by K. B. Draper
DELETE
The third message was from MissKitty.
DELETE
I turned off the computer and had that familiar feeling, like when I walk out of the local lesbian bar … “I feel pretty.” I headed back to bed.
I had not thought of the friendly deed Little Jo initiated until I showed up at Stacy’s house for a barbeque a week later. I walked into the backyard and everyone went quiet.
“What?” I questioned, knowing before I asked I wouldn’t want to hear the topic of their little conversation.
“So how are the cyber chicks?” Stacy asked with an overly amused expression on her face. Oh nice.
After the barbeque and the relentless heckling from “my friends,” I headed home. I crawled into bed, but instead of my normal thought-provoking theme, I lay there in bed plotting my slow and painful revenge on Little Jo. I came up with several options. Playing on a slightly skewed version of the tongue on the light pole scene in The Christmas Story, I settled on telling Alisa, under the disguise of a selfless effort to give her some helpful insight on her new blossoming relationship with Little Jo, that Little Jo had a sexual predilection for grape Popsicles and Michael Bolton music. I contemplated whether Michael Bolton was too much, since he is a fair amount of punishment by himself, but I figured there could be some amount of enjoyment in removing the Popsicles if they got creative. Therefore, I elected to leave him in my revenge scheme.
That little issue solved, I flipped on the television and went through all one hundred twenty-eight channels, stopping on QVC twelve times to see how many lettuce washers were left since my last cycle through—only three hundred sixty-four. I do waste a lot of time putting the lettuce head under the faucet … Oh God. I turned the TV off. I stared at the ceiling. I turned the TV back on. One hundred nineteen left. I shut it off again. To-do list tomorrow: cancel the cable. I went back to staring at the ceiling and more thought-provoking topics, like finding the cure for cancer. Hmmm … yeah, I have nothing. World hunger? Hmmm … yep, nothing there either. The secret ingredient in Planters Cheez Balls, which make them so damned addictive? Hmmm … I narrowed the possibilities down. They either add plain-flavored crack to cheese-flavored balls and then use artificial orange coloring or they had actually developed cheese-flavored crack, which they applied to plain-flavored balls and then added the artificial orange coloring. Perplexed, I got up and went to the kitchen for a more in-depth study. I was walking back to bed with said cheese balls when I saw the alluring glow of my computer.
I logged on. I was not going to subject myself to another barbeque berate. I needed to delete my profile and end my friends’ amusement. I again scanned the page for some clue as to where I could delete this self-exposing cyber billboard. “Inbox (4) messages.” Okay, well maybe I’d check the messages and then delete the profile.
The first message was from ButchGirl.
DELETE
The second message was from Lonely1.
WDPGF who enjoys life and adventure. I’m kind and sincere. I don’t know a lot of gay women, so I decided to give this a try. I’m looking for new experiences after being in a marriage for 10 years. Not looking for something serious right off, but if we click who knows?
Okay, sounds somewhat normal but what the hell did WDPGF mean? Probably the code for crazy or some new wrestling federation. Or maybe some slant on WWJD? What Did Peter Gabriel F …? Probably not. Maybe it’s an abbreviated description like Wide-Butt, Dark-haired, Pug-noised, Gourd Farmer? Gourds do make neat little birdhouses but I still couldn’t take the chance.
DELETE
The third message was from LovelyLady.
Hi, I’m a gay female that enjoys music and quiet evenings at home with the one I’m with. I’ve got a big heart and will smother the one I love with kisses and affection. I’ve copied a link to my site if you want to see pictures and my profile.
I clicked the Big-Hearted Lady link. HOLY HELL. She wasn’t lying. There was a good possibility that I’d get smothered, but it wouldn’t be by her kisses and affection; it would be by her DDD boobs or her doublewide butt. I closed the link and hit delete, completely comfortable with my shallowness.
The fourth message was from ASK73.
Hello. I’ve never replied to an ad before, but I thought I’d take a chance because in your picture you look nice. I’m not sure what you’re supposed to say in these kinds of messages. I guess I’ll tell you a little about me. I moved here about a year ago and haven’t met a lot of people yet. My sister lives here so I spend a lot of time with her and her kids. Let’s see, I’m a schoolteacher at a local public school. I love animals, traveling, and biking. Well, don’t want to bore you but if you’d like to know more, I’d love to hear from you.
