced also?” I ask as I drain my wineglass. How long do I have to stay to check a guy off my Naughty Nine list? Three minutes? Five? Through the appetizer round?
“The bitch cheated on me,” he says. “Can you believe it?”
“I can,” I say as I drop a ten on the bar for the bartender. “Interesting meeting you, Jeff. Thanks for the date.” It’s hard to believe that there is anyone worse at dating than I am, but I’ve just hit the jackpot.
“Wait,” he says, grabbing my arm. “Don’t you want to get dinner?” He pauses, raising his eyebrow at me in a way that makes my skin crawl. “Maybe get to know each other a little better?”
He catches me completely off guard and lands a kamikaze-style kiss—his slobbery mouth planted half on/half off mine. I flail backward on my bar stool in response, just as my lower lip gets snagged in the hole left by his missing tooth. Ugh! My whole body shudders in disgust. Ughhhhhhhh!
“No thanks, Jeff,” I say, extricating my offended lip with my finger, standing up, and backing away slowly like he’s an escaped mental patient. “I’ve got an early morning.”
I barely make it to my car before I completely fall apart and burst into tears. I wonder what happens if you put hand sanitizer on your lips.
26
> “It can’t have been the worst date ever,” says Darcy. “What about that state representative being groomed for Congress that I went out with from Arkansas—you know, the guy who wanted me to have a threesome with his wife? And then left me with the three-hundred-dollar tab after I turned him down flat? That was the worst date ever.”
“Fine,” I say, “you win. That’s why I’m quitting now. I don’t care if I never meet anyone. I’ll just spend all my time on my business, get incredibly rich, and then execute Operation Spermsicle or adopt a little Ethiopian baby like all the celebrities do. I don’t need some man. I’m fine all by myself.” I’m still sitting in my car on the street where I parked near the restaurant, trying to pull myself together after my meltdown. And I don’t feel fine. I feel more alone than I ever have in my life.
“You can’t quit,” says Darcy. “You haven’t accomplished your goal. I’ll be back from D.C. tomorrow, we’ll figure it out then.”
“I don’t care if I’m a gay-husband virgin,” I say. “I’m not doing that again.”
“You picked him,” she says. “You have to be able to read through all the bullshit and lies if you’re going to date online.”
“That’s what I’m trying to tell you,” I say “I’m not going to date online.”
“Hold on,” she says, “let me get Michael on the phone.” I wait on hold for a minute while she conferences Michael in.
“He’s up to speed,” she says. “And we have a plan.”
“I’m so sorry about your awful date, sweetie,” says Michael.
I couldn’t stop myself from crying. “I miss you so much. I can’t do this.”
“I know,” he says. “I’m so sorry. I wish there were something I could do.”
There’s a long pause on the line, the three of us silent. There is something he could do. He can suck it up and get his ass back in the closet. I shouldn’t have to suffer like this.
“Enough,” says Darcy. “We’ve figured this out. Michael and I are each going to pick someone for you to go out with from the site. We’ll set up the dates and you just show up.”