Saturday, June 20, 2009

Beefs Part 3

I am a single man. I am in my early thirties.

I am an Internet dater. Internet dating, while all the rage in 2002, has taken a turn for the sad. When I say I am an internet dater, I should be more honest and say, I am a compulsive internet dater. I am well aware of how lame internet dating is, with its penchant for stupidity and vanity. I enjoy the theater of it. I put a few interests up, a witty comment about music or art, a quip or two, a shit picture and then I hope for the best. It is a compulsion. A depressing compulsion.

On a recent foray into internet dating, a spry young woman named Tara emailed me. Tara told me she was in an unhappy marriage with her husband Grant. She expressed a desire for a divorce, but wasn’t sure it was what she wanted. She said she was 28 and looking for some drinks and maybe a bit more. She had expressed to me that her sex life was ‘awful’. She sent a few mirror photos, highlighting her ample cleavage, and asked for my phone number. She said she lived in a rather yuppie area of Chicago and wanted to know if I could drop by later for a drinks. I emailed her that I could. Tara told me she would call at 11:00 pm. I quickly folded up the laptop and left the office.

Now, I have never had an affair with a married woman. And from what I understand, Moses established a few commandments back in the day, and this adultery thing is right towards the top of the list. I never figured myself for an adulterer, but Tara and her ample, married cleavage presented a unique dilemma. I thought about what being the ‘other man’ meant, as I drove home and sang Howlin’ Wolf’s “Back Door Man”. As the Chicago street lights flew by, I questioned if I could actually screw around with a married woman. It was against everything I stood for.

When I got to my apartment and had a few Red Stripes, I was ready to touch some wife breasts. I did a few sit-ups and lifted a bar bell a few times. I hopped into the shower, being sure to clean my genitalia with extra zeal. I covered myself in body wash, like I was Karl Rove and it was executive privilege. I trimmed some facial hair. I trimmed some non-facial hair. I think I even shaved my balls. I found some flattering boxers, put some pomade in my hair and slapped on a dark pair of Levis. I was totally going to blow this married woman’s mind. I had worked up a whole fantasy for Tara. I even pictured her answering the door in a towel, her apartment tastefully decorated with furniture form Crate and Barrel. My slightly evil, awkward sensuality would no doubt wow her right out of her European mom jeans.

At 11:30, as I sat on my love seat listening to Clarence Carter’s “Slip Away”, I received a call on the celly. I was enjoying another Red Stripe, and as I picked up the phone a soft, albeit squeaky voice flowed through the speaker. “Ohhhh, hello Frankie, feeling hot tonight?” I replied, “Yeah, pretty hot.” As I stood there, my body scrubbed, my hair pomaded, my genitalia glistening like morning dew, the young man’s voice on the other end of the phone squeaked out a pre-pubescent moan. “Oh, I’m so horny, do you want to hear me play with myself?” The only reply I could get out was, “Neat.” I had been had. Tara was a man.

I would like to say this experience is unique to my bizarre lifestyle choices, but I feel that as long as we have the male psyche, the city, vanity, imagination, and technology- human frailty will continue to clusterf*ck on the internet.

Game on.


Casey Brewer said...

We've had some pretty brilliant dating stories around here like "WORST DATE EVER" for example. This one is nice. Like a small gift you get in the mail for filling out a credit card form. I like it.

frank adam said...

Yes, it might be a better story had I actually gone on the date. Me and the teenage guy might have had a great time. It's more a story about sadness and male desperation. I am to underwhelm.