The Anatomy of Boy Meets Girl

IMG_2617 I miss the early days when I liked a boy and it meant we wrestled on the playground in our catholic school uniforms. It was so straight forward. There is no ambiguity in a noogie. So simple. So pure. When I set out with the goal a few months ago to date a good, age appropriate man, I didn’t realize how much the social landscape of dating had changed. Mostly because so much is done online. It’s no longer boy meets girl, date for 1.5 years, get married and have 2.5 children and a picket fence. There are two groups of men on dating sites, in general. The first. The vague anonymity of cyber dating has birthed a brazenness so bold it borders on Tourette’s. The days of the cute meet, or what’s your sign, or hey baby, do you believe in love at first sight, has turned into – send nudes. There is an intrinsic distrust in shopping online for Rolex’s or mates, and maybe this has made a devil-may-care attitude where the unwritten social rules that govern one in face-to-face meetings are thrown to the wayside, or maybe everyone is just trying to get laid, in the no nonsense show me your tits kind of way. Romance, for this group, is not only dead, it’s been nailed to an ant bed, covered in honey, and slowly eaten alive until it begged to die. The other group, I think, the goal is the same, send nudes, duh, but they weave a tapestry with what they think are the golden ticket words for women, like, marriage and love, a desire for a long term relationships, the need for Mrs. Right (now).


First, the latter. I met a man online in Dallas a few months ago. We’ll call him Corbin. He was Vice President of a large international corporation, never married, no kids. He was good with the witty banter, which is my jam, so we went on a date. It was a very good first date. He didn’t mention his penis, nipple clamps, or masturbation. The bar is that low, but it was good, given there was wine and low expectations. Here was the smoke and mirrors. He told me he was smitten, he could see us together, long term, but he never asked one question about my children, or even if I had any. He told me he had never found the right woman, but he wanted marriage when he did, as he was showing me he had me as “hotttness” in his phone (three t’s, eyeroll). On the drive back to my friend’s house, he talked about how much he liked my black toenail polish, how sexy it was, and let’s see each other again soon. Right then, his phone rang, which of course, was synched to his car, and the name “Chicklett” with a picture of a blonde appeared on the screen. He declined the call and said, “She’s my nephew’s girlfriend”. Dude. Please. At least my screen name was marginally better. Over the next few weeks, he called, he texted, but it was always, “Hi, Sexy Girl”, or, “Still wearing that black polish?”, or, “Let’s go on a trip together”. For weeks and weeks. He’d never asked one question about my life. He still didn’t know I had man-children humans. He didn’t know what I did for a living. But he knew my nail polish. The only thing he would ask is if I was seeing other men, because he “wasn’t seeing anyone else”, and he saw a future for us, all of it ringing false. Don’t get me wrong, he owed me nothing, and I told him so. I didn’t care if he was seeing someone or everyone else. Just be honest, for fuck’s sake, we had only been on one date. Corbin quickly stopped amusing me, and I blocked him and carried on. A couple of months passed, and I got a Facebook friend request and message from him. Surprisingly, he knew my name. Curiosity got the better of me, and I responded. He said he wanted to take me to Tiffany’s. Wait. He knew my fave nail polish and absolutely nothing else about me. Maybe a second date would be more appropriate, but he was going for the money shot. Corbin is a long-term relationship dangler kind of player. And I have a functioning brain. I don’t hate the game. I hate the player. Blocked.


Now, the former. The absurd, filterless, dick-swinging things they send out into the world. They throw it all out, and see if they get a bite. They are the hyenas looking for the wounded, broken antelope. Younger men also try to nail anything slow enough to catch, but there is a primordial biological imperative that drives them – increase the tribe. These are middle aged men, maybe realizing they have a limited amount of time left on earth and want to stock up on pussy like a squirrel with nuts, or at least get enough naughty pics to masturbate with until social security kicks in. You may be asking yourself, why does she respond? I’ll tell you, kind readers. First, a battle of the wits with an unarmed man, well, that’s just fun. Second, I have a blog, and this shit is funny. This last week in Dallas, a man sent me his address, and said, “Walk in the door, I’m in the bedroom.” That was his intro. Is there some poor antelope out there who will walk in and enthusiastically service him, or be put into a pit, told to put the lotion in the basket or get the hose again? Does this ever work? God, I hope not. I’ve been asked, first out of the box, if I’m doing kegels. Dude, when am I not? But, no, hand smack, that’s not the way to introduce yourself. I’ve been asked for nudes in the first message, simply for a fat check. Well, Lumpy, put down your beer and cheetos, and go first. I’ve been asked if I’m multi-orgasmic, or if not, would I like to be? Big words, chief. You think your ED meds are up to the task? Below, I submit this week’s winner of wtf. No words.


The search continues. As with all recovery, cougars backslide, too. But that’s a blog for next week.

Go forth and conquer.