Alicia
Sounded normal enough unless the ASK73 was short for Alicia the Serial Killer and 73 was her victim count. I paused with the cursor over the delete button. What if I was deleting my soul mate? Or even better, a lesbian version of Jennifer Aniston? I moved the cursor to the reply button. Whatever, this is stupid. I moved the cursor and clicked to the log-off button instead.
I crawled back into bed. Cure for cancer? World hunger? Yep, still nothing. My thoughts drifted off and I began pondering the current incomplete status of my New Year’s Resolutions. And as it was November, I thought maybe I should start making a proactive effort for my own self-betterment.
1. Lose 5 pounds. I looked over at the half-eaten can of cheese balls. I dug my hand in and grabbed another handful. Not going to happen.
2. Learn something new every day. My game plan had been to read the entire A volume of the Encyclopedia Britannica. I’d gotten to abacus when I started mentally calculating how many other things I’d rather be doing than reading the Encyclopedia. I stopped around 1,348.
3. Write a book. Yeah right. I didn’t have any expertise in anything, no life-changing experiences, or much less the attention span.
4. Climb Mt. Everest. Note to self: First resolution for next year’s New Year’s Resolutions: make more realistic and attainable resolutions that do not involve the risk of losing body parts to frostbite. Second, don’t make New Year’s Resolutions when drunk.
5. Open my life to new experiences. I’d stolen that resolution from the December 22nd page of a motivational calendar, but it seemed fitting and inspirational at the time.
I tried to remember all the “new experiences” I had enriched my life with during the year. In an effort to become more attuned to my sexuality, I had attempted to wear a thong versus my normal low-rise bikini underwear. Needless to say that new experience lasted exactly three minutes.
6. Be more slutty. Okay, again with making New Year’s Resolutions when drunk, because I added that one after opening a cheap bottle of champagne and subsequently toasting in the New Year and several other irrelevant events throughout the rest of the evening.
So pretty much the fifth resolution was my only shot at not being a complete resolution failure. I got up and logged back on, brought up ASK73’s email, and hit the reply button. I stared at the blank email screen for a solid five minutes.
Hello Alicia,
Thank you for your interest in my profile. I appreciate your kind words in reference to my picture. I would very much like to continue our …
Okay, I figured I probably didn’t need to make my reply sound like a cover letter to a resume. I wasn’t applying for the position of cyber-girlfriend.
Highlight. Delete.
Hi Alicia,
Thanks for replying. I have to tell you I didn’t put this profile on, my friends did. After a year of me not dating, they decided to put me on the internet to find me a …
Oh yeah, let’s announce in the first sentence you’re a pathetic loser and your friends, in desperate need, turned to the internet to find you a date. I should go on to say I hope you can ignore my hump, warts, web toes, and bad breath.
Highlight. Delete.
Hi Alicia,
It was kind of you to respond. Yo
u are very nice …
Oh God, why don’t I just sign it Love, Grandma?
Highlight. Delete.
I stared at the screen for another five minutes. This was a stupid idea. Why was I wasting my time? I’d just go back to the “learn something new every day” resolution and start with the letter Z volume instead. Z would probably be more interesting, I mean there’s … Zip, Zap, Zoo … um, Zippy, and …? Stupid. Just reply to her. Keep it simple, casual, and apparently avoid needing any words that start with the letter Z.
Hi Alicia,
Thanks for emailing me. I don’t really know how these emails are supposed to go either; I haven’t ever done this before. My friends decided this would be a good idea. So you’re a teacher? What grade? You love animals. Do you have any? You like to travel; have you been anywhere exciting lately? This is starting to sound like twenty questions, but thanks again for writing. Hope to hear from you soon.
Simple, stupid, but whatever. I hit the send button. I shut down the computer and looked at the clock. It was 3:15 a.m. Great, not only had I sent an extremely lame email, but I did it at 3:15 a.m.! She’s not only going to think I’m a loser but that I am one of those “stay up all night on the computer in my mom’s basement” freaks. Or even worse that I was an ex-convict and the only job I could get was the overnight shift at some seedy hotel, which conveniently allowed me time to respond to emails between checking out rooms to low-rate hookers. Nice.
The next evening, I came home not wanting to face the ego-damaging emotions of an inevitable cyber-dumping because of the middle of the night lame reply. So instead I elected to clean the bathroom and the kitchen, alphabetize my canned goods, and check the expiration dates of all three contents of my refrigerator. Twenty minutes later (after recovering from the dry heaves induced by opening the container of three-month-old sour cream, which had become a half-liquefied, half-congealed white and green substance, I gave in to the urge to check my email despite fully expecting there to be no reply. In the middle of the offers for enlarging my penis, cheap Canadian drugs, and Rebecca, who offered me hot, nude pictures of herself, was Alicia’s reply. It was a difficult choice between Rebecca and Alicia, but I figured Alicia wouldn’t require a credit card, so I clicked on her message.
Good Morning,
It was good to hear from you. I was nervous that you wouldn’t reply cause of my lame email. But what are you really supposed to say in these things? Anyway, sounds like you have some good friends. Yes, I am a teacher and I teach 5th grade. They are cute but a handful most of the time. I have cats and they are great. I would love to have a dog but my apartment complex doesn’t allow them. How about you? You have any animals? I haven’t been able to travel a lot lately. With the expense of moving here and just starting my job, I haven’t had the time or the funds to go anywhere besides home, work, and an occasional day trip here or there. But, I hope to plan something soon. How about you? What do you do? Do you like to travel? Been anywhere lately?
Love to hear from you,
Alicia.
With still no hints of crazy, over-butchiness, a boyfriend, or smothering love, I replied back to her. I again kept it simple, answering her questions and asking a couple more of my own.
The next night, again fighting the urge to go straight to the computer, I elected to dust the entire house. A half can of Pledge later, I went to the computer to see if Alicia had replied. She had.
This became my nightly routine. I’d find something to clean, then move to the computer to read and reply to Alicia’s email. This went on for two weeks, and with each send and receive our emails became more personal and intimate. We wrote about our likes or dislikes, our childhoods, our dreams, our jobs, our daily activities. It was good, comfortable, and extremely different from my previous M.O. of dating: Okay she’s hot; let’s go out. Which had worked for me to a point, but with Alicia I was working blind. I’d never known so much about a person before going out with them, made out with them, or even slept with them for that matter. So with the lack of reference, I chose to appreciate her without a physical compass.
This new appreciation for the inner woman made me feel like I was maturing and opening to a new insight of a healthy and lasting relationship. Unfortunately, that appreciation lasted for two days, until we got into a conversation about our sleeping attire. I admitted I liked loose-fitting sleeping pants and a tank top. She admitted she mostly wore lingerie from Victoria’s Secret. With maturity immediately out the window I pictured her as a Jennifer Aniston look-alike in a little black see-through teddy with those strappy things that hold up black net stockings. I knew it was probably unlikely; however, it was my fantasy and I was quite comfortable with my cyber illusion, my cyber-Jennifer.
The next evening with this new half-naked illusion of cyber-Jennifer playing in my head, I skipped the household duties and went straight to the computer to see what other tantalizing details she would expose. And she didn’t disappoint me. Not that evening or the next or the next. Then on the fifth day, I’d just completed my latest email and hit the send button when I received another email from cyber-Jennifer almost instantly.
Hey You,
If you’re not busy, would you be interested in giving me a call? I mean, the emails are great and I’ve really enjoyed getting to know you, but I’d really like to hear your voice.
I stared at her number. Was I ready for this step in our pseudo-relationship? I was perfectly comfortable with the email thing. Calling her would make it more real. And what was the proper etiquette for virtual dating? Ten, fifteen, twenty emails before you advance to talking?
I got up and paced the room. I can do this. I picked up the phone. What if she had one of those high pitched, whiny voices like Melanie Griffith? My dreams would be shattered. Unless she ended up looking like Jennifer, and then I could wear earplugs. New Year’s Resolution at stake, I took a deep breath and dialed the number.
The phone rang twice. Oh good, she wasn’t home. I’d just leave a message to call me back and then when she returns my call I won’t answer and she’ll leave a message, so I’d know if her voice fell into normal non-dog whistle range.
“Hello?” a soft normal-ranged female voice said. Relief washed through me.
“Alicia?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“Hi.”
We talked for two hours, about everything and about nothing. It was incredible. It was easy. It was familiar. I felt as if I had known her forever. I liked her. It was getting late and I didn’t want the conversation to end, but I knew she had to be at school early the next morning, so we said our good-byes. I went to bed and fell asleep almost immediately, but not before I decided I might have to reevaluate my anti-relationship policy because first thing in the morning I was going to send Alicia an email asking her out Friday night.
I opened her reply to my email titled “So would you like to go out?” Creative, I know, but since my nerves had me on the edge of nausea while I was typing, I couldn’t come up with anything more clever. Hoping she had said “Yes,” but immediately nervous at the possibility she had said Yes, I hesitated before opening her email. I took a deep breath and clicked the link. I stared at her reply, “Yes.”
Shit, what had I done? What if she’s a man? A man who wears Victoria’s Secret lingerie? How old is she? What if she’s older than my mom? What if she’s 15 and this is really Dateline NBC? What if she’s not attractive? What if she is? And more importantly, what am I going to wear? I looked back at her email. She’d given me the address to her apartment, and a plan began to develop in my shallow little mind.
I wrote down her address and began my online background check. I typed her name and hit search. No hits, except that I could apparently buy an Alicia Keys CD, the Clueless movie starring Alicia Silverstone, and a Franklin Mint–Gibson Flower Girl–Alicia doll on eBay. I was tempted briefly by the Clueless movie because it was cute, perky, and captured a totally believable and typical teenage romance in an everyday American high school
setting.
I typed Alicia’s address instead, my finger posed over the search button, while I considered whether or not this qualified as cyber-stalking. I hit search, justifying my actions by telling myself I was a security professional and it would be an insult to my profession if I disregarded all the safety precautions and went to a complete stranger’s house. And if I just so happened to find out what she looked like during my search, then so be it. An hour later, I hadn’t found out anything more than I already knew. I scooped up the piece of paper where I had written Alicia’s address and found my car keys. I hesitated momentarily at the door, where I re-justified my soon-to-be actions. I was doing this for my own personal safety.
I stopped by a convenience store to pick up essential stakeout supplies: Cool Ranch Doritos, BBQ flavored sunflower seeds, Twinkies, and a Big Gulp cherry Slushie. Now, fully prepared for a night of stealthy observation, I headed to Alicia’s. I pulled into the parking lot of her apartment complex and found a space that provided a view of the apartment’s front doors. Alicia’s was the second from the end. I settled in and opened the Doritos. Ten minutes later, Doritos and Twinkies gone, I was spitting sunflower shells into the empty Big Gulp cup. What the hell was I doing? This was shallow, pathetic, and just wrong. I shouldn’t care what she looks like. She’s nice and kind. When I again reminded myself of the safety of going out with a stranger, I had to admit I was here because I wanted to know what she looked like, plain and simple. Disgusted with my pettiness, I started my car just as a set of headlights swung into the parking lot. I froze. The car parked and a petite female exited and headed down the row of doorways. My heart began thudding in my chest. I watched as she passed under the entryway lights. She was cute with brown shoulder-length hair that lightly swayed as she walked. I released the air that I hadn’t realized I was holding in my chest. Cyber-Jennifer. I closed my eyes briefly as relief flooded through me. I opened them quickly to catch another glimpse of Alicia before she reached her door. She was graceful, feminine, beautiful … and she was walking right past her door. Where was she going? She walked to the last door in the building. Maybe she was going to borrow some sugar from her neighbor? She unlocked the door and entered. Maybe she was just watching the neighbor’s dog. I waited for the door to reopen and for Alicia to emerge with a leash and an overly excited pee-holding dog. Nothing. My heart sank.
